you know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
That morning cup of coffee.
Getting out of bed is hard enough.
That first step on the floor, the shift of weight to both feet, that momentary equilibrium differential, it is disorienting.
Will I fall, is there something to hold on to?
My eyes are open, but there is a film across the view finder of your morning.
I wipe the sleep, but it is forged in the corner of your eye like a barnacle stuck to the hull of a sailboat that hasn’t left the dock in a while.
The walk down the stairs is that of an old man whose legs are different lengths. I have a kung fu girp on the banister, that is all that’s keeping me from face planting.
The wooden floor is cold on my feet. Why didn’t I buy those remote controlled slippers I saw in Sky Mall Magazine?
There on the counter is the object of my morning affection.
Mr. Coffee. It is smooth and jet black, inviting.
I toss the filter loaded with old grounds in the trash. It is the first symbol that reminds me yesterday is gone and today is shining through my window.
I open up the Starbucks bag and my nostrils breathe in the symphony that is morning.
Shake a healthy amount of finely ground gold into the basket. Not too much, don’t want to go to the emergency room with a sweaty heart attack, but enough, just enough to jolt my day into gear.
I push the little green button and the sound of the morning commences.
The little plastic receptacle chugs to life with a humpf. It sucks a gulp of water and bellows a huff of steam. It is the little engine that thinks it can as it begins percolating a rumba of coffee splendor that will soon have me dirty dancing in the kitchen.
I turn on the tv and catch a glimpse of the news. Overnight killing. Accidents on I-65. The morning crew are amped, joking about the weather guy. They will soon be eating hot tamales at 6:45 am. I feel nauseous and push away.
I stop and listen as the little Mr. Coffee machine begins to rumble with liquid rhythm. It sounds like Neil Pert of Rush banging the drums in a synchronized array of sprinkled star dust.
Shower. Shave. Dress.
I walk down the stairs with renewed confidence. My nasal passages are suddenly met with an inviting aroma that makes my head dance with the thought of sugar plum fairies on Christmas Morn.
I look at Mr. Coffee and he is filled with a black gold, piping hot, ready for consumption.
I pull my trusty mug from the shelf and put in the requisite amplitude of sweetener and creamer.
I grab the little pot shaking it’s handle like an old friend’s hand, who I haven’t seen for a while.
The steam floats into my face like a warm blanket. The vapor of caffieinated brew is causing my mouth to water.
I pour the Joe into my mug. I watch the delicious black current swirl across the white creamer in an explosion that would make Salvador Dali smile.
The inside of my mug resembles a tiny sun created from a Starbucks bag, churning upon itself, mixing the morning components of existence.
This cup in my hands is suddenly the liquid monolith of knowledge and I must push my tongue up against it and evolve.
Using a spoon I stir the life preserving brew, mixing the liquid and granulated sugar into a smoothness that satisfies.
My hand feels the warmth. My nose senses the aroma and my brain is ready for the jolt it craves.
This is the moment that only a junkie knows.
The syringe is loaded, the bong is full, the glass filled to the rim with something 80 proof.
This is the moment that a man addicted to something must have and his senses are curling his toes forcing him, compelling him to ingest it.
If coffee were illegal, if I were in Appalachia, if I had to make coffee in a rusty still and huff it through a pipe, I would still do so.
I raise the mug to my lips and suck in cool air with the liquid.
It burns my tongue ever so slightly, but the rush of cool air helps neutralize the forest fire I am about to consume.
Sugar and cream and a punch in the back of my esophagus. It’s all there, just like I want it.
I swallow and follow the track of the caffeinated train roll down my throat into my stomach.
I am a pot bellied stove in a log cabin of morning delight.
If Abe Lincoln was drinking with me right now, I believe he would say “Four Score and Seven Years Ago our forefathers brought forth upon this nation a bean so enticing, it contained the power of life.”
I can feel the warmth of this concoction like warm embers in my stomach.
My eyes dance with renewed possibilities and my heart picks up the pace.
It’s a shot of legalized crack as my body almost immediately responds to this co-dependency of satisfaction.
I slurp in another delicious mouthful. My tongue and teeth are now acclimatized to the temperature aberration.
Swish, swallow, ahhhhh.
Soon the cup of coffee is a memory.
I am checking email with one hand, making a turkey sandwich for lunch with the other, thumbing through a stack of bills with a third hand.
And there is the beauty of coffee. It makes you think you have three hands. It allows you to do things in the morning that you just ordinarily couldn’t possibly do, like walk up stairs, or remember where your car keys are.
I jump in my car, my travel mug firmly in it’s circular holder. I merge into life and see other zombies with their morning mugs, firmly affixed to their free hands, not far from their lips.
I smile, and caress my little travel mug of percolation.
And I think to myself, Thanks Morning cup of coffee. Thanks for being there when I need you.
And a special thanks to the DEA for not making that morning cup of Joe illegal, otherwise there would be a lot of angry zombies roaming the Earth.
And that is crazy.