Mr. Coffee was found dead this morning. It appears that he went peacefully but my father and I were still distraught.
“WHAT WAS HIS FIRST NAME?” I started yelling at Dad.
Dad left the kitchen and returned with a harmonica. In his track suit, he paused by the counter and blew Taps.
I made some instant coffee for myself and followed Dad around, asking him what the first names of the all the great Misters might be. Who is Mr. Peanut? Who is Mr. Pringle? Who is Mr. Clean? Who is Mr. Mister? Metamister. Metamisterious.
Dad couldn’t give me an answer but he did berate me for not knowing that Joe DiMaggio had once been Mr. Coffee’s spokesman.
“Is that why they call it a cup of Joe?” I asked Dad.
I left Dad to deal with Mr. Coffee’s remains and pilgrimaged to Mr. Clam, who whispered to me that she was, in fact, not a Mr. Clams are never misterious.