The rich dark perfume creeps around corners, rolls down the hall, and fills the room. I straighten up, internalizing the call, and stumble forward using my hands to guide me toward its rhythmic splashings. I bump, claw and stub my way down the hall. Pictures swing and scrape against the wall, as I blindly find my way through the corridor. I rub my eyes in hopes of gaining clarity. It is calling me towards the brighter rooms where shadows can’t hide the sparkle of dust in the air. Unshaven, a rumpled shirt and skivvies askew, I drag myself toward my goal. My mouth feels like it is full of cotton as I breathe in the bitter embracing taste.
Squinting my gritty eyes, I stare at the incompetence before me... half full, yet obnoxiously half empty. I am tense from being forced to wait. Mumbling to myself, but without a comprehensible thought or a clear verbalization, I ponder my options. Should I commit this ultimate sin? The dull pain begins to fill my head, the need, the desire for its embrace once again. The addiction grabs me by the throat, twisting my thoughts, as I hear the thickness of my blood bouncing in my head. I decide to risk being chastised, glared at, and verbally assaulted.
With a quick glance around, I grab the vessel of life, my holy grail for the day, and watch the rich thickness pour into the once pure white pottery, staining and spoiling it. I replace the once heavy vessel, knowing that I have now weakened its contents. The allure is strong, but its power is now a mere shadow. Its next visitor will know what I have done and I worry about her rebuke. My nose is drawn deep into the circular depths of the cup. Then I sip cautiously, allowing the bitterness and power to fill me. My awakening occurs quickly with those first few sips of coffee.
The swift switch from tea to coffee transformed how we Americans interact with our favorite hot beverage. With coffee, we lost the tradition of a casual cup of tea and a biscuit at eleven. A time to relax and visit, to talk with our peers, and to discuss matters of the day. The early Americans had continued the tradition that all work stopped for the activity of enjoying tea. Then we switched to coffee, an antidote for our caffeine craving minds. With it came the coffee break. A designated ten-minute time for people to gulp a quick cup and go back to work. Gone were the biscuit and the formal serving of the beverage, the sipping and nibbling as we lounged. The china was replaced by the clumsy mug; lacy etching replaced by crude jokes, pictures, quotes, and cartoons like Dilbert on the side. We raced to get our cup of mud and were transformed forever.
Now, like most, I rush into coffee shops that have sprung up on corners and in parking lots, fluorescent lights blaring their efficiency with the simple words “drive-thru window.” A plain cup of Joe isn’t good enough for us anymore. Waiting in line with my fingers tapping the steering wheel, my turn to pull up to that magical window finally arrives. I begin my order, “I need a tall double decaf mocha Java...” Then continue, trying to muster as much male intonation as possible, “ and while you’re at it, throw in a triple shot of espresso.” I grab the cup, secretively sprinkle on some chocolate shavings, and double check to make sure the lid is tight. I personally don’t want to have an embarrassing McDonalds incident, with the obligation to somehow explain a steaming crotch. I race off to my busy life, hoping that this drug will make the difference to my sleep deprived body. Gunning my car as I sip and talk on my cell phone, I pass a multitude of cars and squeeze into my place in the traffic jam. Passing the accident that caused the backup, I can’t help but notice the coffee stain on the victims shirt. Scoffing, I indignantly guess it was a decaf problem.
I hurry on to work for a refill and time to be spent gabbing with coworkers, the coffee mugs in hand declaring our personal attributes like “best dad.” We sneak away from our tasks throughout the day to refill our cups and reorganize our minds, the loss of time and efficiency acceptable as long as I am pouring or adding condiments to my cup. It is not the camaraderie and conversations of my coworkers that I crave, it is the truthful relationship I have with my best friend, the coffee machine.
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