Fast Cars and Intergalactic Speed Dating

2: Uh, Magic

Richard slumped down the stairs the next morning, bleary-eyed, wishing he had been able to sleep longer. With the sun up and the birds singing, he simply couldn't stay asleep, no matter how tired he was from his irresponsibly late night. It was a small comfort that the scent of fresh coffee pervaded the house.

He shuffled toward the kitchen, his striped dressing gown hanging open to reveal a Midwest Dragway T-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms with dachshunds on them. The pajamas had been a cheeky gift from Charlise one year, a nod to their beloved dog, Paco.

Of course, Charlise had taken Paco in the divorce. Richard often wished he'd fought harder over the dog, but he'd hardly been able to muster the energy to get out of bed in the mornings, let alone battle for canine custody. He was left with the faded pajamas and regret.

Life went on.

Richard was glad to see the coffee pot was still half-full, although that probably meant that Garth had already finished a pot and brewed more. The man was going to kill himself.

Richard took a mug out of the cupboard and filled it with steaming coffee. It was after he had taken his third sip that something odd registered in Richard's mind, something he'd glimpsed out of the corner of a sleep-clouded eye and had not properly understood at first glance. The rusted cogs of his mind began to crank, and Richard turned around, frowning across the kitchen.

There, on the tiny two-person table, was a mountain of coffee. At least ten large cans—tubs, really—crowded the table, and brick-shaped packets of vacuum-sealed grounds were precariously stacked on top, towering to a height that rivaled Richard's own with three or four packets to a tier.

Richard sipped his coffee, staring, while his brain did two things in quick succession. First, it recognized that the kitchen now contained more coffee than a human could safely drink in three years. Then, it tallied the cost of the coffee.

"Garth?" Richard called.

There was a clang and a clatter from near at hand. Garth popped up on the other side of the kitchen island. "Oh. Afternoon. I didn't see you there, Richard."

"What are you doing?"

"I was looking for the small sauce pan, but I found this in the cupboard." He held up an instruction manual for a crock pot which, to Richard's knowledge, they did not possess. "Did you know you can make bread in one of these things?"

"Did you buy all this coffee?" He did not know why he asked. The answer was obvious. Richard had not been known to burgle grocery stores in his sleep. Then again, anything was possible after this long chain of late nights.

Garth looked at the mountain of coffee. "Well, yeah. I didn't want to run out again. Who did you think brought it, aliens?"

"Garth."

"Richard?"

"There has got to be over $400 worth of coffee on our kitchen table right now."

"$431.14, to be precise. Wow. You were really close with your estimate, old chum, but I bet you forgot to factor in tax."

Richard opened his mouth to respond. He wanted to reprimand Garth for using language they had established numerous times was not to be used. He wanted also, and more urgently, to ask Garth where he had gotten the money for $431.14 worth of coffee when they could barely afford noodles and beans.

Instead of starting down that path, a path he knew would be winding and full of rabbit holes, Richard topped off his mug of coffee and shuffled back out of the kitchen.

Garth followed, crock pot manual in hand. "How's the prototype coming along?"

"Finished," Richard said. He sat down on the couch. His entire body sang with relief. He wondered when the last time was that he had actually sat on this couch. He spent almost every hour of every day in his office, bent over his computer and working.