by Jason Reynolds

I used to love coffee. Three cups a day easy. Americano, with a splash of milk and a pinch of sugar. Perfect. I used to love to walk into my neighborhood coffee shop, the smell of roasted arabica beans floating through air dancing to the music. I loved putting my two dollars on the counter and nodding to the barista who whipped up my regular. Then I would sit down and sip it slow. Life. 

And like life does, change came and for medical purposes I was forced to quit drinking coffee, a reality that annoys the hell out of me even as I type this (I probably need some caffeine). I wasn’t prepared for that kind of blow, but as I let go of my beloved bean, cold turkey, drinking water and juice in the morning, and of course doing my best to substitute tea in its place, I realized that it really wasn’t the coffee I missed. Sure I missed that morning jolt, but of course, in the era of energy drinks and designer drugs, that could be easily replaced. It wasn’t the lack of coffee that left me bummed. It was the lack of coffee shop.

I realized that the coffee shop was what was so special about my morning. The way it smelled, the way it sounded, the familiar faces and the bonding that took place over other people who were hanging out in the coffee shop getting whatever fix they needed. There’s an art to coffee shops, an art, I think, that’s just as important than the coffee they serve. There’s a reason I prefer to sit in certain coffee shops, and why I almost never want to sit and drink my coffee in Starbucks, or Dunkin’ Donuts. There’s a reason that most coffee shops look alike. The rust and burnt colored walls, smothered in independent art. The music, jazz, blues, soul, folk. The hodgepodge-ness of the whole place, the mismatched chairs, and sidewalk couch, stained and wobbly. The designated area for the sugar and cream, always a mess (honey and sugar water containers are always sticky, and sugar is always lumpy.) The feeling that this place has been lived in, and that it isn’t for tourists, but for family.

And that’s what I missed the most. The conversations with my friends behind the counter about politics, and gossip, and sports, and drunken nights. My daytime bartenders, serving me up a shot of wakeup, had become embedded in my daily routine. A ten minute experience that for one reason or another helped me feel better, more alive, more adult, apart of a community.

And suddenly I didn’t I didn’t have that. And I missed it. So I went back to the coffee shop. I perused the menu, written on a chalkboard hanging high on the wall. I had never even looked at the thing before, smattered with colorful chalk and abstract drawings. And then I saw it. Tea.

“Let me get a tea, man,” I said.

I put honey in it. Sometimes a splash of milk. Steep it short and stirred it long. Then I sat down, and took a sip, while telling myself, “It’s not the coffee, it’s the coffee shop. The coffee shop is my caffiene.”

 Well, not really. Not even close. But you know what I mean.