I just wanted coffee ...

Office java club morphs into Lord of the Flies  

I recently watched a documentary about Emma Goldman, famous anarchist and early 20th century orator who spoke out for free love, women’s rights and labor. I don’t really understand the anarchistic framework but those other things sound pretty good to me. 

No matter. I know that none of that shit is going to work. 

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t actually profess to know anything much and I certainly don’t have the academic pedigree, intellectual heft or political knowledge to speak to anything other than maybe how to get aphids off your roses (an old Italian gardener’s stinky concoction of garlic, onions and cayenne pepper) or what to watch on Netflix if you’re in the middle of a really serious anxiety attack (Fried Green Tomatoes, obviously). 

But I do know this — if you get more than three people together to do anything, it’s a mess in a dress, as my dear friend Ann used to say. And how do I know this without the benefit of actual academic study, esoteric research or relevant professional rigor of any kind? I started a coffee club at my office. 

What was I thinking?  

It began innocently enough. We had a great group of writers, PR folks, designers and support staff in the department. You know — clever folks who seemed cool and laid back. We were working in an old dorm on a midwestern university campus so we had a goofy kind of kitchen with weird 1950s cupboards, an ancient suspicious-looking oven and lots and lots of white linoleum. It was kind of a cross between Animal House and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The rest of the building was BEIGE … beige walls, beige carpets, beige moldings — you get the idea. 

Anyway, we had a coffee pot in the kitchen and a beige cupboard full of beige coffee cups. Now, I fully admit that I am a coffee snob and felt no need whatsoever to involve anyone else in my habit. In fact, I had discreetly installed a small coffee pot in my office so I could avoid the potential calamity that any ‘office collaborative’ might create.

It wasn’t to be. 

At a staff meeting (sadly I was in charge with my partner in crime, the media guy), someone brought up that we should start a coffee club. If I may digress here for a moment, let me just point out that it truly sucks to be in charge. I mean, I didn’t want a coffee club and my co-director didn’t even drink coffee and was as acutely aware as I was of the perils of ‘group’ activity. He opted out. (Coward!)

But what was I to do? They all knew I drank coffee.  So, I offered to pick up the coffee and just get reimbursed … at some undefined future point in time. Seems simple, right? 

Oh no.

So much nonsense ensued, it was like we were suddenly jettisoned into a petty sociological experiment or some kind of Kantian nightmare.  What if I drink less than you? What if I don't drink coffee everyday? What if I drink two cups one day and none the next? The variables were endless. 

As I didn’t give a flying f- - - if I got reimbursed or not, I tried to just meekly (yeah, I know … those who know me are shaking their heads at the word ‘meek’ but it really was true in this case) buy the coffee and leave it in the kitchen.   

Nope.

After much debate, I suggested that people could just pay what they wanted.  Doesn’t that seem reasonable? Like … who could argue with that? It turns out, just about everyone.

People were worried that it wasn’t fair. Because, of course, life is always fair, right?

Maybe someone was getting a free cup of coffee. Maybe someone was overpaying and was owed 4 ounces of coffee at the end of the week. Don’t even get me started on the cream and sugar issue. Thankfully, I take my coffee black. 

Predictably, things continued to spiral downward for several weeks. (I’ll spare you all the bloody, petty, absurdist details.) It actually caused quite a bit of tension and numerous snarky emails around the office. Finally, my co-director (you know him as “The Coward”) and I determined that as the management team, we had to put an end to the coffee club.

So, we called a meeting (yeah, we actually had to have a meeting) and informed everyone that the coffee club was dead and everyone thenceforth was responsible for their own beverages — and condiments. 

Things were a little tense for a while but gradually bruised egos healed, hurt feelings dissipated or were buried, and we all moved on. But … it left a mark. 

So, as the failed overlord of an office coffee club, I know anarchy — or pretty much any other system that involves more than three humans — probably isn’t going to work.  And I’m OK with that.

These days, I take my morning coffee alone on my back porch with the New York Times and a squirrel named Steve (Note here: Steve does not drink coffee.)

All is right with the world again.