Unbelievable Uber: The Marine
Thursday, June 30, 2022
We’re definitely not in Kansas anymore…
by James V. Talwar
Dominated With all the money in the middle and cards face up I found myself in an unenviable position, a 70-30% favorite. The Marine’s gaze slowly shifted from the felt to me, and his countenance blurred from an expression of ambivalent resignation to aggressive retaliation, a sigh morphing into an unfriendly glower reflective of sinister intentions. I sensed a tumultuous storm brewing in these uncharted waters threatening to capsize my poker equanimous equilibrium. I quickly computed the equity of the situation and deftly concluded that self-preservation outweighed any monetary self-interest. As the dealer revealed the board, I began constructing an escape route in the likely event of a pyrrhic poker victory, while also internally taking my opponents-perspective, hoping for one of the three remaining queens to hit the board. Stealthily I scanned the exits, slid out of my seat, and surreptitiously slid my hands…
You know what - I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s backup a bit to a wondrous pre-COVID time (P.C.? Actually, let’s go with a new B.C., before COVID – the old system needs to be updated). I’ve always thought of myself as a quixotic opportunist. Societal deviations from the JVT-ideal are always apparent, but so too are solutions to remedy these purported problems. As my friends will readily attest, nowhere is this more noticeable than my disdain for classical transportation. Mr. Henry Ford may have been a pioneering industrialist, but his success spawned an eternal enemy that has deviously followed me around the world, traffic. When we embark on a four-wheeled vehicular voyage we willingly become pawns to the oh so cruel machinations of fate. A collision here, an interesting sign there, and lo and behold we are trapped for hours on end in an endless desert of metal. Minor movement provides a sense of hope, an oasis of reprieve from the mindless monotony, but alas a mirage! Our thirst for freedom is only exacerbated by the tortuous taunts of pedestrians and bicyclists passing us by…
I’ve been told that nothing breeds creativity like constraints, and in my mind, roads are one of the biggest constraints driving the car conundrum. The skies and seas beckon as opportunistic havens of transportation freedom, yet shockingly remain vastly underutilized. I’m perennially perplexed by the societal illusions of status quo. Why do we shun the call of the wind and the spray of the oceans? Sirens they are not! Personally, it has been a lifelong ambition to cast off the cloak of traffic oppression and establish alternative means of mobility. Sadly, JVT Jet-Skis and Jimmer’s Jets have so far failed to acquire sufficient funding (interested investors - my contact information is on the left! I also have plenty of other ideas).
There is an eternal war being waged in the battleground of my mind between the pragmatist and idealist, with the latter frequently emerging as the victor. The idealist makes no concessions for reality, scoffing at the idea of car ownership and subjecting myself to traffic torture. Naturally getting around has been a lifelong problem. I briefly experimented with commuting everywhere via foot or pedal, but San Diego is a sprawling metropolitan monster that precludes time-efficient transportation via these means. Public transportation you ask? That’s a big fat NOPE here. A better use of time would be spent trying to teach yourself how to teleport. So what’s left then, ride-hailing apps? Isn’t that prohibitively prodigal? Yes… now, but in the golden era of the late 2010’s, Uber and Lyft were only too happy to heavily subsidize the cost. Nine dollars for a twenty-five-mile trip to the poker room was an absolute steal.
But James, you ask, aren’t you still subject to your nefarious nemesis? Has your inner-idealist gone soft? Well, aren’t you a stickler for details? You have the gall to interrupt my story and expect answers to these perfectly logical and reasonable questions? Fine, but just know that you are treading on the thinnest of ice. To answer your questions, I’ll paraphrase the words of Captain Jack Sparrow, “Yes to the first, no to the second, but only so much as we keep to the shallows as possible.” Confused? Good, that’s what you get for interrupting. My good-natured disposition though is getting the better of me and I guess I can forgive your transgression. Let me attempt to eloquently expound.
