6:00 AM. Dawn was breaking onto an overcast and dreary fall morning, thick with the rain from the night before. It was a Saturday, and the residents of the townhome would not wake for another few hours. The constant ticking of a rooster clock in the kitchen was the only audible noise in the home. When the hour broke, the clock squawked and announced the arrival of a new day.
Hearing the sudden, irritating noise, the white KitchenAid Coffeemaker awoke, expecting the owners to come down the stairs at any moment for their daily dose of caffeine. Sitting on the tile countertop between the sink and the bread box, he looked around the dim kitchen, wondering why there were no lights on. It was not until he looked at the page-a-day rooster calendar on the side of the refrigerator that he realized it was the weekend, and he would not be needed for another few hours. But going back to sleep was not an option, because Coffeemaker had something on his mind.
In the blue-white light of late dawn, Coffeemaker could see the outlines of his fellow appliances, including his best friend, a Sunbeam Mixmaster. Mixmaster sat atop a granite island counter, which was currently covered with a thin layer of flour, pieces of dried cake batter and a pile of dirty baking utensils, including a whisk, a stack of measuring cups and a set of measuring spoons on a key ring. His mixing bowl was locked onto his base, with all of his attachments piled inside, and his cherry red hide was coated in floury finger prints. Mixmaster did not even hear the clock strike six. After his workout the night before, Mixmaster would probably sleep the entire day if he was left alone.
“Hey, Mixmaster,” Coffeemaker whispered. “You awake?”
“Huh?” Mixmaster asked.
“Are you awake?” Coffeemaker said.
“I am now,” Mixmaster grunted. “It’s Saturday, Coffeemaker, what’s the point of waking me up so early?”
“Chill out, Mixer,” Coffeemaker said. “You have the whole weekend to relax. I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Hit me.”
“The owner had the TV over the fridge on last night, and she had it tuned onto the live debate. Did you catch any of it?”
“What, you mean the presidential debate?”
“No, the debate between the Joker and Bane for the best Batman villain. Yes, of course I’m talking about the presidential debate, Mixer. What else would I be thinking of?”
“Forgive me for my ignorance, Coffeemaker, but I’m still half asleep. And to answer your question, no, I did not see much of the debate. The owner’s wife was making me work overtime last night.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot about her son’s birthday.”
“It’s not his birthday, it’s his wedding...” Mixmaster started. “Ah forget it. Anyway, I’m guessing you want me to ask you what happened, so that you can tell me your opinion about it, which I’ll inevitably disagree with, which will lead to a long, drawn out conversation over the topic.”
“Well, excuse me, Mixmaster,” Coffeemaker said sarcastically, “or should I call you Sherlock Holmes?”
“Just get on with it, Watson.”
“Well,” Coffeemaker said, “the two candidates took pot shots at each other, and proved to me once again that the human’s government is as dead as a doornail.”
“Hold on,” Mixmaster said. “What did you just say?”
“The human system of government is dead. That’s what I said.”
“Oh, here we go again. I’m not going to ask.”
“But you want to know why I said that, don’t you Mixer?”
After a brief pause, Mixmaster sighed. “My curiosity is killing me,” he said. “All right, let me hear it.”
“The political system the humans devised, or the great experiment as the owner’s son’s history textbook calls it, has ceased to exist. I believe the only thing that candidates care about anymore is getting re-elected, nothing more, and nothing less.”
“Oh, bologna! Sure, I agree, there are some of career politicians who fit that mold you described, but there are still some who genuinely care more about their constituents than about winning another term.”
“Well gosh, Mixer, I had no idea you were such a sheep of the system. That’s what the human government wants you to believe. In reality, every politician is just in it for the perks of the job.”
“Since when did you become such an anarchist? Coffeemaker, the world is not as bleak and grey as you think. Take, for example, the owner’s husband, who’s running for county exec next month. We see him every day, and judging from the practice speeches he gives over breakfast, he truly cares about his community. Plus, he’s a dedicated husband and father, who loves his family and would give up the shirt on his back to feed them.”
“He may be squeaky clean now,” Coffeemaker started, “but after he’s spent a few years in the political grind, he’ll become one of them. Besides, you can’t praise him like that, because you only see him when he’s in the kitchen. Just think about it, we never see him in the bedroom upstairs, or in the man-cave downstairs, or the garage--”
“And your point, may I ask?”
“What I’m trying to say is that we only see a sample of who he is. He could be an entirely different person for all we know.”
“So, what you’re saying is that the man of the house is a saint when he’s in the kitchen and a scum of the earth politician when we don’t see him.”
“No, Mixmaster, you’re putting words in my filter. I never said that he’s like that. All I’m trying to prove is that we only see one side of him. The only thing that probably knows him more than any of us is his Blackberry and believe me, I’ve tried to get answers out of her. But each time I ask, she gives me this dirty look on her screen and tells me to mind my own java.”
“Ok, I get your point,” Mixmaster said. “But I still think your wrong about his political career. You assume that just because he’s entering the world of politics, he’s automatically obliged to become a selfish monster, someone destined to become the subject of a Michael Moore documentary.”
“I hope I am wrong. I hope that this prediction of mine is just hot air rising from my steam cap. But I have an aching feeling in my warming tray that, once he gets knee deep into this political crap, things will change. Then what? He might convince his wife to replace you with one of those state-of-the-art KitchenAid mixers, like the ones used on The Food Network.”
