Michael Gravel Edmonton Writer

A Neutral Coffee

Damn thing with owning a heart condition: Along with sugar and any kind of fat, caffeine is a no-no. That means the daily shot of black with 2 and 2 (and much else for that matter) is out. A large cup filled with medium roast used to be my morning – it was the spur in my side. Now, I’m reduced to the unleaded shite that the elderly and four year olds drink. Christ. Some days I think, I could do a tea. I should do a tea. I could order a mint special with a twist of milk and maybe a dash of syrup. I could do that, but coffee says morning. Coffee says out of bed and comb through the hair and beat the day’s drums already. Coffee says New York and those little blue cups. It says Steve-O-Reno’s Cappuccino on rain-toked Spring Garden Road in Halifax. Does it say winter-hit wind howl on Japser Avenue in January? Yes.

Is there anything more pathetic than standing in line for eight minutes only to order a decaf with milk and sweetener? Why bother, you might ask. By my count, that’s not even real coffee. The answer is that rituals don’t die so easily. I’m not getting the caffeine and sugar blitz that I used to but I’m still in step with my day. I know the day is lit when I’m off the bus and into the comfort buzz of the cafe. It’s the taste that keeps me there and I like to pretend, so I make like my stilted paint is the real brew. I cradle the cup between my hands like a newborn’s skull and take short, solid sips. The taste is almost there. What’s missing is that caffeine click – the hook in the throat that says I’m about to be smacked. I miss that. Like I miss cheesecake and boilermakers. A guy’s gotta have some indulgence (or what’s the point of the toil on this godforsaken pebble), so on occasion I get a decaf 2 and 2. That’s a boatload of cream and 7 teaspoons of sugar. It’s a blue moon thing. Once every six weeks perhaps, I’ll order up a full-bore version with all the heat and sweet. Then I’m buzzing like a coked puck.

If you see me waxing pathetic in a lonely corner of a cafe, hands askew around a cup holding nothing but flavoured, balless brown water, give me a nod and grant me the slack that I need to enjoy my day. Have some compassion for a former ‘feine head. My heart thanks me. I’ll thank you.

Entry #90 · June 1, 2008 in