Passively passengering around represents a rare reality compromise from my inner-idealist, though it was only reached after months of deadlock with pragmatic insurgents. The great Animus Accords of 2018 can be colloquially summarized as “If I have to sit in traffic best have someone else do it too.” After all misery loves company. Why suffer in solitude when tandem incarceration is an option? You can annoy your fellow prisoner to your heart’s content and rarely suffer any meaningful repercussions. Or so I thought…
And so it was that I found myself, one fateful late March afternoon waiting for an Uber Pool from La Jolla to Oceanside (Uber Pool was the epitome of transportation subsidization – it’s an absolute travesty it ended…). After a quarter of suffering under the yoke of CSE 282 tyranny, I was free at last! No more would I be subject to the egregious ignominy of pop-quiz style discussion questions masquerading as disruptive learning. I had cast off my oppressor with aplomb and was eager to return to Texas. Wait, that’s confusing, let’s Willy Wonka style strike that and try again. I was eager to return to the poker room and pick-up where I left off a few months prior, playing my specialty as a poker player: No Limit Texas Hold ’em.
Casinos are designed as psychological labyrinths devoid of windows, well-being, and time (until you step outside that is…). Knowing this was likely my last opportunity to battle with the fierce fiery morning star, I lay on the sidewalk, basking in the sun and reveling at its potent power. My vitamin-D photosynthesis was abruptly cut short in the form of an abrupt unexpected eclipse, a compact crimson Toyota Prius casting a shadow upon my prone form. It was go time. I arose and entered the back-right passenger seat ready to embark on my poker excursion.
An anomaly met my eyes as I settled in. The dimensions of the already tight seating quarters seemed compressed beyond all reason, as if an extension charm had gone awry. My meager muggle mind immediately discounted this as a possibility and a search for the cause of this phantasmagorical phenomenon began. Perspective as I’ve been told is everything, but never had I experienced its embodiment in the warping of my visual senses. David, this afternoon’s poker chauffeur, was the epitome of the ironic nickname. Portly, but domineering, or large, but in-charge if you prefer, his presence imposed upon the car, shrinking and shriveling the little remaining space.
In visage he resembled an angry Lord Varys. His attire, athletic: a red Lululemon t-shirt draped his trunk. Cerulean Nike basketball shorts and a pair of obsidian Adidas sneakers rounded out the ensemble. The discrepancy between his outstanding outfit and his not necessarily svelte size was a striking peculiarity that warranted probing. As a scientist, unresolved peculiarities perturb me, gnawing away at the foundation of my being. Ever the intrepid explorer and eager to resolve this personal destabilizing divergence, I tactfully probed my driver, learning from previous impudent inquiries (e.g., When I was four year old tyke, I joined my parents on a Costco trip and encountered a similarly stout individual. My insatiable curiosity took hold and I pointed at the object of my interest and shouted, “Why are you so fat?” Certainly not one of my prouder moments…).
“Beautiful day,” I said attempting to spark a conversation with David. Curiosity aside, this had the potential to be a long journey, and, in case it wasn’t abundantly clear before, I find the tediousness of traffic aggravating. Unexpectedly I received an animated and friendly reply, “Absolutely – it’s been gorgeous today. In fact I just finished up an outdoors Yoga session down in Mission Beach.” The mystique of mystery was resolved – yoga. Would not have been my first guess. To my surprise, he continued, “I love working out, but given my injuries yoga is one of the few things I can do.”
Ah there’s more to the puzzle I thought, a sequel to the elementary enigma! I grabbed the foothold afforded to me and surreptitiously continued my conversational ascent, “Oh – I’m sorry to hear about that. I love working out as well, and I’ve had my share of injuries, so I can definitely empathize. I actually just recently recovered from a meniscus tear, and I’ve forgotten how much fun punishing leg workouts could be.” “Ah meniscus tears are no fun,” he said, “but I think I have you one-upped. My meniscuses are missing.”
MISSING?!? Where did they go? Did they run away in the middle of the night? Is there an APB out for them? Are they on the Midnight Train to Georgia? Questions abounded, and I needed answers. So I dubiously retorted, “Missing huh – I’m not going to lie that’s a new one. How did that happen?” A momentary glance in the rearview mirror flashed in my direction. A spark threatening to incite a wildfire of rage appeared in his eyes, and then instantly poof – it vanished. Ephemeral in the extreme, I couldn’t quite verify its existence, so I discarded it as an illusion. But his tone suggested otherwise. Lowering his voice a register he said, “Yea, I was a Marine when I was younger. The knees are the result of a paratrooping mishap during a training exercise. At the critical altitude I pulled to deploy my chute, but nothing happened. I furiously pulled for my backup chute next, but I just kept picking up speed. I was out of parachutes hurtling towards certain death and resigned myself to my fate. Then 50 feet before impact my backup chute decided to deploy and caught the air. The monumental jerking force initiated by the drag absolutely wrecked my spine, but also slowed my descent to a survivable speed. I still landed with a ton of force though, which destroyed the cartilage in my knees.”
