Coffeehouse Confessions

I knew I had a problem. I just couldn’t admit it.

Sure, I’ve done your marijuana, your crack cocaine, your LSD, your Nyquil shots, your heroine laced with Mr. Plumber, your airplane glue (both gel and liquid form) and your standard list of multi-colored pills chased down with a fifth of Jack Daniels, but this thing is different. This addiction is unlike all those others. This is actually dangerous.

Yeah, you guessed it. I’m talking about drinking coffee.

Those of you who drink gourmet coffee on a regular basis, and by “regular basis” I mean more than three gallons a day, would probably argue that a fancy cup of Joe is not actually a drug at all. But then again, you’re probably over-educated and over-stimulated and unable to think clearly with all the java running through your blood.

I know, I’ve been there.

For me, it began in college. I had friends who would hang out at seedy little coffee houses with seventy five different flavors of java to choose from and drink cup after cup of the brown stuff until they’d come home late at night, jittery and shaking, barely able to operate the darkness selectors on their Mr. Coffees.

Once they got things percolating again they would continue on the bean binge until the wee-hours of the morning when they would realize exactly why they’re called the “wee” hours, if you catch my drift. Still hopped up on caffeine these addicts would see who was more messed up by trying to do stupid things like threading needles, playing that damn wooden block game or, the wildest stunt of them all, actually trying to sleep.

I resisted for a long time. My friends would invite on their binges: “Come along, Tom. It’ll make you feel good….feel good…feel good…” their voices would trail off. Me, I was content with my regular nightly habit of two, sometimes three, cases of beer a night.

But it was bound to happen. One night they said they were going out to a bar. I tagged along, only to find out too late that it wasn’t a good old-fashioned-music-blaring-people-dancing-dark-and-smoky-drink-until-you-go blind-and-fall-over sort of beer bar, it was a softly lit-teeny tables room with impossibly uncomfortable chairs where you listen to some pony-tailed-amateur-guitar-guy-with-his-amp-too-loud coffee bar.

My friends sat me down, ordered the first round, and began talking about South American politics. I was bored, but indulged them. I sipped at my Tall coffee, which was really a fancy name for a small coffee. I finished my Tall and replaced it with a Grande which was then replaced with a Supremo Grande which was later replaced with an Ultimo Supremo Grande which was replaced by La Bucket which led me to the Men’s Room where I spent the next half hour staring at the same four tiles. By the end of the night I was twitching like Superman with Parkinson’s disease and having spirited conversations about rainforests and BMW’s and the Indigo Girls with the rest of my coffee guzzling friends.

The next night I went out again, and soon it was a habit. We’d celebrate every time a report came out extolling the health virtues of regular coffee consumption. And when some doctor in some Norwegian hospital published a report claiming coffee’s benefits may be overstated we’d all gather and denounce his findings and call him a tool of “the man” and discuss ways to kill him and his family.

We were like Apple Computer fanatics, except, you know, we were sane.

But I was still learning the lingo. I was still only a beginner. To me “latte” was what you were when you overslept, “cappuccino” was where the Swallows returned to each year and “espresso” was some new way to send a FedEx package.

I began hanging out in coffee houses more and more. I studied the bizarre chemical formulas needed to make these potent drugs and I got to the point where I would tell the coffee jerks how to make my drinks.

“I want the tallest Mocha Lotta Iced Thai International Blend you got!” I’d demand. And before the look of terror could even spread across the poor counter kid’s face I’d be screaming,
“Don’t they train you?! All you do is mix in three squirts of mocha, two ounces of Brazilian Tango beans, four ounces of Venezuelan Vanilla beans, one teaspoon of boiled 2% goat milk, three eyes of newt and top it off with a generous supply of pasteurized homogenized Swedish whip cream which immediately melts and overflows the cup.”

But I couldn’t continue like this. I began to suspect I had a problem when I looked at the calendar and realized I hadn’t slept in over three months.

I started filling two liter bottles with coffee so that I’d have something to drink on the walk down to my local coffee house. I was constantly in need of a caffeine fix, and I had to admit that I’d become one of those regulars who liked to mix their own “special blends” for that added kick that only an addict can handle.

I’d walk into coffee shops and demand that I be allowed to make my own: “Give me a 16 ounce ceramic cup, a solid silver spoon, a #4 cotton coffee filter, 8 ounce of water at 180.3 degrees Fahrenheit, two ounces of the ground African Afternoon, four ounces of the Tandori Tango, three ounces of Madagascar Midnight and a syringe… and give it to me NOW!”

“But sir… that’s… 17 ounces for a 16 once cup!”

“Dammit, man! With the right amount of coffee I can bend the laws of physics!”

Eventually even my own blends weren’t giving me the full high-octane effect I’d grown to love and need, so I turned to the hard stuff: chocolate covered coffee beans.

These little Rabbit Droppings From God eliminated the wasteful practice of diluting your coffee with water. It’s the perfectly efficient caffeine delivery system. Just chew a few and ride the high.

One particularly wild night when I was popping coffee beans discussing Al Gore and exclaiming, “I can fly! I can see through walls! I can hear my heart beating!”

At that point a friend turned to me and said, “Tom, we can all hear your heart beating. The guitar guy just asked you to turn down the drum machine.”

Fearing for my life, I stopped cold turkey that night. I had to.

I had faced death…and his first name was ‘Juan’ and his last name was ‘Valdez.’

Sure, I got the shakes, but they were milder, and less teeth rattling than the shakes I got after a night of triple-mocha espressos. And sure, I still miss my Democratic-tree-hugging-stocking-cap-wearing-coffee-junkie-friends. But I’m taking care of myself now. I’m getting plenty of fresh air, doing a lot of deep breathing and going outside a lot more.

After all, it’s the only place I’m allowed to smoke.

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