It takes seven scoops of grounds to make coffee- eight if you’re making Bustello, which you should always make first. A lesson I learned the hard way after feeling a sweaty hand slink onto my lower back my first day on the job. Word to the wise? He whispered in my ear, The Bustello people usually show up first. You’re making that Dunkin for nothing. 

So now I always make the Bustello first. Eight scoops in the filter. I have the whole process written down on a hot pink sticky note taped to the inside of the faded lino-wood cabinet above the machine- so I don’t forget. Turn the burner on, the note says, fill the reservoir with filtered!! [double underlined] water, slide plastic holder with ONE filter full of grounds into slot, wait. Then Coffee time!

I don’t know why I make the coffee every morning. It’s not my job. I’m an Editorial Assistant along with two other guys, Gregory and Matt, and neither of them make coffee. Neither of them really do much of anything besides take angry phone calls with prospective authors and play solo ping-pong in the rec room. They’re both exactly the same- Twenty-seven and White with dark hair. You’d think they coordinate their Vineyard Vines outfits every morning- but they don’t. They actually never speak to each other- or really anyone else. They’re granted the beautiful liberty of independent silence in the office. Their inter-office disputes are handled discreetly over email or not at all. The only people who yell at them are not on payroll.

So it was an entirely alien concept to them when Dan, one of the Editors, came over to our cube my first day red-faced and hot-blooded over the lack of coffee in the kitchen. 

Did you know, he started in on me, that we have been open for two full hours and for two full hours both coffee pots have been stone cold and empty? He let each word slap hard on the ground between us, his obviously Irish face flushing fast with red- like a cartoon kettle about to squeal. 

I’m so sorry, I said back to him, confused about why this complaint was being brought to me, can’t you make yourself a pot? 

Can’t I make myself a pot? He tossed the words back at me mockingly, spit flecking against my face. 

She’s not the Office Assistant, Dan! Ben, the bearded, heavyset man from the design team shouted towards him from the back of the room.

But I bet she knows how to make some fucking coffee! Dan barked back without breaking eye contact.

He would’ve lost that bet. I’ve only drank coffee one, maybe two times in my life. I don’t like bitter things. When I used to get ready for high school in the mornings, I would sometimes make my dad a cup- but we had a Keurig so the whole process was really nothing more than pressing two buttons. Sleek and automated. Impossible to mess up. 

This seemed a lot more involved. The machine in the office kitchen was ancient- rickety and humongous. It took up the entire counter to the left of the fridge, looming over all who passed it.

I stood in it’s shadow for the longest five minutes of my life googling different variations of How to make coffee/ How to make coffee in old machine/ Where to put beans in old coffee machine/ How many beans for good coffee, terrified of each passing second that the pot sat empty, until the Office Manager finally crept over from his desk and taught me how to make it.

I don’t mind making it now that I know how- and that upsets me. I know I should feel indignant. Four whole waves of Feminism have shouted at me to stand up for myself, call out unfair treatment when I see it, tell men to make their own coffee- but Dan’s shouting was louder. His disapproval is more immediate and more palpable than the invisible generations of women before me.

That and I’m 21, the youngest in the office and also the only woman- so the cards are kind of stacked up against me. I want really badly to fit in and to be successful and all the old maxims have taught me that in order to do that I need to work hard, to grind, to do anything and everything that I possibly can to get ahead. If you think you’re too big for small jobs maybe you’re too small for the big jobs echoes in my ear. The problem is, I can’t tell the difference between ‘cutting my teeth’ and just plain cutting me down. 

So I make the coffee every morning. Fifteen scoops all together. Turn the burner on. Wait for the pitcher to fill up with (filtered!!) water. Ignore Marc from Accounting innocently “picking a fuzz” off the back of my skirt. Slide the filter holder into the slot. Apologize to someone for something. Wait… and Coffee time. This is my dream job.