I buy cheap coffee.
I love coffee. I mean, who doesn’t? And I’m a writer. Who would trust a writer who doesn’t drink coffee? I love coffee so much that I worked in a café for about a year. I had daily access to organic, locally roasted, freshly brewed coffee everyday. It kicked off a serious coffee addiction.
My former boss is a generous woman. She never minded if the employees sipped on a cup of coffee during a shift. All she ever asked was that we be reasonable. She is classy and witty, and has fantastic hair. That’s why she was unsuspecting as a drug dealer.
Until this point in my life I’d only had black coffee when I’d had to, or when it was socially expected for me to. That was the case on my first day of work. And I savored that steamy cup of café quality black coffee, passionately.
I drank coffee every shift, throughout every shift. Most days I had at least four. My shifts were rarely more than 5 hours long. I liked the espresso drinks too. In fact, sometimes even if tips were slacking, I’d still buy myself a large mocha like it was payday.
And it wasn’t just drinking the best cup of coffee. I fell in love with the WORLD of coffee.
I studied how the beans grow in Columbia and Mexico. There’s a How it’s Made? episode about coffee. I watched it on Netflix. I think it’s on YouTube as well. I learned the theories about why coffee is called a cup of Joe. (There are many.) I changed my Facebook image header to a free stock photo of coffee beans. I was in it think, brother.
Then one day I found myself reading espresso maker reviews online. I even had a $2000 espresso machine in my online shopping cart. And I was numbed by a sad truth.
I was never going to be able to afford to be a super hero coffee mogul on a barista’s salary. I considered winning the lottery and buying my boss out. I even dreamed up that my family could live inside the café! My large family would surely be comfortable living in a small restaurant, right?
My dream died suddenly one morning. I awoke to a text from my boss saying she’d finally found a buyer for the café. She was selling it and moving to Branson, Missouri to become a country-western singer, or something. I stopped listening after the word buyer. It was all a blur as my world crumbled around me.
No more lattes. No more mochas. No more coffee trade magazines. No more looking at my favorite La Pavoni espresso maker reviews.
I don’t visit other coffee shops anymore. I don’t even buy name brand coffee. No, in my sorrow of my lost brilliant obsession, I only buy cheap coffee.