Well, one of them is attempting to conclude its relationship with its rim and is slowly going through a divorce process. Like a worthy marriage counselor, once a week I blow a little air at them believing, I suppose, that this will hold them together. As they are on a tight budget, I compress a $15.00 repair session into something remedial for the time being; a little helpful advice from a friend.
I don't think they're listening to me. Bias-ply insists she can't take Mr. Rim's hard-as(s)-steel attitude without letting off a little steam. Three weeks more, maybe a month or two, and I just know the relationship will go flat.] and I cruised high speed to the shopper's mall. Maybe I'd run across someone there who would end my quest for caffeine. I'd smoke a few home-rolled cigarettes, nonchalantly check the scene. Surely I'd run across someone with the knowledge.
Was I wrong or was I wrong? And I was told this mall was where it all happened! As soon as I hit the mat which beckoned the electric door to bid my welcome, I knew my chances were slim. Not one styrofoam cup, sticking with the good to the last drop, no caffeine, to be seen. No idle shoppers lounging in the rest-seat section sipping hot hefty brew. No hint in the air of the savory aroma I was familiar with and craved. No sugar crumbs or empty creamos at the hotdog counter either. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zippo. My pulse quickened.
What was I to do to quench my desire for delirium previously established in Vancouver when I conquered pre-packaged-factory-filled grind and advanced to the fresh, wishing-you-could-eat-it-by-the-handful, in front of your face, straight from the coffee bean capital of the world, 2-B-GROUND-by-U, grind? Trippa-tripping past each store, my vision blurred.
And I was now afraid. Every muscle in my body tightened with expectation of the unknown. The walls began to whisper, and reflections in window displays now appeared to drip in a slow methodic hysteria. Fluorescent lengths of cone-shaped and naked coffee filters began to wind their way along the pattern in the floor. I seriously began to feel a sensation of heat on the flat spot of my forehead, this same sensation I had felt long ago as a child when I was hopping step by step down the stairs to the basement and decided to jump the last length by four stairs instead of three, not realizing the archway was lower at that point just before the cement floor began. I don't remember the sound my head made when it hit the archway or even when it hit the cement after my legs flew out in front from under me. I do, however, remember the heat.
This heat was the same. My God, I thought, this can't be happening! I was going into withdrawal! And I fell to my knees, clutching at my throat. They were going to see me, they were going to get the jacket I hated so much. They were going to call the CWVA brigade (Caffeine Withdrawal Victim Assistance) and strap me away. The heat, the HEAT.
I dragged myself ahead, my fingers clutching at the air and madly tearing it to ribbons. No, no, no! P-l-e-a-s-e! Caffeine, I need caffeine! Got to have it. GOT TO HAVE IT. P-L-E-A-S-E!
I've got to stop drinking coffee. Ever since I discovered that if you combined 1/4 Irish Cream, 1/4 Mocha Java, and 1/2 pure Columbian coffee beans, then grind on medium, that TA DAH! you would arrive at a wonderfully robust and exemplary cup of heavenly brew....and then entreat your brother-in-law to drink it with you, why, there is absolutely no better time than now to throw back one or six cups.
But I've got to stop drinking coffee.
It's the coffee. Yup. I did eventually find a small health-food-slash-bulk-food slash-store-slash-outlet that had just decided to start selling specialty coffee beans. And experiment I did, always on the quest to replicate that which I left behind in B.C.
Some time has passed since this story, but when I've been back visiting my sister, I have brewed up that coffee just for my brother-in-law. We brew, we sit, and we reminisce that first discovery of fresh ground coffee in 1987 Saskatchewan. It's true how some good times can be reminisced over a cup of coffee. Memories of Coffee Memories. Nonetheless, memorable moments.
Oh, I have gifted him with the coffee, and with a copy of the story, but I think he likes it better when I make the coffee for him.