Coffeehouse Chronicles …and The Dark Ages Arrive at 6:53 A.M.
Updated: 3 days ago
What up, chroniclers? You gotcher cup? Okay, let's go.
It's starting to become painfully obvious that I'm becoming a grandparent.
Show of hands: who has a schedule?
I'm not talking to you working stiffs. You folks have to get up at a specific hour so you can punch the clock and keep Mr. Slate from noticing you rolled into the quarry fifteen minutes late.
No, I'm talking about us retired folks.
The people who proudly say, "I can get up whenever I want."
Then proceed to wake up at exactly the same time every morning for the next fifteen years.
You know who you are.
You're out of bed by 7:00, headed for the coffee pot like it's a religious pilgrimage. Then it's local news, weather, checking your blood pressure, checking the stock market, checking your fantasy football team from three years ago, and before you know it, it's 11:30, and you're standing in front of the refrigerator wondering if leftovers count as a balanced meal.
Let's be honest. Most of us are so predictable our neighbors could set their watches by us.
"I see Sidney's curtains opened."
"What time is it?"
"6:58."
"Nope. Wait three seconds."
Curtains fully open.
"Now it's 7:00."
My neighbor trusts my routine more than he trusts the atomic clock in Colorado.
So there I am Monday morning, 6:53 a.m., laying in bed.
Seven glorious minutes until launch time.
The mission was simple: feet on floor, shuffle to the den, start coffee, complain about the news.
Then suddenly I noticed the ceiling fan slowing down.
At first I thought, "Dang, I'm getting old. Is my eyesight slowing down too?"
Then I looked at the digital clock.
Nothing.
Black screen.
No glowing numbers.
No life.
"What the what?"
I yelled out to the HB. She was already up. Of course she was already up. She'd been up for 30 or 45 minutes because she wanted a pup.
Not a pop.
A pup.
That's retirement. You don't need an alarm clock when you've got a furry little supervisor demanding you begin your shift.
"Hey," I yell. "The power's out!"
"Yeah, I know."
"Why?"
"Geez, it's already out. I don't know why."
Then she hits me with:
"Why don't you ask your people?"
My people.
Apparently the Neighborhood Watch WhatsApp group has become my tribe.
I'm basically one group text away from becoming the village elder.
So I grab my phone, and sure enough, the messages are already flying.
"Power outage."
"SCE says it's for fire safety."
"It's hot."
"How long will it last?"
"My garage door won't open."
One neighbor actually asked how to get his car out of the garage.
At that point, I had to put the phone down because common sense has become an optional feature in some households.
Besides, I hadn't even had coffee yet.
I wasn't emotionally equipped for that level of problem-solving.
Normally by then I'd be in the den prepping my first cup.
Instead, I walked in and started pressing buttons.
Nothing.
Tried again.
Nothing.
Then I remembered.
The coffee maker was participating in the power outage.
Fine.
I'll read the paper on my phone.
Nope.
The Wi-Fi was down too.
Turns out the internet isn't powered by hopes and dreams.
Who knew?
The HB and I sat in the living room facing each other.
Four and a half minutes.
Just staring.
Like two people who had somehow been married forever but had never actually met before.
I started noticing things.
The silence.
The ticking clock.
The fact that she was looking at me like she was trying to remember where she'd seen me before.
Finally, I thought, I'll just take a shower.
Wrong again.
When we repiped the house, I bought one of those fancy new electric water heaters.
Apparently "electric" means it requires electricity.
Who could have seen that coming?
So here I was unshowered, uncaffeinated, internet-less, and trapped in a house with another retired person.
Basically Little House on the Prairie.
As a 120-dayer, I figured I should text the Sarge.
"Hey boss. Tough day. No coffee. No shower. My whole schedule is wrecked."
A few moments later, he texted back:
"Okay, sir. Enjoy your day off."
I didn't have the heart to explain.
A day off implies I have days on.
I'm retired.
Every day is Saturday with slightly different programming.
Anyway, that was my Monday.
How was yours?
Until next time, you know what to do! Drink ‘em if ya got ‘em!
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