The Magic Blender

I wrote this short story about a year ago while thinking about Aesop's Fables and Mother Goose nursery rhymes. Today, they are just simple stories we tell our children (or don't tell them, who knows what parents do now that they can let the Wii and Nickelodeon be the teachers), but when they were written they were very relevant and important to teaching moral lessons. I wanted to write a modern tall-tale, something light and folksy, and this is what came out of that process. 

The Magic Blender 

One day, Phil went to the flea market looking for some sort of valuable, undiscovered treasure. Phil considered himself a normal guy, a true American, with a good job at the bank, a few close friends and condo where he lived alone. As he navigated through the tables, covered with little trinkets, clothing, and other various junk, he happened upon the booth of a frail, old, Pakistani man.  Among the common riff-raff, he spotted a blender. There was nothing special about it, but Phil loved to mix himself a drink and figured he could save money on the protein smoothies he usually bought after his workouts, so he inquired if the blender worked.

            “Oh it works,” the vendor said, starring Phil down, “perhaps a little too well. Be careful! You had better know your limit, if you plan to purchase.”

            Phil did not understand, but offered the strange man five dollars and took it home.

            The next morning, he woke up early to make a fruit smoothie before work. He filled it full of frozen and fresh fruits, milk, and juice then turned the dial to puree.  The blender worked fabulously. In only a few minutes, Phil had a fantastic, chilled beverage for breakfast. He unattached the cylinder from the base and poured the purple contents into a cup. Raising the glass to his lips, he inhaled the fresh scent of blackberries and bananas and took a sip. Immediately he detected something odd. He sipped again. There was definitely a hint of a strange, but recognizable, flavor. He took a large gulp and, with his eyes popping out, realized there was vodka in his smoothie.

            Not quite sure how that had happened, Phil emptied the concoction down the drain. He was running late for work, so he simply brushed the smell out of his mouth and left, figuring he would solve the puzzle when he returned home.

            That night Phil arrived anxious to investigate the mystery. He meticulously scrubbed the blender with soap and water, which he admittedly should have done in the first place. Then he got out the exact same ingredients to see if they had fermented or been tampered with, maybe as a prank by his friends, but everything appeared legit. So he blended them up again and, sure enough, he tasted vodka. Perplexed, he pulled some non-alcoholic margarita mix from his cupboard, grabbed some ice and dumped them into the appliance. He watched the spinning blades crush the cubes of ice and combine the yellow liquid with the icy fragments. He stopped the blender and swallowed the innocuous drink, discovering that it somehow contained tequila.

            Repeatedly he tested the machine, unable to understand its powers. He blended strawberries, lime juice, sugar and ice for a virgin daiquiri, but it was filled with rum. Pineapple juice plus coconut milk made a delicious Piña Colada.  Mint leaves minced with sugar, ice, and lime juice created a stiff Mojito. Even drinks that normally didn’t require blending yielded alcoholic results, like tonic water and lime, which produced an excellent gin and tonic. Mixture after mixture, the blender added liquor.

After staying up all night experimenting, while getting drunk in the process, Phil slept through his alarm and had to call in sick to work. He had a massive hangover, which he conveniently cured by blending V8 with a little Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, ground pepper and squeezed lemon for a tasty Bloody Mary that gently relieved his headache.

Of course Phil was thrilled by his new discovery and invited all his friends over for drinks that night. Obviously none of them believed he had a magic blender, but he shocked them all when they arrived, producing an intoxicating drink without using liquor. He even placed bets with each of them, proudly taking their money as they stood gape-jawed and baffled.

That whole week he partied with his friends, getting plastered every night and even some days. People would bring over different things to blend and Phil would happily provide them with a stiff drink. 

All was going well until his boss, tired of Phil’s repeated absences and unprofessional behavior when he did show up, told Phil the bank would have to let him go. Broke and jobless, Phil had no idea how to make the payments on his condo, but one friend had a brilliant suggestion: Phil should open up a bar with the magic blender.

It was so obvious. Without needing to buy any alcohol, Phil could afford to have lower prices than his competition. He set about making all the arrangements; he sold his condo and used the earnings to lease a venue, he renovated and redecorated, filed the necessary paperwork to get the permits, and opened in a month. His buddies even volunteered to work for free, provided they receive complimentary drinks.

Needless to say, the whole ordeal was a huge success. People so appreciated not having to pay for overpriced, watered-down drinks that they didn’t even mind having to wait a little longer for them to be prepared. Curious about why the servers only seemed to take one order at a time and why no liquor was visible except for beer, the patrons began to inquire into the bizarre nature of the pub. It didn’t take long for Phil’s drunken friends to spill the secret, prompting all in the area to visit the bar and see for themselves the famous Magic Blender.

Each night was a raging party at the bar, making it the most popular spot in town. Phil imbibed plentiful amounts of alcohol, befriended tons of regulars, met many beautiful women, and made more money than he could spend. His life was superb, like celebrating Mardi Gras every day.

But unbeknownst to Phil, trouble was brewing with the bartenders all over town, who were jealous of the Magic Blender and Phil’s success. They were always in competition with one another, but with standard charges reflecting equal costs, they considered it to be fair and civil. Phil’s lack of ethical prices left them furious. They met one night, while all the rest of the townspeople were at Phil’s pub, and reviewed their situation. They agreed that they needed to remove the magic blender, but could not decide who should get it. Each man pled his case and discussed the possibility of sharing the device but when no arrangement could be settled upon, they knew it had to be destroyed.

Later that night, almost into the next morning, after all the booze hounds had passed out, the bartenders crept into the much hated bar. They found bodies sleeping in every corner of the pub, lying on tables and on the floor, alone and in groups, but silent save the snores like chain saws.

Phil snoozed behind his bar, under the counter, curled in a ball. He didn’t even stir from his unconscious state as the men smashed the magic blender to pieces then crushed the pieces to smithereens. They also stole the cash from his register and safe, figuring it was fair retribution for him stealing their customers. They divided the money and snuck out as easily as they had entered.

Groggy and haggard, Phil awoke in desperate need of a mimosa. Unfortunately, he found the remains of his blender scattered on the ground. The till on his register was open, as was the door on the vault. He had been robbed; his livelihood demolished.

Phil was simply confounded as to how a thief could swindle him in a crowded bar without anyone noticing, but waking his friends took quite the effort and he realized they were even more gone than he was. None of the people in the building had any clue what had happened. Phil went around town, asking the proprietors of other bars if they had been targeted, but they all said they had not, seeming peculiarly smug about it.

With no blender and no money, Phil had no choice but to shut down his bar. The customers were upset because they enjoyed the atmosphere and prices at Phil’s place and begrudgingly returned to the other taverns to get their buzz.

Disheartened and broke again, Phil returned to the flea market months later to pay the old Pakistani vendor a visit. When he reached his booth, Phil told him how the blender ruined his life. He was jobless, poor, lived in a boarded-up bar, and had developed an addiction to alcohol.

“I tried to warn you, young man,” he replied. “I told you of the power. But perhaps I have just the thing for you, my friend.” The feeble man lifted something from the floor behind his table. It was a plain drip coffee pot, nothing distinguishing about it. “This will make the strongest, best-tasting coffee you will ever drink. Only five dollars.”

In no time at all, Phil’s bar was Phil’s Café, with the owner rushing from table to table, scrambling to serving his inexpensive cups of coffee to impatient, jittery customers.