Leslie hated stories where oddities happen; the inexplicable seems real and then the story-writer declares, ‘It was all a dream’.
This is not one of those stories, this really happened – It was a Saturday morning which started like any others, Leslie awoke early and went for a run, before excitedly preparing for her own birthday party. It was supposed to be a classy and intimate affair, with few guests and presents which she could never justify buying herself. She was, after all, turning forty and felt that her lack of a romantic partner would ultimately guilt her friends into coughing up gifts, whether out of the pits of pity or the shitpile of sympathy, Leslie didn’t care, as long as they were good.
The group of friends gathered in Leslie’s best friend’s garden. Looking around, Leslie had a sinking feeling as the garden was decorated in crepe paper streamers and a tacky ‘Happy Birthday’ sign. Leslie’s heart sank further when she seen that only one large box occupied the present table. From there, she sat through pleasantries and cucumber sandwiches, but as more and more guests showed up the party felt more like a tortuous mother’s meeting, which in turn began to resemble an Alcoholics Anonymous group as the party-goers boasted piety by declining their second, third or fourth glasses of wine. Leslie took her ninth champagne flute. She was forty and in the absence of a chic celebration, she felt empowered to get shit-faced.
The party concluded, and the garden emptied. Leslie felt, at her host’s insistence, that it was time to leave, and with a hoick she lifted the singular present from the present table and found her own exit. Arriving home, she struggled to lift the box up her front steps, but with some panting and puffing, unfit for someone in an outfit such as hers, she made it to her kitchen where she proceeded to open the box.
She opened the box and exclaimed, ‘A pod machine. And the plastic cover certainly looks cheap’. Leslie then read the card, ‘As with any genie, you only get three wishes. Use them wisely’. The cryptic nature of the card left Leslie feeling in need of warm beverage, and while some would argue her blood alcohol levels were too high to be able to function, she was able to set up the coffee machine without too many profanities.
She pushed the first option on the machine, ever methodical. ‘Classic!’ she exclaimed as she pushed the button, and waited for the machine to whirl to life. Nothing happened – no whirring to life, no froth, no steam, no hater water. Her cup remained empty, but then her doorbell rang. In a particular aggressive tone, she yelled at the door, ‘What now?’ and nearly ripped the front door off its hinge. She was greeted with a tall, dark handsome stranger, whose thick black hair and white smile left her feeling giddy. He was invited in, and Leslie enjoyed an intimate afternoon with the classic stranger. After running out of things to talk about, she asked, in a jovial manner, ‘I don’t need to know your name, I’ll just call you my birthday present’. Leslie excused herself to use the bathroom, and when she returned, the apartment was empty. Leslie shrugged, and decided to give the coffee machine another go – by this point, she was desperate for the caffeine hit.
Leslie said, ‘Rich’, as she pushed the button, hoping for an espresso hit to get her through the afternoon. As she waited for the machine to come alive, she readjusted her clothes and ran her hands through her dishevelled hair. Again, the machine remained lifeless, but the doorbell rang again. Thinking it the tall dark stranger, she fluttered to the door and opened it, hoping her fair resembled something seductive. The man who stood before her on the threshold was wearing a grey wool suit with a Rolex adorning his wrist. He smelled like he had bathed in an ocean of parfum and it wouldn’t be wrong to say he looked a million bucks. Leslie spluttered, ‘I think you have the wrong address’, before the conversation developed and she found herself inviting him in. She whispered in his ear, ‘My friends sure did pay for some expensive presents, I knew I could count on them’, and as she found herself entangling in this man’s arms, she couldn’t help but notice a single dollar sign tattooed on this gentleman’s pectorals. She couldn’t help but wonder about the coffee machine and the connections to the men at the door. She had been warned that she would only get three wishes and to use them wisely – but could a coffee machine be a genie in a bottle? As the afternoon sun, she again excused herself to use the loo. She flushed and returned to the bedroom, where a hundred dollar bill had been left on her pillow.
By now, Leslie was starting to catch on – she raced back to the kitchen, remembering the third button on her machine, ‘Speciality’ – and as her finger moved towards it, she announced, ‘I don’t need classic or rich, this time, size matters and I want a massive cup of coffee’. For emphasis, she followed up with the singular word, ‘Huge’. Unsurprisingly then, the doorbell rang and again she fluttered over and rearranged her face into something seductive. She opened the door and found herself staring at the world’s fattest man. He was, in a singular word, huge. Leslie began to choke on his odour, and thanked him for visiting, but that she was tired and had to go to sleep. She went back to her bedroom and it wasn't long before she was snoring.
She knew the afternoon had not been a dream, but, the next day, she realised she had been too drunk to remember any of it and simply cursed her friends for buying her a broken coffee machine.