I took the doses early in the morning. It’s recommended to eat something complementary, but I couldn’t spend a lot of money—already dishing bills on the damned drug. I always sat down and opened my laptop, put in my earbuds, and played some downtempo electronic music. The music was necessary; it really drived the stimulation. And guess what I would do. I’d type. I would open an empty Word document, and tap through keystrokes like a jittery crack-head.

 

It started the same way you start any drug: because your friends are doing it. I used to hate the smell. My mom was an addict. Her car reeked after using—somewhat acrid, much like bad breath. I didn’t see her a day without the stuff. So when my friend R was cookin’ it up in his dorm room, I had to step outside for a cigarette. Halfway through my smoke, R stepped out front and held a demitasse in each hand, and said: “You looked tired—made enough for you.” I wanted to turn him down, with reproach even, but—I don’t know. I just wanted to fit in.

 

It was my first cup ‘o joe.

 

Back then, I still wasn’t enthusiastic about the dark, earthy beverage. It had its ups and downs—quite literally. The bitter, caustic taste went well with a morning cigarette, at least back when I smoked. Both were hot in the chest, the pain that felt so good, but I still felt it had stained my dignity, following the crowd of the over-abused stimulant—I tried using only reluctantly.

 

Eventually, I fell victim to everyday dosages. I told people it helped me get through the mornings, as if mornings were unbearable without. It wasn’t until a few years after my first cup of coffee that I attended my first coffee house with a friend. It was a small local shop, just off the border of the college campus, hung with local artists’ paintings, and ambient synths with mellow beats coming from speakers. I saw a lot of attractive individuals, a lot of peers. They wore skinny pants, and sleeves of tattoos, and glasses that covered a lot of face, with septum piercings, and smiles. They were all smiling at the people making coffee, who were smiling and chatting right back. When I was next in line, I saw a fish bowl full of ones and some fives, and a girl asked, “What can I get started for you?” She was noticeably not wearing a bra under her slinky tank. I shrugged my shoulders and she said, “I know just what you need,” and rang me in for a cappuccino. I paid and tipped a dollar in the fish bowl.

 

After waiting some minute or two, another tall skinny girl wearing large-frame glasses called me forward and handed me a coffee drink. It had a white foamy heart framed by a bubbly brown. I looked up and smiled at her. I looked for my friend, and passed tables of people with Macs, every one of them surfing Facebook. An interesting use for a Mac, I remember thinking. I found my friend R who had found our friend T and we exchanged questions and ideas with his answers. Some hour later, yet another friend found us at the coffee house. It was as if all my friends were here, as if we were in my living room, but with some strangers, and the din coming from the bar.

 

After the first coffee house visit, it was gameover. I spent slews of cash on the exorbitantly priced foamed milk and espresso. It wasn’t until I started going alone with my laptop to write, that I officiated myself as a dependent addict. I became a regular. I sat with the other regulars. I even started dating a braless, large glasses, skinny jeans, tattooed and nose pierced barista. I had three or more cups of coffee or espresso a day. I would wake up after a restless night, stop at my local coffee shop, and start my day. Later that morning, I’d grab another, and again in the afternoon, just as a treat. Consequently, I wouldn’t sleep all night. What I had used to keep me up in the day, kept me up all night.

 

The remedy had become the poison.

 

This was all within the small, nurturing town of F______. There were more small coffee shops than there were kingpins. As a young, rebellious twenty-something, I abstained from the bigwigs, but when I moved to D______, Starbucks seemingly employed half the city—one day I found myself inside of one. And again another day. And then again. While sitting at one Starbucks, I could see another a block away through the bay windows. The walls were bleak, with the same art in every store. Each outlet felt modern, but almost too much so, so that the air felt thin and cold, like at a hospital.

 

The crowd at Starbucks was different too. Business folk. Real city professionals, all dressed up, and all of them dependent on that ground bean. Everybody seemed to be short with the baristas, as if they thought they were better than them. They got paid more. They were more important. It wasn’t their fault they were running late to work, it was the barista’s fault, because they take too long on pouring one cup of coffee. At Starbucks in D______, nobody seemed to want to leave a tip, as if the baristas were just street rats, beggars. The customers seemed to speak a dialect of English-Italian: “Grande misto, please.” Everyone wanted something very unique to them. They didn’t care how many calories went into their drink, as long as they got their drink now.

 

I wasn’t like these people, though. I tipped my baristas. I had patience. I was polite. My coffee wasn’t more important than the people making it—or so I wanted to believe. It happened at a Starbucks on a morning that I hadn’t had my coffee yet. I had ordered something for friend, and the barista must have misheard me, or I may have made a mistake. “I said Black Tea Lemonade!” I vented. “This is just tea—No—I don’t want to pay for the extra lemonade. I said lemonade. Just—make it right.” I told off a Starbucks employee. I was just like the city business folk: snotty, impatient, and short-fused. I felt miserable, but I got what I wanted.

 

I really just needed my coffee, needed my fix.

 

It’s been a long time coming. I’ve learned to keep pretty hush about it. I don’t let it interfere with work or relationships. No one knows about my little addiction—as long as I go to different shops throughout the day. I’m at L______ now—don’t worry, it’s low-key here. They make the best coffee drinks—the hippest place I could find. I tell myself every morning, “I don’t need a coffee,” but I want it. I’ve come to terms with my dependence. Coffee is one of the finer things in life, a luxury. The smell, nutty and earthy, and the taste like the darkest chocolate, a trace of citrus. I want it to warm my hands on a cold morning, and to speed my thoughts in a pinch. But the best thing about coffee—oh, the cute coffee shop girl is coming over—

 

-No Recovery

EJL