That’s quite a mishap. Okay, mystery solved then – I’m a clod. No shock there. Where do you go from there though? The questions just won’t stop, and I never put much stock in curiosity killed the cat. And even if I did they have nine lives, so I can afford to poke the bear again. I leaned into my ceaseless curiosity once again, but accordingly amended my tone, “Oof that’s got to hurt,” I said sheepishly. “So what happened next? Did you continue in the military after that or end up transitioning to something else?” A relatively innocent question, one that anyone might ask in the course of a natural conversation. In no way, shape, or form did I expect his response to preposterously pierce my perspective of possibility. To befuddle my bedrock of believability. To blur the boundary between credibility and duplicity. He answered not in perfunctory or plain language, but with a shocking salacious soliloquy, an absolutely stunning story. A remarkable relatively unprompted tale which to this day remains beyond belief and corroboration, despite my many investigations. I give you now The Marine.
“I transitioned over to IT, see I’m in software now,” he said. “I’ve worked for a few companies and have moved around a bunch from Texas to Minnesota, and had a brief stint in Kansas City, Kansas. I’m happy I ended up here in San Diego at the end of it all but let me tell you so there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind, there is nowhere worse in all of God’s green earth than Kansas City.” Well, that’s a strong opinion. I didn’t have time to formulate my thoughts, other than I’ve never been to Kansas or Missouri, before he continued unprompted, “I landed in Kansas City on a Tuesday morning, with nothing other than my clothes and a job. The company was putting me up at an apartment, but I needed a car to get around. So I took a taxi to the closest car dealership in town and bought a brand new car. That’s the first and only time I’ll ever buy a new car.”
I’ve heard that cars can depreciate quite a bit in value after you drive them off the lot. Maybe he learned this lesson the hard-way and got ripped off when trying to sell the vehicle upon his departure? This seems somewhat plausible, but I don’t know if it’s enough to warrant an unequivocal declaration of Kansas City as THE bottom city. “As soon as I drove it off the lot,” he started, and I began to feel my hunch was somewhat validated, “I was T-boned immediately by some woman. I can still tell you what she looks like if you’re curious.” I was, obviously, but his pace of pontification prevented interjection. “My car was totaled! Absolutely wrecked. I exchanged insurance information with Mrs. Its Too Hard To Pay Attention To The Road, and walked to the nearest payphone to make a claim.”
Why a payphone instead of asking the car dealer to borrow their landline? I honestly have no idea. David though had built up some story steam and was lividly loquacious, “So guess what happens when I attempt to make a claim against her car insurance. They tell me she missed the last payment and her coverage is lapsed! They tell me they can’t do anything until she makes a payment! At this point I’m absolutely livid (I guess before then he had taken it well?) but sensed a solution. Can you guess what it is?”
“Uh, ask the lady who hit you to pay her insurance so you could make a claim,” I guessed. “Ha – I tried that! Man was I a fool. She said money was tight and she couldn’t afford to make her car insurance payment. So here I am with a dilemma, either I call my car insurance company and have them get me a new car or figure out a way to rectify the issue with this girl’s insurance. I really didn’t want to go with the first option because I knew it would raise my rates significantly, so I ended up calling back Miss-take’s insurance. After the usual bureaucratic nonsense to get to chat with the right person, I asked them if there were any rules or restrictions against me paying for her coverage for the month. Crickets for about five seconds, until he responded – ‘Um I don’t think so.’ That was all I needed to hear so I told them alright I’m paying for her insurance and then you guys are paying for my new car. I didn’t even give him time to process, I just hung-up.
The rest of my day was spent getting the money to her insurance company, having them reinstate coverage, and coaxing them to start the process of my car replacement. Eventually I trudged myself to an Avis and rented a car to get me through until then.” Okay so that sounds like a bad day (and it sounds like my car theory was pretty close), but again is it enough to warrant a definitive declaration of awful-ness? I didn’t think so. Either way, it was a well-told story, one rich in tone inflections and details. I hope you were amazed.
