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“No, wait,” I say, growing desperate. I can feel Gab watching a few feet away. “It’s not the blend,” I continue. “It’s … I think we’re going to make a change.” There, I said it.

Willy Loman puts down his pen.

“Change?” he says. “People don’t like change.”

“Yes, I know. But sometimes it’s necessary.”

Willy Loman stares at me, his expression hard but neither as angry nor as disappointed as I had feared. He simply looks determined. He has sized me up and knows what I amount to, and I realize then that he won’t go without a fight.

“I get it,” he says, “you don’t have to explain. But may I ask you something?”

I nod, bracing myself.

“Is the coffee not selling?”

“No, it sells.” This is the truth. CaféAmerica makes money.

“Well, then why change? Why change if you’ve got a winner?”

Now it’s time for the speech, which I spent considerable time preparing. Without insulting CaféAmerica or demeaning those who enjoy it, I simply try to tell him what I perceive to be the truth: when it comes to coffee, people’s tastes are changing. And they don’t want Donut Blend or Brown Gold anymore. Unfortunately, I’m too worked up to speak coherently, and Willy Loman has the good sense to just stand there listening as I exhaust myself flailing around. Finally, when I’m done, he says:

“Okay, let me ask you something else. Are you looking for something higher in quality?”

“Yes,” I answer truthfully, and it feels so good to say that, because I think that maybe Willy Loman understands after all, and we can part amicably. “If that’s what all this is about,” I imagine him saying, “why didn’t you say so? Our coffee is terrible! Everyone knows that!”

“Then maybe you want to try our gourmet blend,” he says instead, pulling a brochure smoothly out of his breast pocket. My spirits plummet again.

“You have a gourmet blend?” I ask. “What’s it called?”

“Gourmet Blend. That’s its name. It’s made from all imported beans. Highest quality, roasted professionally. I’ll just put you down for four boxes and you can decide for yourself if you prefer it or Donut Blend.” At that point Willy Loman hands me his clipboard and smiles professionally. “See?” he says. “That was painless.”

At this point, seeing me about to cave, Gab comes over.

“How’s it going?” she asks cheerfully. Willy looks at her as if a snake has just slithered in.

“Give us a second, wouldya, honey?” he says, muscling a thin smile around bared teeth. “We’ll be done in a second.” It’s his first slipup in an otherwise flawless performance, calling Gab “honey,” and Gab, I can tell from experience, has just decided that she is now fully licensed to extract Willy Loman’s heart and feed it to him.

“Can I see that?” she asks, taking the clipboard from my hands. “Okay now, let’s see here. Hmm, interesting, sixteen-month contract, binding. Hmm, interesting, eight boxes a month, about twice as much as we need. Hmm. Can I see that pen?” She starts drawing big X’s though the first paragraphs in the contract, then through the middle ones as well, then finally through the entire document, leaving only a pathetic little clause at the very end entitling CaféAmerica to give us a single complimentary box of Gourmet Blend.

“Here you go,” she says, handing the clipboard back and looking at me. “Sign away.”

Willy Loman looks at me furiously and departs in a huff. We never see him or CaféAmerica again.

A FEW DAYS later, the first delivery of Houston Brothers arrives, along with a brand-new coffee machine and some new coffeepots. Suddenly I’m nervous. What if the neighborhood hates Houston Brothers? What if they don’t think it’s tasty enough or eco-friendly enough or loaded with enough caffeine? Change, change, change— why change if you’ve got a winner? Indeed, why? Are we visionaries or merely stupid and greedy? Adding to my anxiety is the fact that other changes are taking place at the store. For example, Kay recently decided to stop selling Colt 45 after deciding that it wasn’t worth the trouble. In addition to the