Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

Taking My Coffee Monkey on the Road

By Bob Wire, 11-24-10

	I'm not sleeping. I'm studying the insides of my eyelids, which means, yes, I will have a refill, Hon, thanks. Photo by Flickr user eye2eye.

Hi. My name is Bob W., and I’m addicted to coffee. The last time I went to see my doctor for a checkup, it went something like this:

Dr. Nick: “Your blood pressure’s a little high.”

Me: “What’s the reading you’re getting?”

Dr. Nick: “All I’m getting is a message that says, Tthis device for human use only.’ How much coffee do you drink every day?”

Me: “Oh, you know. A couple of deals.”

Dr. Nick: “A couple of what, cups? Mugs?”

Me: “Pots.”

Dr. Nick: [pushes intercom button] “Nurse Catheter, cancel the rest of my appointments for today.”

I’ve been a caffeine junkie since my dad first introduced me to the acidy splendor of canned Folger’s brewed up in a chrome electric percolator when I was 16. There were no Starbucks in those days. No City Brew, no espresso huts with goofy names like Bean Me Up or Grounds For Divorce. There was Folger’s, the diner and the truck stop. And I loved it. I spent more days in college sitting in the student union lounge drinking cup after cup of their gutless institutional brew than I did going to class. But, oh, the world problems we solved, the glorious plans we made. And it was all fueled by coffee.

A hot cup is the first thought that forms in my head each morning (sadly, sometimes even my last thought at night) and over the years, coworkers and family have been made acutely aware of my strict NWBC policy: No Work Before Coffee. Or decisions or questions or hostile attacks like, “Good morning, daddy,” or anything else that requires cogent thought or a reasonably intelligent response.

At home, I have a large stockpile of Bob Wire Blend, a tasty mix I’ve perfected over the years. I go to Costco and buy a three-pound bag of Colombian Roast, the one with the savage coffee jaguar on the label, and a three-pound bag of French Roast. They’re both shade-grown and dolphin-safe and all that business. I mix equal amounts into Ziploc bags, and dump in a generous sprinkling of pre-ground Community Coffee, which I get from my source in the Dirty South. It’s made with chicory, and that allows me to brew up a killer pot in the Turkish coffee tradition: Hot as hell, black as death, and sweet as love (once I add the Sugar in the Raw).

So while I have my home java that I’m used to, I’ll drink whatever I have to when I’m on the road, in order to feed the monkey. A stout double Americano from an espresso joint is not always handy, and my indiscriminate jones keeps me from being a coffee snob.

The aforementioned diner is always a good source of weak, no-nonsense java. Seven or eight refills over breakfast is usually enough to propel me into my day. It’s usually weak, bland and thin, but the comfort of having a waitress constantly top off my cup and call me Darlin’ or Sugar Butt is worth the trade off.

Most hotel rooms have that little prison-style two-cup coffee maker next to the sink, and those little sealed coffee packets produce a brew that makes diner coffee taste like a Starbuck’s triple cappuccino by comparison. But it’s enough to get the synapses firing so you can get dressed and make it to the lobby, where they keep the real stuff.

Gas stations and C-stores are a major source on the road, and they’re no longer limited to the old three-pot Bunn machine that uses a tank of standing water, the same way a toilet does. Now they offer such glamorous coffee choices as powdered espresso, custom roast beans from a New Jersey warehouse, and hi-test jamoke that contains twice the caffeine. I’ve seen this supercharged joe offered under several names: Jitter Juice, Dragster Drip, Buzz Monkey and Jocaine. A 24-oz. foam cup of this rocket fuel will give you the energy to drive straight through from Boise to Miami, while working a crossword puzzle and crocheting an afghan as you crunch the gas mileage numbers in your head and dictate your autobiography to that poor hitchhiker you just picked up.

If you’re staying with relatives, your differing coffee needs will make you wonder who spiked the family tree. They never seem to drink coffee the same strength you do. If you like to be able to see your spoon all the way to the bottom of the cup, you can bet they’ll brew up a molasses-thick pot of Satan’s urine that will grow hair on your tongue. Conversely, if you like your coffee on the strong side, you’ll no doubt be stuck with a pot brewed with 10 cups of water and a teaspoon of Maxwell House. Or you may be limited to the methadone of coffee, Folger’s Crystals.

It’s not practical to carry your own beans, grinder and coffee maker on the road, so it’s best to learn how to be open to the broad spectrum of coffee you’ll encounter out there. Be adventurous. Be tolerant. And whatever you do, be careful. Obey the law. You don’t want to get arrested while you’re on the road. There is absolutely nothing worse than police station coffee. Believe me, I know.

[Bookmark NewWest.net/BobWire, and check back frequently for humor refills.]

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