Ha – you thought that was the story? You think that modestly interesting narrative warrants this whole expose? I’m insulted – that was just the preamble. A necessary novella to set the scene for the main event. He continued, “So by this time it’s 9 P.M. and I haven’t eaten anything other than a pack of way too salty airplane peanuts and stale pretzels. At that time on a Tuesday the only restaurants open were bars, or so I was told by the Avis guy. He gave me directions to the nearest bar that served food, and I drove my rental car over there, and this time arrived at my destination in one piece. Good thing Miss Frizzle was done driving The Magic School Bus. I don’t know how well I would have handled repeating that whole process. I grabbed a seat at the bar and grabbed the bartender by his suspenders (do bartenders wear suspenders? Again no idea – I guess they could?) and told him I wanted a large coke and two burgers with fries. He had barely turned around to place the order when some hooligan puts his meaty paw on my left shoulder and whispered in my ear ‘I thought I told you never to show your face in this place again boy.’”
Animated to the extreme the rate of his words was mimicked by the vehicle’s velocity. We swerved in and out of traffic, the car driven beyond its theoretical upper limit of speed. I imagined we were viewed as a shooting star, a fleeting blur at the periphery of fellow travelers, for they appeared in much the same manner to me. I rubbed my hands over my eyes, attempting to reset my vision to register non-interplanetary travel speeds. But alas, it was not to be. His words were the metronome, the engine the pianist just trying its best to keep in time with his frenetic pace and building wrath. “Okay so it’s been less than 24 hours in Kansas City, I’ve had my car destroyed, spent the whole day dealing with insurance stupidity, which I had to pay for, and now I’ve got some drunk monkey confusing me with someone else. You know what at this point I’m ready for a fight, but I’m not looking for one. So, I calmly turn around and say ‘Hey man, this is literally my first day in this city. You have me confused with someone else, so why don’t you turn around and we can both peacefully get on with our evenings?’
Actually, I take it back he was more gorilla than monkey. Rather than rationally recognize his mistake and turn around, he started to bang his chest and howl at the top of his lungs. I guess this was supposed to be taken as a challenge. His inebriated cronies crawled out of the corners and attempted to look menacing in support of Kranky Kong. Kranks grabs me by the shirt and shrieks ‘I told you get the hell out! You’ve got five seconds before we beat the shit out of you.’ The clock was ticking and apparently this was my final warning, so I issued one of my own before time ran out. I said ‘Listen buddy, I’m a marine and I’ve already had a bad day as it is. If you swing at me, the only ones here taking a beating are you idiots.’”
Calculated Infiltration by Henry Jackman starts reverberating through my mind, its orchestration originating in unison from the boundaries of my consciousness, and I can’t help but flash to Kingsman. Manners maketh man I whispered under my breath, but David failed to notice. If you have no idea what I’m referring to, STOP READING and watch the full video. Even if you do know what I’m talking about, I’d recommend clicking on the hyperlink and watching the full video. No, it is not a referral, and no I don’t get anything out of it. I just want us to be in the same mindset before David arrives at the story’s climax. You know what, I’m going to put the video below too, to make your life even more convenient. Consider this your homework before continuing along this riveting ride. Don’t even think about skipping to the next paragraph without watching!
I’m trusting you here reader. I have no reason to after your rude interruptions and displays of haughty hubris, but I’ve been told I need to be more trusting, so consider this my trust trial. Let’s continue under the assumption that you did your homework. I had a narrative projection, and a score, an ideal which I knew no realistic tale could match or exceed (ah the idealist in his unconscious form – insidiously incessant isn’t he). The Kansas Kingsman has such a nice ring to it doesn’t it? Perhaps, it’s best we indulge in imaginative idealistic inebriation, and assume this is what took place? John Lennon would be proud. But then again, perhaps not. Maybe this one-time reality can live up to our lofty expectations. Well, there’s only one way to find out – I let David continue with his tale. “Naturally that moron didn’t listen, but he followed through on his threat. He took a huge windup and swung at my face expecting an easy target, but I easily caught his fist in mine. The pace of his punch was slower than a leisurely first pitch at a baseball game. Honestly it was pathetic, like a cat leisurely pawing at a ball of yarn. Now it was my turn. I went on the offensive and time stood still. I launched a punch of my own intending to teach these Kansas boys a lesson they would never forget. I easily knocked-out Drunk Mcgee, along with some teeth,” he laughed, “and proceeded to handle his boys who were converging upon me like sharks to blood. Oh they had it backwards. Two of them tried the same stupid lazy-punch approach of their fallen comrade and the results were the unchanged. One punch and bam, out cold on the floor. David 3, dumbasses 0. Kranky had three remaining compatriots and seeing their fallen comrades decided a change of approach was in order. They pooled their collective wits, probably amounting to an IQ of 60, and came up with a strategy: attack simultaneously from different angles. Boy did they regret that. They encircled me and began to slowly shrink the radius until the opportune moment arrived. At last they lept into action. Two attacked from the sides, launching body blows, while one attempted to choke me out from behind. Attempted being the key word.
