by Jesse Millner
I didn’t start drinking coffee until I was in my early thirties.
I’d get up in the morning and brew in an old steel pot, then pour it into a
“Virginia Is For Lovers” cup with a bright, red heart on it. The final touch
was a shot of Jim Beam, which helped ease the caffeine jitters. After a couple
cups of java, I’d be a wide-awake drunk.
There was something really beautiful about those drunken mornings.
I lived in Chicago and on those cold winter dawns when everything smoked, when
the sky was dark blue and frigid, during those hours the weather outside
matched the desolation I felt inside in those frozen fields of my body.
I’d sit by a living room window and sip my coffee as my wife slept and an
occasional car slipped down Addison Street. I loved the taste of the Maxwell
House and bourbon, the bitter burning brew.
By the winter of 1986, the drunken mornings had stretched out for
years and the shot of Jim Beam flavoring my coffee had become two shots, but
the extra bourbon could not stop my hands from shaking, could not stop my first
wife from leaving, could not keep me from losing my job.
In March of 1986, I was admitted to Chicago’s Alcoholic Treatment
Center, a free program located in an old hospital building next to the Cook
County Jail. I shared a cubicle with five other men. I had the cot closest to
the north window that overlooked a wall with barbed wire at the top and
intermittent guard towers.
The worst thing about treatment was the coffee: it was
bourbon-less, for one thing. And worse, they only served decaf in the treatment
center cafeteria. I’d sit around with the other lost souls, drinking the bad
coffee, talking about the mess we’d made of our lives. One man had shot someone
in a drug deal gone bad and had just been released from prison. Another was a
Guatemalan man whose union-organizer brother had been killed and who’d believed
he would be next. He’d fled to Chicago to escape the murderers but hadn’t been
able to leave his craving for booze behind. We sat up all night around green,
Formica tables drinking decaf. We told our tales of disappointment and despair.
And drank more coffee.
After two weeks in treatment, we were allowed our first visit to the
outside world. We were taken in vans to a Saturday morning AA meeting on
Milwaukee Avenue. It was held in a big room over a dance studio where aspiring
Polka dancers from the surrounding Polish neighborhood perfected their
art. It was a breakfast meeting and there was a big buffet offering eggs
and bacon, pancakes and the like. But best of all, there was real coffee. I ate
a huge breakfast and drank three cups of coffee. I listened to people talk
about their struggles with booze and their happiness about being sober. There
was also a raffle at the end where several lucky winners won free passes to an
upcoming AA dance.
After not having real coffee for two weeks, the effect of the
caffeine was miraculous. I felt clear and happy. But my hands shook the whole
ride home.
The early days of my sobriety were defined by coffee. Every AA
meeting I went to had coffee. It usually tasted pretty awful because it was
made by volunteers who were new to sobriety. To this day when I smell a cup of
coffee brewing, I think of AA.
Twenty years later, I drink coffee every morning. Good, expensive
coffee. Usually organic. My second wife, who’s only known me sober, sits at her
computer in the next room, sipping a black coffee.
We met because of coffee. When we were both in graduate school in
Florida, we attended a writer’s conference on the Panhandle, and my future wife
was a graduate assistant who received free tuition in exchange for making
coffee for the various workshops. The first morning of the conference, I
encountered her in the kitchen of the house where my poetry class was to be
held; she was looking quizzically at a bag of Starbucks and a coffee filter.
I asked her if she needed help. She said, “Yes, I really do.
I’ve never made coffee before.”
I looked at this beautiful woman whom I’d seen around school but
never talked to and got really nervous, so I simply poured the coffee into the
filter and added the water without measuring it. The coffee turned out
really strong. The people in the poetry workshop complained. My future wife and
I went out for coffee the next morning at a nearby restaurant that overlooked
the Gulf of Mexico. It was one of those bright Florida mornings when anything
seems possible. We drank coffee and laughed at the “Sunshine State” placemats
which showed Disney and mermaids and oranges. A year later at the same writer’s
conference we got married.
Now I’m remembering the name of the restaurant: The Wheelhouse.
And I’m even remembering our waitress’ name, Frankie Day. She was having
husband trouble—her man was an alcoholic who’d disappear for days at a time,
then check in from some small town in Alabama, or Georgia, or somewhere else
within the Bible Belt. He’d be broke and hung-over, asking for money to
get home with. Wiring money, like ending a sentence on a preposition, is a
risky business, and Frankie was fed up with the dude, and I told her I didn’t
blame her.
My wife had pancakes. She always had pancakes for breakfast. I had
pigs in a blanket with a side of hash browns. The coffee was lousy but I
enjoyed it anyway. I’d been sober for about a decade and I wanted to tell
Frankie that there’s always hope. I didn’t. Instead I flirted with Lyn, and we
laughed about the bad smell in the joint. We came to call it “The Cat Piss
Restaurant,” instead of The Wheelhouse.
All these years later, I still love coffee. It wakes me up, helps
clear away those very tangible cobwebs that linger from sleep. I see a horse
running across a Kentucky pasture; I see my first wife crying when they turned
off our electricity; I see drunken winters in Chicago, so cold the earth and
sky turned blue; I see again the treatment center and taste the decaf; I
remember those first sober days when I ran along the lake; I see Florida; I see
my second wife, Lyn; and I see the stain and drip of years of coffee on my desk
this morning, a sort of tattoo that reminds me of where I’ve been, where I’ve
dreamed, and the meanings I’ve made of both.
Jesse
Millner’s poems and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in
the Florida Review, upstreet, Conte, River Styx, Pearl, The Prose Poem Project,
Tinge, The New Poet, Cider Press Review, Real South, The Best American Poetry
2013 and numerous other literary magazines. He has published six poetry
chapbooks and two full-length collections, most recently Dispatches from the Department of Supernatural Explanation (Kitsune
Books, 2012). Jesse teaches writing courses at Florida Gulf Coast University in
Fort Myers.
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