Of Fathers, Lovers, Brothers, and Coffee

Of Fathers, Lovers, Brothers, and Coffee Patricia Ann McNair It takes a long time to understand the language the bean uses to talk to you. —Alfred Peet, Peet's Coffee On his way out the door each morning, my father would pour himself one last cup of coffee. He drank it black and sweet, three white dots of saccharin melting in the filled-to-the-rim ceramic mug. He'd carry that to-go cup out to the car where my mom waited to drive him to the Skokie Swift, a commuter train that went to Howard Street where he could catch the El to his office in downtown Chicago. The dialogue during the car ride to the end of our block went like this: Dad: "Jesus, slow down, wiU you?" Mom: "I am going slow." Dad: "Shit. Ouch. Goddamnit!" Mom: "What's the matter now?" Dad: "I spiUed my goddamn coffee. Aw, shit." In myjunior high summers, I worked for my dad in his one-man personnel placement agency. On those mornings when I would go to his office, I'd sit in the back seat and watch the coffee drama. Dad would begin to squirm. Our street was known as Bumpy Davis, a block-long section ofsuburban road that wasn't surfaced flat with cement. It was covered in thick, black tar that went rubbery under the sun, and this combination ofBumpy Davis and a toofifll cup of coffee made for a commute of"Jesus . . . shit . . . goddamn," and by the time we got to the Skokie Swift, Dad's pants would be splattered with coffee spots, he and Mom would both be tight-jawed, and the mug would be empty (but for a few grounds) and roUing around on the floor with the others until the weekend when cleaning out the car would be added to one of my brother's Usts of chores. 150 Patricia Ann McNair151 There was this moment though, each morning, when the car stood still at the stop sign at the end of our block, and Dad would be able to take a long, clean, safe swallow. Then he'd lower the mug and look out at the patches ofblue sky through the trees, at the way the sun hit the picture windows of the split levels and ranch houses, at the prim, colorful flower beds. And perhaps it was this moment that made my dad face the chaUenge ofthe too full to-go cup every single morning. Perhaps it was a bright blue shining summer moment of success—of certain satisfaction at least—that made the rest of the messy, frustrating, aw-Jesus-shit ride worthwhile. But then the moment was over and we would drive on. How sweet coffee tastes! Lovelier than a thousand kisses, sweeterfar than muscatel wine! I must have coffee, and if anyone wishes to please me, let him present me with—coffee! —Johann Sebastian Bach, Coffee Cantata A man I met at a writers' conference tried to seduce me with coffee. The commissary coffee was notoriously bad, the color of tea and tepid. For even the slightest buzz, you'd have to drink at least a half-dozen cups. This man, a heU ofa fiction writer who may one day be famous, brought his own supply ofbeans, a grinder, a drip-pot. One morning he found me on the deck that overlooked the lake and handed me a cup of the good stuff. It smeUed like nuts roasting and tasted Uke warm caramel. "There's more where that came from," he said. I turned from my search for eagles in the trees on the island across the water and saw something percolating in his eyes. "In my cabin," he said. He was old enough to be my father. "This is enough for me," I said. The next morning he was sitting with the rest ofthe prose writers when a fluffy-but-aging blond poet leaned herself up against his back. She had one of those breathy voices that always sounded like a stage whisper . She spoke close to his ear. "Thanks for the coffee," she said. At a nightclub in Minneapolis a man in a dark suit...