I am an addict. There, I said it.
I didn’t really know I was one until this weekend. I flew in from the other side of the country. As such, I didn’t have any coffee. I never drink coffee when I fly because I know I will end up having to pee like a racehorse as soon as I get on the plane. And since I won’t use the restrooms on the plane because of that whole hit turbulence, get my butt stuck in the seat thing, I just will make do without coffee.
I didn’t have coffee on Sunday either, largely because it was Easter. No, I don’t have some Lenten-based ritual about not drinking coffee on Easter. I was just in a panic mode because right-winged Christians seem to own the major department stores, so they were all shuttered to honor the arrival of the Easter bunny. I never got around to stopping for a cup of the roasted bean.
As all Seattle addicts know, we need to have a daily infusion of coffee to keep us alive. We don’t even type blood A, B, AB or O here. Instead we Lr, Mr and Dr blood types. Yes, Light Roast, Medium Roast and Dark Roast. IVs are administered via large urns, not wimpy little plastic bags.
But back to my addiction. I didn’t know I had one. That is, until I started to get a horrible headache. Yes, that headache, the one that pounds in your skull, like the clapper on a bell reminding you that it’s coffee time.
I can cut it, I thought. No biggy. I’m a Seattleite, I can take it.
Well, I couldn’t. As soon as I arrived downtown I gave in. I roamed the streets bleary eyed, looking for a fix. In Seattle, there’s a dealer on nearly every street corner. They peddle their goods right out in the open. They even post big signs that say Tully’s and Starbucks. They draw you in with the smell of a French roast wafting out of the building like popcorn in a movie theater.
You catch a wiff and you want a spliff. OK, so it’s not pot, but a pot of coffee, and it comes pretty damned close. When you need a fix only one thing will do and you’ll do anything to get a hit.
I know because I did. Yes, I went to Starbucks. I know, me in Starbucks. That, my friend, is an act of desperation and obvious addiction. I was standing behind a woman who obviously didn’t think she was addicted. She was still dabbling in lattes. Me, I went right for the gusto – a big ass cup of dark roast, black. I wasn’t messing around.
Three hours later, I finished that cup. It’s not because I like to languish over a good cup of coffee and relish every nuance of the roasted bean or contemplate the roaster’s artistic technique. It was because, as we all know, Starbucks’ coffee was heated on the surface of the sun. If I were to drink it at the temperature they serve it, it would burn a hole right through my gizzards and I would look like a coffee maker… drip.
The headache went away. I was satiated. Then a co-worker wanted to go get a cup of coffee. Fine I thought. I could use another hit. So off we went.
We ended up at Top Pot Doughnuts. Scoring a hit was the farthest thing from my mind by now. I didn’t think twice about getting a cup of coffee. But there they were – fresh, handmade maple bars – the kind I used to have torrid dreams about in Florida, which doesn’t seem to know anything about a great doughnut.
“I’ll have a medium coffee,” I said. As the clerk turned, I blurted. “And a maple bar.” Yes, my second addiction. Here I was, a block and a half from the office, and my two favorite things in the world (well, foodwise) were in one place.
I grabbed the doughnut and coffee and walked back to the office. My coworker and I talked about the usual things, I’m certain. I’m not really sure. All I was thinking about was that doughnut, how the maple frosting would melt in my mouth, combining with the dougy goodness of the doughnut itself, all lovingly crafted by a master pusher who knew how to make me swoon with the perfect balance of sweet and salt, soft dough and delectable maple. Sigh!
I am not too proud to admit that I am an addict. I will somehow learn to live with it, soldier on in this world of ours, secretly looking over my shoulder for another chance to make a score.
Yes, I am from Seattle. I am an addict.
Out in the Emerald City, looking forward to another hit this morning.
– Robb