“Or he’ll replace you with one of those coffee shop machines, the ones that use syrup packets instead of ground beans and don’t need filters.”
Coffeemaker paused, trying to think of a comeback remark. “Now that I think of it,” he said, “if the owners are going to replace anything, they’d replace the fridge. They’ve had him longer than they’ve had cable.”
Hearing his name, the-thirty-year-old, cream-colored Maytag roused himself to consciousness.
“Huh… What…?” Fridge asked. “Are you young punks talkin’ bout me when I’m asleep?”
“We weren’t talking about you,” Coffeemaker said.
“No, it was just a dream,” Mixmaster added, “go back to sleep, Fridge.”
But Fridge was already on the offensive. “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. “I heard what you said. You think the owners are going to replace me, don’t you? Like hell they are! I was in the house when they moved in, on their wedding day. I was free of charge and because of that, they’ll never give me up. If there’s one thing in this house that they’ll get rid of, it’s that old Mercury Villager minivan that's rusting in the garage."
“Hey!” came a yell from behind the garage door. “I heard that.”
“I’m glad,” Fridge barked back, “and listen to this. Every time the owner’s wife comes home from her youngest son’s soccer practice, your rusted crank shaft makes it sound like a damn Panzer’s coming through the garage.”
“Kiss my tailpipe!” Mercury replied. “Let me remind you that, in the nineteen years I’ve lived here, I have never had to go to the shop once for a fixer. But you, on the other hand, every time your icemaker turns on, the lights flicker. And every time one of the owners come out with a can of pop, they’re always complaining that it’s not cold enough.”
“If I had hands, I’d strangle you,” Fridge started.
“That would be an issue if I had a neck, you oversized piece of scrap!” Mercury said.
“Alright, break it up,” Coffeemaker said.
“Yeah, the two of you,” Mixmaster added. “Quit it. No one’s getting replaced. Coffeemaker and I were just having a disagreement, and we didn’t mean to include you two.”
“Well, I can say with confidence that I’m not getting replaced anytime soon.” The voice was coming from the owner’s iMac computer, who sat on her own desk on the other side of the kitchen, just under the windowsill.
“Obviously,” Coffeemaker replied, “they just bought you.”
“Amen,” iMac replied, a ‘=)’ appearing on her screen. “It’ll be a while before they find the need to replace me.”
“Sure,” Fridge replied, “until the owners find out about all the naughty websites their youngest son logs onto when they’re asleep. At this rate, he’ll be blind by the time he’s twenty.”
“It’s not my fault that the owners don’t know how to set up a parental control blocker.” A ‘:P’ appeared on her monitor. “But may I ask, how did this conversation begin in the first place? I joined when you were all talking about being replaced.”
“It started with me,” Coffeemaker said. “I felt like talking about how I thought the political system in this nation was deteriorating, which led to me saying some ludicrous things about the owner’s husband and....” Coffeemaker sighed. “I judged him because he wants to run for county exec, and I never wanted to start an argument among you guys. Nothing’s going to change and none of us are getting replaced. Now, how about we put this issue behind us and go back to sleep?”
“I like the sound of that,” Mixmaster said.
“I second that,” Fridge added.
“Me three,” Mercury called.
“Um…” iMac said with a ‘:/’ on her monitor. “I think you spoke too soon, Coffeemaker.”
“Why?” Coffeemaker asked anxiously.
“I just received two emails. The first one is from the Sears appliance center, saying your LG refrigerator/freezer has shipped and will arrive next Tuesday.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Fridge growled. “After all I’ve done for those freeloading, ungrateful, selfish....”
“Cheer up, Fridge,” Mercury called. “You’ll probably be put in the garage, with me.”
“Don’t even get me started, Merc,” Fridge replied. “Spending every day in there, with you to keep me company? I’d rather spring a leak.”
“That’s not the only email, guys,” iMac said. “I have one more, and this one’s from a loan center, in response to an auto loan.”
“I think the younger son’s inheriting you, Merc,” Mixmaster said.
“Lovely,” Mercury groaned. “I can’t wait for him drive me at seventy in the fifty five, hide blunts in my glove box and have wild, promiscuous orgies in my back seat. I’d rather trade places with the T-Bird from the climax of Thelma and Louise. What did they buy, Mac? Don’t lie to me. Did they get an Odyssey? A Town and Country? A Sedona?”
“Hold on, I’m looking,” iMac said. “Let’s see… Oh my!” ‘:D’ came up on her screen.
“What?” Coffeemaker asked. “What did he buy?”
“He bought a Suburban, didn’t he?” Mixmaster added.
“Wrong,” iMac said. “He bought a Range Rover Evoque! I think I’m in love.”
“Guess I won’t be sharing the garage with you,” Fridge said. “You’re gonna be left out on the curb.”
“Shut up, Fridge,” Mercury responded.
“I guess you’re right, Coffeemaker,” Mixmaster said. “Things are changing around here.”
When Coffeemaker did not respond, Mixmaster pressed on. “Now’s the time you would typically say I told you so.”
“No, Mixer,” Coffeemaker sighed. “I hope this is just one, big coincidence. But if it’s not, then I’ll just say this: I don’t know if Democracy is dead, but I just hope Mercury is kind to us when we’re left on the curb.”
The End