Coffeehouse Chronicles… and The Long Con of P-P-Pam Pam!
- Marc & Bridget Saunders
- 6 minutes ago
- 4 min read
Good morning, Chroniclers. Got yer cup? Okay, let's do this.
Most of you know that the HB and I are fond of coffee. Not Jeff Chean-level coffee, where every bean has a family tree and a birth certificate, but we do enjoy our java.
Unfortunately, someone noticed.
That someone was P-P-Pam Pam!
I've known P-P-Pam Pam! for nearly 50 years. Fifty years. Half a century. Long enough to know a person's character. Long enough to recognize a scam artist.
Apparently not.
A few months ago, P-P-Pam Pam! identified two of my weaknesses: coffee and shiny objects. Three, actually, if you count gadgets. Four if you count my complete inability to learn from previous mistakes.
She arrived at our doorstep carrying a cardboard box that looked like it had survived three recessions, two floods, and possibly the Oregon Trail.
But then...
She opened it.
Friends, sunlight hit that coffee maker and angels sang.
This thing sparkled.
She had clearly spent the morning attacking it with 409, Mr. Clean, Pine-Sol, elbow grease, and possibly a belt sander. It gleamed like the Holy Grail of caffeine delivery systems.
That's when she knew I was hers.
"Oh boy," she said, "have I got a deal for you."
Then came the sales pitch.
She told me it had belonged to a little old lady from Sierra Madre. Or Arcadia. Or Duarte. Somewhere Pasadena-adjacent. One of those cities that only exists to confuse people from out of state.
The little old lady apparently only used it on Friday afternoons for her Bunco Club.
At this point I was practically reaching for my wallet.
Now, to be fair, P-P-Pam Pam! has sold me many useful items over the years:
A left-handed corkscrew, in case a left-handed wine emergency breaks out.
A left-handed toilet brush, should we ever employ a southpaw cleaning professional.
A left-handed TV remote. Unfortunately, it was for a Sony, and all my TVs are Samsung.
A left-handed Pepsi koozie, because sometimes I enjoy holding a Pepsi with my left hand, and apparently comfort is priceless.
Looking back, these may have been clues.
Anyway, there I was, hypnotized by the Sparkly Coffee Maker of Destiny.
I informed the HB that we absolutely needed it.
A transaction occurred.
By the time I entered the house carrying my new treasure, P-P-Pam Pam! had vanished with every dollar currently residing in my wallet.
The HB looked at it.
The HB plugged it in.
Nothing.
No lights.
No noises.
Not even a sympathy blink.
The machine possessed all the functionality of a decorative cinder block.
I called P-P-Pam Pam! immediately.
"It doesn't work."
Without hesitation, she replied, "Worked when I dropped it off."
"But—"
"No refunds."
"It never—"
"No exchanges."
Click.
Friends, I had once again been victimized by the notorious Coffee Maker Cartel, consisting entirely of P-P-Pam Pam!!
When will I learn?
Apparently not before last night.
Wednesday evening, I received a text.
"Miss you guys. Need a fix."
Then another.
Map coordinates.
"Friday. 7 PM. Bring your appetite."
Now, maybe it's just me, but that felt less like a dinner invitation and more like the opening scene of a crime documentary.
The HB looked hungry, though, so we decided to take the risk.
Friday arrived.
We followed the coordinates and discovered that, instead of kidnappers, the Captain and Tenille were waiting for us.
Honestly, that was a relief.
I slid onto the barstool next to Tenille.
He pointed at the television.
"Dodgers game is about to start. You thirsty?"
I looked at the screen and said, "I know."
Then I realized he had asked if I was thirsty, not if the Dodgers were playing.
"Also yes."
One by one, the usual suspects arrived.
Everyone except the Cmdr and Mrs. Scrubbles.
The Cmdr, of course, is a diva. He doesn't arrive. He makes an entrance.
Eventually the group swelled to fourteen.
Fourteen.
At that point we'd stopped being customers and had become a traveling liability.
I looked around and thought, Uh-oh. I've seen this movie before.
A large group.
Too much laughter.
Questions being asked at volumes normally reserved for airport runways.
Strangers looking over and wondering what terrible life choices had brought us together.
Then the First Lady received a video call.
Now when I say she answered it, I mean she answered it as though the caller were orbiting Jupiter.
The entire restaurant immediately became part of the conversation.
The Captain and I gave her the universal "indoor voice" gesture.
She smiled.
"Oh, sorry. I'm just excited my friends called!"
I looked around at the other twelve people sitting at our table.
Then I thought:
Self... if those people are her friends, what exactly are we?
Chopped liver?
Acquaintance garnish?
Background extras?
Several diners wandered over throughout the evening.
Some asked if we were celebrating a birthday.
Others guessed an anniversary.
At one point, someone eyed Moe suspiciously and asked, "Did someone recently get released from an inpatient psychiatric facility?"
Because honestly, that explanation would have required less paperwork.
"No," we'd reply. "We're just hungry."
The problem is we're developing a reputation.
The last restaurant was 120 miles away.
This one was much closer to home.
Soon the servers are going to start comparing notes.
A nationwide bulletin will be issued.
WARNING: Large, loud group. Excessive laughter. May suddenly discuss coffee makers, Dodgers baseball, and left-handed household accessories. Approach with caution.
Until next time, Chroniclers...
You know what to do.
Drink 'em if you got 'em.
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