Perfect

I had just moved to Los Angeles and was living with my friend Chris in his apartment in Venice. It had been a rough year for me. That spring I’d had a bit of a breakdown after my brother and I had quit doing our sketch comedy show and were trying figure out what to do next. Should we go back to college, do two-man standup, audition for plays? No option seemed better or worse than the other. There was no right answer. We ended up heading to LA to write screenplays because we had to do something.

Every day I’d make coffee as soon as I was up. One morning I was up before Chris and standing in our little kitchen, having just scooped my first spoonful of coffee grounds. I paused before dumping them into the coffee maker’s basket. I noticed that my spoonful was comprised of tiny, individual beads of dried coffee. That meant, theoretically, there was a correct – a perfect – number of grounds to make the best brew. What was that number? How could I know? I stood paralyzed, lost all at once in that simple daily ritual.

I opted to add fewer grounds that morning, and fewer the next, and fewer the next. One day, Chris awoke, wandered in for his fist cup, picked up the pot, examined its contents, and commented, “Bill, this is so weak it’s the color of tea.”

To my own surprise, I barked, “It’s fine the way it is!”

Chris apologized and poured himself a cup. I stood there hearing the echoes of my words in my head. I never got mad at Chris. I looked at the coffee in the pot; it was the color of tea. What the hell was wrong with me? I added more grounds the following morning – without counting. Let it be too weak or too strong. We’d drink it anyway, and make another pot the next day.

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William KenowerWriting, Success, William Kenower, PerfectionComment