Photo by viZZZual.com

At several of my previous jobs, I belonged to a communal coffee pot.  We paid a fixed amount each month, cleaned up after ourselves, took our turns bringing in milk, sugar, and coffee filters, and set up a fresh pot whenever we drank the last cup in the pot.  Or should I say, that was the theory.  It worked smoother on paper than it did in practice.

The coffee truck is here!

I’ve worked in buildings that had true cafeterias, with egg sandwiches cooked to order, bagels, and tables to sit at.  I’ve worked at places that had “buffeterias”, which were glorified vending machine rooms with a couple of chairs thrown in.  Finally, I’ve worked in places with neither of these luxuries, where you had to keep an ear open to hear the receptionist announce, “Attention please.  The coffee truck is here.” There’s nothing like the sight of the roach coach disappearing from the parking lot while you’re stuck in a meeting, knowing that your next caffeine fix won’t be for several hours.  I felt what a heroin addict feels when a cop flushes his stash down the toilet.  Oh, the horror!

I promise to do my best…

It was at one of these coffee truck-served buildings that I finagled myself into membership in the communal coffee pot.  My buddy Ed, teacher of macros extraordinaire and all things computer-related, nominated me for membership.  Don’t laugh; I was turned down twice.  It would have been easier getting into Harvard.  I must have a dishonest face.  The operation was run by Propeller Head, an aircraft engineer who was obviously brilliant, as his pocket protector was jammed full of ceremonial pens from the various programs that he worked on.  I swore to never let the java in the pot run dry, and my inclusion into this elite fraternity was finally made official.

Scofflaws

Unfortunately, some of my fellow members didn’t follow the creed as religiously as I did.  On several occasions, the smell of burnt coffee emanated from the smoldering urn.  The counter that held our accesories was strewn with used stir sticks and empty Equal packets.  The small refrigerator was often devoid of milk, making us resort to using Coffee Mate, or as Ed called it, “paint chips.”  It was during this time that I learned how to drink my coffee black.  There was much finger-pointing during these lapses in responsibility, and the bad blood even carried over into the day-to-day dealings between coworkers.  You didn’t want to cross old Propeller Head; you’d pay for it later when you needed his input.

Proceed at your own risk

Which is why I’m glad that I don’t drink coffee anymore.  I’m avoiding alot of the nonsense that crops up over petty grievances.  Two guys that I work with now are not on speaking terms because one didn’t promptly pay his monthly dues to the coffee pot.  One of them quit the communal pot and bought one of these for himself:

So if you do plan on joining a communal coffee pot in the office, be a good member.  Clean up after yourself.  Don’t forget to bring in milk when it’s your turn.  Make sure to refill the pot when you drain the last cup.  And always pay your dues on time.  It will, at the least, save you some grief, and at the most, maybe your career.

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