The Idiots

It’s a standard coffee machine in the PIA cafeteria. Nothing complex. Six buttons, all clearly labelled in both English and Arabic script. Espresso, mochaccino, the usual.

Abdulmohsen, a colossal monoglot from one of my “advanced” classes stands in front of this machine and simply gives it a thousand yard stare.

I say monoglot… I’m not at all sure he commands mastery of even his own language, though. I say “advanced” but these students at the upper echelon of the PIA’s four-tier structure are, with a bare handful of exceptions, unable meaningfully to communicate in English.

A minute elapses.

For some reason people stand in line here. This, in Saudi, is as common as hearing a man speak positively about women, slightly rarer than seeing someone successfully reverse a car into a space roomy enough for a coach.

There is movement. With demonstrable difficulty, this pathetic specimen of humanity raises a finger so fat the knuckles are invisible. He presses the writing rather than the button.

Thirty seconds.

A light must come on in his head, that hackneyed moment of clarity.

He turns, flashes me a winning grin, and forcefully stabs the espresso button.

Scalding coffee gushes out into the unprotected tray.

“Teacher…why???”

“You need a cup, Abdulmohsen.”

Where did you think the coffee would go, you stupid fucking fool?

Six hundred small Styrofoam cups stand proud against the machine.

“Ahhh!”

He carefully selects one as if all those foregone contain an IED.

I’m unable to remain and witness the conclusion to this debacle, a variation upon which I see unfold several times each day. I have coffee in my office so opt to do without my triple morning shot from the machine and head out and upstairs.