Drink run
Making tea under capitalism
“Drink?” I murmur eleven times in quick succession as I navigate the small bay of desks on which my team sit, gathering a rainbow of mugs and water bottles as I go. Tray laden, I plod towards the kitchenette at the other end of the room, head still numb from hours staring at a computer screen. I like to plan drink runs alongside toilet breaks to disrupt the monotony. In the small kitchen, I concoct an assortment of teas, coffees and waters, and saunter to the window. I reckon I can stretch this to about 5 minutes before it becomes suspicious.
“I’m letting the tea brew properly. There’s nothing worse than an under-brewed cup of tea.” That’s the line.
Outside, rain drives down and wipes the street below shiny and clean. People rush, collars up, from shelter to shelter, terrified of getting their waterproof wet before their big meeting or afternoon in work or train journey home. The row of buildings opposite mine do all they can to break up the grey sky from the grey river. The air too is grey with rain, and many of the people who are out at 11:30 am on a Tuesday in March seem to be fairly grey themselves. The figures slide in and out of my field of vision on the glistening pavement. Everyone walks so purposefully when it’s raining. My watch tells me that even by my fictitious standards, the tea must be adequately brewed by now.
A tray supporting 4 water bottles and 5 mugs hanging between my hands, I make my way towards the kitchenette. Mugs rinsed, water bottles filled, tea mashing, and I’m over to the window again. A thick fog hangs and I can barely see the street. Shapes move obscurely, shifting beneath me, like standing above a black ocean trying to make out the fish swimming leagues below. I gaze at the thick screen of grey outside the window. It’s as if a steam train has just passed by, except with less purpose. Even now, I can fill the time. Staring at thick grey air isn’t any more interesting than staring at strings of data, but the change relieves my tired mind. With a sigh, I return to my drink making.
I haul myself forwards, through the post-lunch crash. My full stomach and the prospect of three more hours of work drag behind me with equal weight. An afternoon tea run rather than the mid-morning one though, can’t say this job can’t keep you on your toes. Ideally I’d do both, but get too generous with the drinks and people start asking questions. The world outside is brighter now, crisper. Everything seems well defined and shiny. The spring sun hangs low and basks the scene in light. The river opposite glitters gently as it convulses. More couples are out this time of year. Young people walk hand in hand, collars still turned up against the wind, but with less urgency when the motivating rain isn’t present. Dog walkers look almost content, rather than bitter that their kids made them get this bloody dog and now it’s their job to look after it. The world is almost at peace. And my teas are starting to stew.
Light chatter surrounds me as I wend my way carefully to the kitchen. Spirits are up with the temperature. The sun beams into my window, shining through the multi-coloured water bottles and creating kaleidoscopic patterns on the counter. Outside, people are happy, children run and play, families laugh together, the diamond coated surface of the river shines. I stand observing women in summer dresses and men in chino shorts, contentedly wandering together in the sunlight. Every window grins its shiny white teeth at me. I’m too hot here, standing directly in the radiance of summer, so I attend to my drinks and cut the visit short.
Outside the window, people are desperately clinging on to the remnants of summer. People dress and frolic in a way they wouldn’t dream of if it was this temperature in April. It’s like they’re soaking up every last drop of sunlight and happiness they can, ready for the winter before them. Stockpiling emotion in anticipation of numbness. I stand, placid as ever, immune to the perks of sunlight the rest seem to be enjoying, gazing dispassionately through the still air. At least it’s not as hot any more. My tea is ready.
Scarves are back on now, winter coats re-adorned. Not entirely necessary, but there’s allegedly something romantic about walking through droves of dead leaves in a scarf, rather than a hoodie. The couples holding hands seem to be doing so less out of affection and instead clinging onto each other for warmth. Hair billows behind heads in a mean-looking wind. I’m protected from this too, by the walls of glass. In this building, I’m protected from all of it. The wind the rain the heat. Protected from the mood swings of nature that come with the changing seasons. Protected from the sweaty hands of a partner or the grumpy kids and yapping dogs. Protected. Protected from feeling any of the whims that the world feels. Protected and numb. My tea.
My feet drag no more or less than ever, the water I dispense no hotter or colder, the sugar no less sweet and the coffee no less bitter. The sheets of ice and piles of snow outside have no bearing on my drink run. People don’t hurry in the snow like they do in the rain, they tread carefully, wary of the ice underfoot. They make all the appearance of hurrying but move no faster or more surely than if they hadn’t bothered, but it’s all part of the charade. “Tread carefully, it’s icy underfoot.” A pathetic snowball bunched up out of powder that doesn’t even reach its target before disintegrating. Soggy socks and chapped lips. All part of the act, as everyone pretends that the snow is beautiful rather than inconvenient. Even from up here, inconvenience aside, it’s not beautiful. White air doesn’t differ much from grey air, streets shiny with ice no different from those shiny with rain. Whether people are hurrying, sauntering or being careful not to slip is immaterial from this distance. The river is still a mass of water, just grey and choppy rather than grey and still. From inside my central heated office, I can’t even tell what the season is unless I look out the window. This window is my only connection to reality, the only thing making each day differ from the next. And even then it differs only as an observation. Sitting in your room watching film after film gives the illusion of progress, but once the screen goes black you’re the same as you were before. Nothing changes in this office, not really. The morning rundown of the weather outside is arbitrary, for the sake of conversation, not having any bearing on the people talking. In a few paragraphs time, it will be spring again. Then summer then autumn. Then we’re back here. The cycle completes and repeats. Numbing after a while, until you lose track of the significance of the differences. Try reading this again. And again and again. See how many times it holds your attention. Not many, I’ll bet. Now imagine you read it on repeat ad infinitum. For the rest of your life. Imagine that. Imagine. I go to squeeze my teabags.
Originally published in the May 2021 edition of Blue Lake Review (slight edits have been made).