Do you know what we’re taught to do in the Marines if someone attacks you from behind?” A pause in the story interrupted my vivid visualized reenactment, as I realized this was not rhetorical and he was indeed waiting for me to hazard a guess. We are well outside of my wheelhouse, but I will pose to you the same question. What do you think David was trained to do when attacked from behind? I can tell you that my guess of elbowing the assailant in the abdomen was exceptionally incorrect. Knocking the wind out of your opponent is child’s play compared to what David did next. He flashed me a mischievous grin and shook his head, “Oh come on now – you’re going to have to do better than that. You’re aiming too high. I’ll give you another guess. Go on, I’m enjoying this.” Hmm, lower than the abdomen and easily able to subdue an opponent from behind. The gonads seem to fulfill these criteria, so I proposed a new hypothesis: “Punch or kick them in the balls?”
Now at this point, I must issue some NSFW/parental advisory warnings, in case they weren’t warranted already. If like me curiosity is getting the better of you and you feel the compulsion to continue further, consider yourself adequately warned of potentially inappropriate material to follow. You could turn back now, close this tab, and let your imagination run wild. Maybe they amicably resolved their differences and became lifelong friends. Maybe he smacked him on the leg and said, “Hey stop it” in a funny voice. Either of those could certainly be true. Final chance. Are you sure you want to know? Okay, remember you’re here of your own volition. David, do the thing!
“Oh so close,” he ludicrously laughed. “You had the right region, but the wrong approach.” He happily corrected my mistake, “We’re taught to reach behind us in that area and pull as hard as we can. I’d had a bad day so I might have gotten a little carried away and the details kind of blur here, but next thing I know I have this guy’s dick in my hand.” …WAIT WHAT!?!?!?!?! He ripped off the man’s penis! Are you f-ing kidding me? I take it back, this guy is not Varys, he’s Gregor Clegane, The Mountain (not for the squeamish – this one is extra credit). Alright we are WAY off the Kingsman estate. Mr. Jackman’s scintillating scores have abruptly stopped, my mind employing all its cognition to imagine a post-pull scenario. A situation that I can only imagine played out something like this:
The rest of the story is relatively tame. Knocking out the remaining two terrified assailants and a few bold others who attempted to restrain him before the police could arrive. Going home burning his clothes and moving to the other side of town the next day, disregarding his employer-provided housing. All child’s play. Apparently, the headline in the local paper the next day was MYSTERY MARINE HITS BELOW THE BELT. I’ve spent countless hours looking for this game-changing article, but sadly my search has been in vain. I hope you the reader meet with more success than I did if you attempt to track down the truth of the matter.
There are a million questions that came to my mind upon this epic’s conclusion, and I’m sure you and I share quite a few of them. However, the one that stood out among the rest in the moment was what happened to downtrodden dick-less? Did he ever get the chance to reattach it, or did my driver keep it as a memento of his time in Kansas? I attempted to get to the bottom of this mind-blowing mystery, while realizing that this probably wasn’t a bear I wanted to antagonize. “So what happened to the guy, who you know, yanked it from,” I asked. “Do you know if he was able to get it reattached?” “Oh there’s no chance of that,” he laughed maniacally, before proceeding to turn around, WHILE DRIVING ON THE HIGHWAY, and impishly wink at me. Yea he kept it. In my mind there is no doubt. I imagine he uses it in a multitude of manners. A Christmas tree ornament, a fireplace fixture, a good-luck charm - the possibilities are endless.
