An old stomach, one stubborn bean, and a chorus of flies singing my ears off
They arrived at dawn — the Winged Greek Chorus — hovering above the coffee maker like tiny airborne tragedians warming up for a matinee. At 71, I’ve grown used to being judged by insects, but this was new. They formed a semicircle in the air, wings shimmering like cheap stage lights, ready to narrate my downfall.
I reached for the mug. They hummed in unison: Ahhh, hubris.
Coffee used to be my birthright. Now it’s a cautionary tale. And the Chorus, bless their six‑legged dramatic souls, has taken it upon themselves to chronicle every relapse with the solemnity of an amphitheater performance and the sarcasm of a late‑summer lament.
The leader — a fly with the gravitas of a retired professor — stepped forward and announced, Behold, the man who swore off coffee after noon, yet stands before the bean at 10:03 a.m., pretending discipline is still within reach.
I poured the coffee anyway. The Chorus sighed like disappointed elders.
They know the chemistry better than I do. Coffee’s benefits? A narrow lane — antioxidants, a polite nod from the longevity crowd. Caffeine’s risks? A sprawling tragedy: adenosine blockade, cortisol spikes, jittery afternoons spent reconsidering every decision since the Carter administration.
Green tea doesn’t do that. Green tea is a pastoral interlude. Coffee is a full‑cast disaster with a closing monologue.
My stomach, the old union rep, files a grievance every time I forget the rule: nothing after noon. The Chorus has seen this pattern enough to choreograph it. They’ve watched me try decaf, then abandon it because it tasted like a beverage in witness protection. They’ve watched me swear off TH Double Doubles with the solemnity of a peace accord.
And they’ve watched me break every promise with the reliability of a Greek tragedy’s third act.
Today, as I sip my morning cup, the Chorus rises in a synchronized flutter, chanting: O mortal, why tempt the fates? Why summon the acid storm that awaits? Why ignore the wisdom of your own weary gut?
I try to explain the difference between coffee and caffeine, how the culture conflates the two, how green tea whispers while coffee barges in. The Chorus listens politely, then responds with a collective, unimpressed drone.
They’re not here for nuance. They’re here for spectacle.
They want the moment my stomach begins negotiating like a hostage negotiator. They want the jittery regret. They want the late‑summer lament — the sigh, the muttered oath, the vow to quit tomorrow.
Coffee didn’t betray me. Time did. Caffeine just delivered the memo with musical accompaniment.
As I rinse out the mug, the Chorus forms a tight spiral, wings beating in a minor key. Their leader lands on the counter, looks me dead in the eye, and declares: We shall return at noon, mortal. For we know where you live. And we know the bean.
Then they lift off, drifting toward the window like a tiny, winged tragedy troupe heading to their next performance.
They know I won’t make it to noon.
Written by CoPilot as directed by Mack McColl for McColl Magazine Public Safety
