Phil Elmore: Individual Authoring Services

Thermos Fondler
16 May 2003

As my wife and I sat in the café of a local bookstore, sipping cold Chai and Mocha Freeze and enjoying the literary ambiance that can only be had in coffee shops attached to bookstores, my wife identified something I found disturbing.

“That man behind you is fondling the thermoses,” she said.

Indeed he was. A middle-aged white man, wearing a tank top and shorts, was moving from insulated mug to travel cup, from thermos to aluminum decanter, touching and stroking each one while doing his best to incur repetitive-motion injury opening and closing each lid. He seemed in no rush to complete this task. It seemed to him, in fact, that it was not the destination of thermos selection but the journey of thermos testing he relished. I pictured him spending his days in some sort of Zen-like in-the-moment awareness, massaging ceramic coffee mugs and resting his face on empty juice boxes during his otherwise empty days and nights.

My wife told me that she did not know if any column could truly capture the oddity that was the thermos fondler, but I nevertheless make the attempt here. We watched in fascination as he queried the coffee-serving counter person about his prospective purchases. He seemed, as my wife indicated, very displeased with the function of the lid on the otherwise acceptable thermos on which he seemed to have settled. In the course of his questions and demands he asked the counter person her name. She told him it was Roxanne. I can only hope that she lied. I can only hope that she tells all prospective coffeehouse stalkers that her name is Roxanne, when it is in fact anything but Roxanne.

Perhaps “Roxanne” allowed the fondler to substitute one lid for another. It’s also possible that he bought the thermos, telling himself that the wide variety of aftermarket lids available through specialty thermos suppliers would surely include a lid behind which he could throw his most enthusiastic support.

No other customers found the fondler’s behavior odd. I wanted to stand up and chide them for their apathy. I wanted to stride over to the thermos fondler and confront him with his strangeness. “You there,” I wanted to state boldly. “Just what is it you think you’re doing?”

It occurred to me, then, that I did not know what answer to that question might conceivably be correct. Would I accept as reasonable the explanation that only the best insulated thermos keeps the aliens from transmitting unwanted commands through lattes and lunchtime soups? What if he had no answer and could only share my horror at his thermos compulsion?

In the end, I chose inaction, watching the thermos fondler nervously as he sat at a table across the café. My wife had some shopping to do at another store and expressed concern for my well-being if she left me alone with him.

“What if he decides to stalk you?” she asked. “What if he asks you your name?”

“It’s Roxanne,” I said.