It was at this point that I sensed David perceived a kindred spirit in myself, though I can’t imagine why. Maybe it was my curiosity – I needed to know the details regardless of personal price paid, though, as I’m sure you can imagine, the perceived costs rose dramatically as I realized the stakes for which we were playing. “You know what,” he said, “feel free to tell that story to whomever you want. It’s past the statute of limitations, and it’s hilarious.” Hilarious, maybe. I guess it depends on whom you ask. You and I probably have a different perspective than senor sausage-less. At least I was granted permission to tell this tale by the genital genie himself.
David had other stories to recount, alternate opinions to share, but those are topics for another time. Let’s fast forward to our arrival at the poker room. As we pulled off the exit, a smirk of recognition crossed his face and he asked, “Wait are you going to the poker room? I love this place. I used to play here all the time.” UH-OH. I formulated a precise perfunctory “yea” praying he wouldn’t feel compelled to join. A yearning for nostalgia, exacerbated by the alluring siren song of success that many a gambler has fallen victim to, was too entrancing to be denied. As he dropped me off and I thanked him for the ride and the stories, he said “Oh it’s not goodbye yet, I’ll see you in there.”
Okay deep breath. In, out, in, out. The probability of us playing the same stakes, AND sitting at the same table, AND finding myself in a high-stakes all-in situation was infinitesimal. Yet probability in a casino, like time, always seems warped. As some prominent poker players state - math has to happen, and sometimes you can find yourself down a branch of the probability tree you didn’t think existed. So naturally this was the exact situation in which I found myself in. A high-stakes all-in situation with a man who revels at the thought of cock collecting.
So let’s continue where I left off long ago. Where was I sliding my hands in the event of a pyrrhic poker victory? Well that much should be obvious at this point – downward, to form a makeshift cup. Even if he took it well here, safety is never an absolute state of affairs. He knew where I lived - after all he picked me up and drove me here! The flop and the turn were more than less than unhelpful adding to my overall equity. “Stupid deck,” I mentally monologued, “do you not realize the stakes of the situation? You better not toss me in a poker equivalent of the Chamber of Secrets. How did I end up like Gilderoy Lockhart, ‘When I took the job, there was nothing in the description about…’” A fantastic flourish caught my eye, awakening me from my internal mental spiral, the final card was about to hit the board. “Come on James”, I thought, “think mini-me thoughts - QuEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEn!” Here’s the thing about poker. Despite desire or overwhelming odds, one’s fate truly can hang on the turn of a card. Poker is an agent of destiny and judgement, masquerading under the guises of luck and probability. Like David, during his parachuting mishap, I resigned myself to fate in the form of a potentially lethal enemy. But sometimes parachutes deploy when you least expect it. Sometimes miracles happen. And sometimes they happen at the poker table in moments of despair. A glorious queen of clubs hit the board - I lose! Ebullient internally but restrained externally I congratulated my friend on a hand well-played. As he raked in the pot, his glower morphed into a grin. The storm clouds on the horizon divinely dissipated, replaced by open skies of euphoric bliss. This was a time to revel, to reap bounties, not sow chaos. David looked at me and laughed. “I got lucky on that one,” he said, “but good thing I have my lucky charm with me,” which he followed up with a conspicuous wink. “Okay good-luck charm,” I concluded. Kansas memento morphed into magic lamp. I guess it’s plus-EV to rub it, but I can guarantee you that is not a strategy I’ll be emulating, genie or not. Either way, it’s good to know something good came out of his trip to Kansas City. Maybe that place isn’t so bad after all…
THE END
Hey, you made it to the end! Did I make you laugh, or at the very least smirk? I really hope so - I’m of the opinion that we could all use a little more levity in our lives. If you enjoyed my tale and story-telling style, stay tuned for my next article. Perhaps I’ll figure out how to use Twitter and announce the topic and ETA there. Perhaps I’ll create a poll, to query areas of interest to you the readers. Hmmm… well both of those seem Twitter dependent – okay well I guess until I find a better way of communicating with you, my esteemed audience, follow me on Twitter?!? Man did I never expect to type those words. Either way I’m excited to get started on my next narrative.
Finally, if you want to expedite my writing process and reduce the wait time until the next article (or just want to say thanks), I humbly request you consider donating to the JVT caffeine fund. As a lifelong student, coffee is my signature sustaining staple, a magical potion concocted to provide power and inspiration to conquer even the most daunting deadlines. Until we meet next rapacious reader. Thank you for spending some of your day in The Library. I hope it was time well spent!
James
