Black As Midnight On A Moonless Night

My problem started early.

In high school, I slept in the backyard, in a boat house. That might sound odd, but allow me to elaborate. My family had a boat, briefly––a terrible financial decision made by a stepfather in the throes of a midlife crisis, but it didn't last long, and once we got rid of the boat, my stepfather set to work drywalling and wiring the boathouse, converting it into a detached home office.

Once my mom got rid of my stepdad, I made his former office my bedroom. And it was glorious. Sort of.

To a fifteen-year-old, the freedom of rooming in a converted boat house was thrilling, though I promptly realized I lacked the responsibility that came with the privilege. Every evening I'd bid my mother goodnight, walk across the lawn to my room, close the door, and party all night. It didn't matter that it was just me and my cat kickin' it to Rob Zombie until 4 AM. It felt like I was breaking every law in the book.

Inevitably, I was a zombie every morning at school. I failed algebra because I couldn't stay awake. One morning in English class I dozed off, then woke up twenty minutes later to the entire class (including the teacher) staring at me, and was informed I'd been having a very loud nightmare about Gremlins. Clearly I needed to take matters into my own hands, and that's how I became a regular at the school coffee shop.

It fixed everything. Suddenly I was alert and chipper all day long. How had I gone fifteen long years without knowing the restorative virtues of coffee? There was no going back. And that was precisely the problem. I became thoroughly dependent on my morning coffee, and the issue progressed well into college. I became a coffee person, one of those insufferable douchebags who laments, "I simply don't feel like a person before I have my morning coffee, you know?"

I briefly kicked the habit one summer in college while working at a coffee shop, of all places. Something about serving lattes all day makes you despise any and all coffee products. Unfortunately I only managed to replace one vice for another, and my trial separation from coffee merely led me into the arms of another hot beverage: tea. And that was even worse. Tea people are significantly more annoying than coffee people, and I somehow found myself falling in with the tea drinkers at work, perhaps because in a coffee shop, drinking tea is the only way to rebel.

Sadly, tea never offered the same kick as coffee did. Soon after leaving my barista job I found myself under the control of coffee once again, and there was no turning back. I am now a 24-year-old slave to the Java Monster, and he is a cruel tyrant. At this point, it's become such a problem that it's the first thing I think about when I wake up.

I am by no means a coffee snob. I'll drink whatever dirty mudwater you sling my way, but I have settled into my own little routine. When I'm away from Portland, the one thing I truly miss is the coffee shop across the street from my apartment building. Nobody else seems to make my cup quite right, and there's one barista in particular that brews it exquisitely. There's something a little ...off about her, something I can't quite put my finger on. My roommate once told me he's convinced she immigrated here from Cuivienén, which he subsequently informed me is the eastern land of Middle Earth where the elves originated. I then slapped him in the face and told him if he ever spoke Nerd to me again I'd put him in the ground.

That said, I think he might be right.

I know brewing coffee isn't difficult per se, but the coffee I receive from her is always a cut above, and watching her work is a magical experience.

I like to imagine Elf Barista received her magic powers a millenium ago, long before fair trade was an issue, when nobody knew the difference between Arabica and Robusta.

I rarely stray from Elf Barista. I imagine most addicts find a dealer they like and then stick with them. Especially in Portland, where the coffee snobbery can be oppressive, I dare not deviate from what I know. I did so once, and the results were disastrous.

I found myself late for work one morning and stopped in one of those miniature hole-in-the-wall coffee joints. I was in a hurry, so without glancing at the menu I ordered the most harmless, universal drink I could think of.

The barista was not having it.

I haven't gone back there.

Begrudgingly, I've resolved myself to being a lifelong coffee drinker. I suppose at least part of it is mental, but if slurping down bitter brown sludge is what turns me into a productive member of society, then so be it. Miley Cyrus probably needs like 4 lines of coke just to get out bed every day, so it could be worse.

At least that's what I tell myself while I'm rubbing coffee grounds into my gums just to get a fix.