Carson's Morning Cup of Joe

Carson’s alarm woke him at precisely six in the morning, whereupon he wiped his groggy eyes, stretched, and rose from his bed. He had picked out his clothes the night before, obviously, so he simply donned his light blue button-up, freshly-steamed gray trousers, white socks, striped tie, and black leather belt. His matching black loafers waited eagerly by the front door for him, but he’d put them on later. He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing shoes in the house.

Laid out in front of Carson on his well-preserved antique cedar dresser were his deodorant, cologne, and pomade, all of which he applied in that order before walking briskly to the bathroom to continue his daily routine. He flossed each tooth with the utmost care, brushed his teeth for exactly two minutes, and gargled with a strong, minty mouthwash. He applied sunscreen and moisturizer before walking next to the kitchen, the most sacred room in his house, for his favorite morning ritual: the perfect cup of coffee.

Carson had honed his skills as a home barista over the past ten years since he bought a state-of-the-art espresso machine. Complete with a milk frother, grinder and 67 ounce water tank, this machine was worth more to him than any other earthly possession. It probably cost more than any other object in his home, as well, but that didn’t matter. Carson’s morning cup of coffee was essential to a successful day.

He stood in the threshold to his kitchen, stainless steel appliances sparkling in greeting under the early dawn light. This was the center of his home, his most precious space to fully be himself, and he treated it like a temple. To Carson, it felt almost wrong to be here, like walking into a centuries-old church that might judge the presence of someone unworthy. But this was his centuries-old church. He was the caretaker, the curator of all things special in this birthplace of the lifesource that was food and drink.

He strode across the white tiles toward his fridge. The screen on the door welcomed him to a new day. “Good morning, Carson,” the blocky font read. The screen also told him the current weather and temperature outside, the top three news stories of the day, and an ongoing shopping list and inventory Carson kept. It was always helpful to keep an itemized list of what you had and what you needed, he believed.

From the fridge, he pulled a half-gallon of whole milk and the homemade syrup he prepared every Sunday like clockwork. This week was the first full week of Autumn, so he had rotated the flavor this week to maple cinnamon, one of his favorites.

He brought the ingredients over to his coffee station, a rolling cart that housed his espresso machine, matching foursome of white ceramic mugs, espresso cups, an airtight container of fresh coffee beans from the best store in town, and cleaning tools for the machine. After placing the milk and syrup on the counter, he weighed the precise amount of beans and poured them into the grinder, the bitter black pods clinking happily as they pooled together in the stainless steel container. The grinder began its work, the loud groan almost a meditative sound to Carson. He stared out the window into his backyard. Dew glistened on the freshly-manicured lawn. The morning air would be crisp but not cold, his fridge had told him. A perfect early Autumn day.

The beans finally ground into a fine powder, he packed them into a puck and loaded them onto the machine, pressing the glowing green START button. As the espresso began to pull, Carson steamed the whole milk to the exact temperature and foaminess required for the perfect latte.

The aroma of freshly-brewed espresso filled the pristine kitchen as it poured into the tiny cup, settling Carson instantly. Nothing could ruin this moment for him.

He assembled his morning brew with an almost religious precision. First, the espresso. Next, the syrup, just enough to flavor the drink without it compromising the consistency. Finally, he poured the steamed milk into the mug, finishing with a flourish that created a subtle wave pattern into the top of his latte. Absolutely gorgeous.

Carson gingerly held his creation in front of him and sat with it at his kitchen table where a coaster waited for him along with this morning’s newspaper. Call him old fashioned, but it just felt right to physically hold The Times instead of simply scrolling through the site on his phone. We could all use a little less time on screens these days.

As he stared down at his latte one last time before raising the mug to his lips, he noticed something strange. The liquid had begun to bubble.

Impossible, thought Carson. He kept every piece of that machine calibrated just so. Everything should be at the exactly correct temperature. It shouldn’t be that hot. Nevertheless, here he sat, practically gawking at a boiling cup of coffee.

A rogue bubble splashed up at him, scoring a glancing blow on his right cheek. Carson hissed in pain; the milk had singed his skin.

“What the–” he exclaimed as another drop of milk launched itself at him, almost as if on purpose. Carson rushed to his beloved espresso machine, which looked strange and foreign to him now. What had happened?

He smelled something burning behind him. He turned briskly toward his kitchen table, but there was nothing there but that damned cup. Suddenly, a searing pain hit his back, just between his shoulder blades. The burning smell was his shirt– and now his skin.

Carson jolted back from his coffee bar with a look of shock and confusion plastered across his face. Before his very eyes, a long stream of brown and white swirling liquid had begun rising from the mug. It seemed to be staring right at him. No, it was staring right at him. Carson was sure of it. The stream of liquid stretched from the cup like a serpent from a wicker basket, threatening to strike the charmer. All he could do was stare back in befuddlement.

The stream diverged into three equal streams to form a sort of liquid trident complete with sharp tips glistening under the kitchen lights. Finally beginning to get a hold of himself, Carson reached behind his back to grab the hand towel hanging from the oven door. He didn’t dare move quickly in fear of the three pronged threat looming before him.

Unfortunately, what had once been his perfect latte sensed his intentions. The center stream launched itself at him. Still connected to the cup, the sliver of coffee hissed as it splashed and burned the right side of his chest. Carson yelped in pain, dropping the towel. The right and left streams leapt to either side of his head. The acrid scent of burnt hair filled the room.

“Help! Somebody!” he cried in vain. He lived alone, and there was no way his neighbors would hear him.

The coffee creature continued its tirade, each of the streams taking turns scorching Carson’s flesh. He had trouble keeping his thoughts on any sort of track. What was happening to him? How could he escape this?

My phone, Carson thought through the chaos. Where’s my phone?

He knew he didn’t walk into the kitchen with it. It must still be plugged in on his nightstand. He wildly threw his arms around in some attempt to confuse or dissolve the creature, but to no avail. The burning smell intensified.

Resolving to just cut and run, Carson jumped to his feet and began to book it for the doorway. Briefly, the latte monstrosity retreated to the mug, shaking in its limited container, but then it sprayed in a thousand tiny pellets of fire about the room. Carson tripped and collapsed onto the tiles, now slippery with steaming coffee and milk. The floor felt like lava on his skin. How was this thing not cooling down?

He clawed his way toward the front door, pulling his limp, scalding body one inch at a time with all his might. The pellets of liquid jumped up and down excitedly, angrily. Like they were preparing for something sinister.

Carson moved faster. Desperation and fear raced through his bloodstream. He finally stretched a red, scarring hand toward the golden handle when he heard a terrifying wooshing sound behind him.

His perfect cup of coffee, once spilled on the floor, had amalgamated into a humanoid shape, complete with two cylindrical arms and legs, a torso, and a perfect sphere where a head should be. The monster tested out its wobbly stems, taking one unsteady step towards Carson, then another, each growing more confident than the last. It had now passed the threshold into the living room.

Carson gripped the doorknob and grunted with effort. His hands were still wet from his battering at the streams of coffee. He used his shirt to get a better hold on it, turned the handle, and threw open the door, letting the morning sunlight flood the room. He scrambled out onto his porch and slammed the door shut behind him. Carson dared peek into the front window but quickly jumped back. The sight of his home had been blocked. All he could see was a waterfall of light brown fluid flowing down the inside of the window, broken up only by splashes of boiling liquid trying to launch itself through the glass. Straight at him.

He pulled himself to his feet and hurriedly limped down his driveway and into the street, defying his curiosity to look back again.

If he had allowed himself the temptation, he would’ve seen drips of creamy brown liquid slowly seeping through the crack at the bottom of his front door.