A nightmarish coffee maker debacle in Cayucos

September 7, 2025

Editor’s Note: The following series, “Life in Radically Gentrifying Cayucos by the Sea,” to be posted biweekly includes the notes, thoughts, and opinions of an original American voice: author Dell Franklin. 

Franklin’s memoir, “The ballplayer’s Son” and “Life on The Mississippi, 1969” are currently on Amazon.

The other morning, my all-time favorite deluxe coffee maker I purchased for $10 (it retailed at $100) at the local thrift store finally died after many years of excellent service.

Nonplussed, as a person incapable of leaving the house without a heaping cup of java by 7 o’clock, I secured my reserve, a Mr. Coffee stop-gap and put it to work; but the damn thing heated up, croaked, and instead of spewing coffee into the pot, it filled up the bowl and overflowed, making a mess on my counter and kitchen floor, throwing me into an instant panic, sparking rage.

A firm principle throughout my life has been to never purchase new appliances for my kitchen. There is no reason to do so when thrift stores are everywhere, especially in affluent areas like San Luis Obispo, Morro Bay and Cayucos, where people drop off quality items.

I’ve made one concession—a can opener. The simple can openers one uses by hand are simply worthless these days (even the more expensive ones) and so frustrating to twist and turn, that after several exasperating failures they usually break and I toss them all away, and so I broke down and bought an electric can opener at the hardware store.

Otherwise, my blenders, toasters, microwaves, coffee makers have been purchased at thrift stores, and most especially the thrift store in Cayucos, where I have lived for over 36 years.

Anyway, after mopping up the mess, I grabbed both coffee makers and took them downstairs and tossed them viciously into my trash can.

Later, after driving to Cayucos Coffee downtown and purchasing a coffee for the price (including dollar tip) of what I expected to pay for a new coffee maker, and going through my usual morning ritual of browsing through books and magazines and listening to the Dan Patrick show on radio, I showed up at the local thrift shop and sized up several coffee makers on shelves in the front room.

I spotted a Braun, always a good brand. It was one of those more solid-state productions with various buttons for timing and whatever. It was $8 but at half price $4. I took it home and put in the coffee and water and hit the on button and it did the same thing the stop-gap Mr. Coffee did, overflowed the goddam bowl and made a mess!

I was furious. As I walked down the steps with the machine on my way back to the thrift store, the glass pot fell out, crashed on my cement stairway and shattered. I went back in the kitchen and found an old Mr. Coffee pot and placed it inside the machine, spilling water all over everything.

Back at the thrift shop, I returned the Braun and picked up a large-size Mr. Coffee with several buttons. The ladies refused to charge me. They were closing. Back home, the Mr. Coffee came on but refused to work. It wouldn’t even heat up.

Now I had to face 48 hours without a coffee machine since the thrift shop was closed the next day. I was again forced to get my coffee at Cayucos Coffee, where I informed the coterie of old wastrels I usually hang out with of my coffee machine nightmare.

They were all sympathetic.

When I finally showed up at the thrift store with the defunct Mr. Coffee, the woman at the desk pointed me to the back of the store where I ran into the lady who runs the place, perhaps the most efficient, resourceful and helpful person on earth.

I explained what was going on—three straight failures with coffee makers, something I’d never experienced in 36 years. What the fuck’s going on?

She walked me to the front and pointed to a pink Sunbeam coffee maker with extra buttons.

“Try that one,” she said. “Maybe pink will be your lucky color.”

The ladies all laughed as I toted my pink machine out.

I took it home and filled it with coffee and water and turned it on. The on light came on but nothing happened. I fiddled with the buttons. I tried it on another outlet. It didn’t even make a sound! I was gritting and gnashing and grinding my teeth. The idea I might have to go another morning and even more days of doling out $5 for a morning coffee and be driven from my morning agenda had me wanting to kill.

It wasn’t even the money now, it was the principle, and the fact that going on 45 years I had never been deprived of a coffee maker for more than a day.

I returned to the thrift shop with the Sunbeam just before closing and the ladies all observed immediately that I was unraveling and ready to go straight to Schooner’s Wharf and tie one on. They were all somewhat startled at my wroth and haggard appearance.

“Four goddam failures in a row!” I exclaimed. “Who’s bringing in broken machines?”

The lady in charge was calm. She always is when I’m pent up like this. There were only two coffee machines left on the shelves. I started for the Cuisinart, a sort of deluxe with buttons.

“No, not that one, Dell.” She shook her head and went to a small cheap looking Proctor/Silex with only an on/off button and took it down from the top shelf and handed it to me just as the lady at the desk announced to everybody in the store that they were closing.

The ladies were so nice. They wanted no money. They just wanted me to have success with a coffee maker so I wouldn’t kill myself.

But I was up against it. If this one didn’t work, I had to come back next day at eleven o’clock sharp for that Cuisinart. But the simple cheap old Proctor/Silex worked. Though I don’t usually drink coffee after one in the afternoon, I, by God, had some after three and it was so good.

Afterwards I cleaned up the shattered coffee pot on my stairway and mopped the kitchen floor.

The fallout from this experience has not vanquished. I was so throttled that I stayed out of the Cayucos Thrift store for over two weeks, and when I finally went back feeling pretty sheepish, the ladies were still concerned about my emotional state, so much so that the lady in charge led me to the back room and donated “their” coffee maker—guaranteed to work—and threw in a T-shirt I scavenged from a pile.