Oliver Benjamin
“Not just coffee, Undergrounds. The place. A symbol of
something pure. An alternative to the blind rush to the future, to
artifice. To Bidden.”
“Aha. That’s it. You want revenge. J’accuse!”
“That’s unfair! I’ve always tried to do good. Remember coffee
consciousness? I would have succeeded too, if not for his jealousy.”
“Or if not for yourjealousy. Admit it: You did it all for selfish
reasons: to have her. You just wanted her to love you.”
“That’s not true. Not really. And if it was, so what? If love was my
inspiration, then I’m in good company. Look at Dante. Everything he
wrote was for Beatrice. He took her as his model of perfection. That
doesn’t mean his poetry was a sham.”
Had the coffee arms it would have crossed them impatiently. It
remonstrated, “Beatrice died before Dante ever wrote about her.
He’d only spoken with her once in his life, when they were children,
for god’s sake. They were never even lovers. Everything he wrote was
for her the idea of her, the memory of her exalted innocence, not for
any hope of gain. He wanted to create something beautiful for its own
sake. To honor beauty itself. Not something tangible, but something
eternal. Not something real, but something better.”
“Better? What could be better than loving Ellie? Than loving
life?” Roy cried, “Maybe it would be better if I poured you on the
fucking sidewalk.”
“Very well, Epicurus. Dispense with your soul. Go lay ye down in
your private garden.”
He started to tilt the cup but hesitated. It was true. He would be
throwing away a part of himself. Yet what a relief it would be to skim
it away, that exposed and sensitive layer which had been a never-
ending source of anguish.
“Of course it’ll be nice to get rid of me,” the coffee said, “You’ll
only become one of them. Imagine how easy it will be. No heavy
thoughts. No ridiculous dreams. Pour away! Free me from the mortal
coil you keep me locked in and free yourself from the pain of
harboring an abhorred guest.”
Roy stared at the cup. Would it really be that easy? Letting go of
it all. Dropping the cup. All that mystic malarkey he encountered in
the East was really just this. Giving up. Stopping the whirl and
getting off. But no, for him it would never be that easy. He would
never forgive himself if he did. He could not come this far just to stop
halfway.
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