It's Mine...My Own

 

It was a bright sunny morning in southern Alberta, the beautiful towering Rocky Mountains boarding the edge where the clear blue sky meets the land, the sun reflecting off of its snow caps. Skittering down the road away from the mountains and into the endless prairie lands, a little green golf, the rumble of its engine overshadowed by the folk music pouring through the window seams from its tiny, but surprisingly powerful, sound system.

Zoom in

through the skies, beyond the mountains,

and past the highway into the that little car,



and you would find a poor soul, Transformed by her caffiene addiction, and zombified by her lack of sleep--


an aspiring social worker turned Uruk-Hai.

the music fails to reach her ears. her eyes escape the beautiful landscape. She is counting down the kilometers between her and a cup of coffee.

Stumbling into the Starbucks, deranged and desperate, she slumps up to the counter. Trying to sound and appear friendly, and less like a predator, she peels back her lips-- exposing all of her teeth...the closest to a smile she can manage.

"Tall caramel machiato please" seeped from between her clenched teeth-- her pupils dialating at the sound of the beverage. Upon hearing the cost, she swung her oversized and over stuffed purse onto the counter. Opening it up, she sees no wallet. WHERE IS THE WALLET? In a frantic fury she pulls out the objects that obstruct her vision.

High Heels-- get out. Place them on the counter.

Next, a bag of jelly beans, drop them on the counter, beside the heels.

3 packets of instant chicken noodle soup, fling them on to the floor.

inflatable ball, whipped out of the purse and rolling down the bulk food isle.

With unbridled frustration and pure rage, in a deep, raspy, demonic voice she growls
"wwwaaaaalllleeeeettttttt"

Oh. Here it is.

She looks back at the cashier, pulls out the wallet and gives over the change. In heavy laboured steps, she drags her bewildered carcass to the other side of the kiosk. Her nostrils flare at the scent of the beans, her body twitches uncontrollably at the sound of the milk steamer. She has become Gollum, her obsession for her precious has taken over her motor functions. If she doesn't get that fix she will burn down the shire. DO NOT GIVE IT TO HER BARISTA! SHE CAN NOT WEILD IT!

none of us can.

She peers over the counter with shifty eyes, watching, waiting, sweating, shaking. As if in slow motion, the cashier sets the coffee infront of her beady bulging eyes. With trembling bony hands she grasps the cup, puts it to her lips, and pours the life

back into her bones. It's mine...my own. my precious.

Revived, she straightens her spine, fixes her hair, and thanks the barista.

Collecting her assorted things that lay strewn across the grocery store and stuffing them back into her purse, she holds the coffee close to her heart and walks triumphantly out of Starbucks, ignoring the 6 sets of eyes that follow her all the way to her car.

 

Good Morning Chestermere. I am your social worker.