The Territorial

Harold never asked for much out of life, just a quiet morning, a warm cup of coffee, and a day that didn’t require him to speak to customer service. But as life often does, it had other plans.

It started when his coffee maker decided to test its loyalty. It wasn’t one of those fancy machines with twelve buttons and a personality disorder.

No, this was a good, solid, midlife appliance, dependable, predictable, the kind that didn’t talk back. Until that Tuesday.

Harold shuffled into the kitchen wearing the robe that had long since given up pretending to have a belt. He pressed the button on the coffee maker, expecting the soothing sound of caffeine getting summoned into existence.

Instead, it blinked a red light that looked suspiciously smug. “Clean,” it said in block letters.

Harold squinted. “Clean? I clean you every other Sunday.”

The coffee maker blinked again, same message.

He pressed the button harder, as if authority came through finger pressure. “You don’t tell me what to do,” he muttered. “I tell you what to do.”

Nothing. Just that red light.

Harold sighed the sigh of a man betrayed by a small appliance. He flipped open the instruction manual, a thin book written by people who assumed everyone had a degree in engineering and patience.

After ten minutes of translating the hieroglyphics, he learned that he needed vinegar, water, and “time.” He had two of those things.

The next thirty minutes involved an epic battle of wits. The machine beeped, hissed, and flashed, while Harold poured, pressed, and muttered phrases not suitable for the church picnic.

By the end, the kitchen smelled like a salad bar on fire, but the light finally went off. “Ha!” Harold said triumphantly, raising his mug like a trophy. “You work for me again.”

He sat down to enjoy his well-earned cup, feeling that warm satisfaction that only victory and caffeine can bring. Then, just as he took his first sip, his phone buzzed.

A message from his daughter: “Morning, Dad! Remember to hit the ‘rinse’ button after cleaning, or the coffee tastes like vinegar. Love you!”

Harold froze. Slowly, he took another sip, then made a face that could curdle cream.

Truth be told, it wasn’t coffee, it was a vinaigrette latte. He thought about dumping it out, but that felt like letting the machine win.

So he drank the whole cup, grimacing with each swallow, because that’s what men like Harold do. They finished what they started, even when it burns all the way down.

An hour later, his neighbor Phyllis dropped by, as she did most mornings, armed with gossip and a tray of muffins. She took one look at him and said, “You look like someone who lost an argument.”

“Coffee maker,” he said. “I think it’s unionizing.”

Phyllis chuckled. “You know, Harold, humor is just truth turned inside out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So the truth here is what, that I’m an idiot?”

“Not at all,” she said, setting down the muffins. “The truth is, the world keeps trying to outsmart us, and we keep pretending it hasn’t succeeded.”

Harold smiled, sipping from his second cup, one made properly this time. It tasted like victory, or maybe just forgiveness.

The red light on the coffee maker flickered faintly in the corner, as if considering another rebellion. Harold gave it a look that said, “Don’t even think about it.”

And for the rest of the morning, peace came to man and machine.