I apologize for my prolonged absence, but I’ve been shocked by the horrors of war. A battle has been waging in the office I now call my work home, a battle which began long before I stepped through the door, and yet the combatants have forced me to take sides.

What divisive issue could force these otherwise gentle people from their important work of promoting public parks and publicizing the comic exploits of Morgan D’Organ?

Flavored coffee.

On my first day, the young lady who had been temporarily filling my position was showing me the ropes. Toward the end of that day, she decided to show me how to order supplies. She mentioned, in low tones, that we needed to order… coffee.
Despite her attempts to keep the topic private, one of the young people who work here came bounding down the hallway from across the office, barely rounding the corner to the reception area in his haste to make sure he caught us before we hit the “send” button on the online order form.

“As representative of the flavored-coffee drinking contingent,” he regally declared, “and there are more of us than you realize,” he added conspiratorially, looking around to see who was listening, “I demand to have my opinions heard!*”

With a resigned sigh and a slight eye-roll, she turned the screen towards him so he could view the flavored coffee offerings. He rubbed his chin, considering his options, and finally decided on Gloria Jeans hazelnut. Satisfied that he had done right by his constituents, he then turned to me and asked with hope in his voice, “Do you like flavored coffee?”

“No,” I said. “But I support your right to add flavorings to your coffee.” His eyes darkened a bit; apparently, the flavored syrups had been tried and rejected by the flavored coffee brigade. My comment had reopened an old wound. He stepped away, warily eyeing me as he headed back to his desk.

So far, peace has prevailed so long as the flavored fans put their coffee in their own, labeled carafe. But the long-unused bottle of toasted-marshmallow syrup sits on the counter as a reminder of past unpleasantness.

*I don’t remember exactly what he said. Something more like, “I want to pick something, too.” I don’t remember.