Of Snakes Sex Playing in the Rain, Random Thou Read online

  That may be futile, though. Much as it’s been marketed, packaged, and sold, as much harm as it’s done, people still insist on their right to misuse it without “penalty of law.” I somehow doubt that any sort of warning would stop them. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me to see such a caution posted about it. No matter how much we believe in the rule of common sense and practical wisdom, there’s always some religious zealot out there ready to do something stupid designed to cause injury or death, and then to blame someone else when it doesn’t work out. And we are assured that religion was around long before there were such protective agencies as governments, even before there was money. Some would say that it’s been around even before the egg.

  Still, in the matter of the egg, I wonder if the federal government hasn’t gone too far. The point of the warning label on the basic egg is to caution people that the contents—yolk and white—might well be contaminated with deadly salmonella and that the egg needs to be fully cooked before consuming. Now, I had an Uncle Bob who used to like to have a raw egg in his beer, and I have seen many “hangover remedies” that called for ingesting a raw egg. In Rocky, Sylvester Stallone drinks a health food concoction that combined several raw eggs with some other equally disgusting ingredients before running five-hundred-sixty-three miles without throwing up; and I know that drugstore soda fountains used to offer the option of a raw egg in vanilla milkshakes back in the days when milkshakes were handmade, not squirted out of some high-tech machine that also carries warning labels all over it about using them, especially under water. But apart from these oddities and antiquities, who in his right mind eats a raw egg? I mean, how many people vault out of bed every morning, race to the fridge, and wolf down a couple of ice cold eggs straight from the shell?

  Well, somebody besides Sylvester Stallone must. Because our government will soon add to the basic price of eggs by demanding warning labels be printed on the cartons, if not on the actual eggs themselves. I have no doubt that some government agency somewhere has commissioned some research institute somewhere to investigate this by using a whole bunch of laboratory animals and a pile of tax dollars; the best agricultural minds in the country are at this moment probably stuffing raw eggs by the tens of thousands down the gullets of laboratory monkeys, mice, and rats, while at the same time trying figure out how to breed a chicken that will add the label to the shell before she lays it. This would cut down on production costs, for sure, and it would ensure uniformity.

  I hope we can look forward to a time when politicians and government bureaucrats will carry warning labels. Now, there’s a thought. “Warning: Taking this individual or bureau seriously can be harmful to one’s perception of reality and faith in reason. The main side effect is gross indifference and complacent acquiescence. Continuing belief in this individual or bureau can result in disillusionment, destruction of ideals, and possibly revolution. It will for sure result in economic woe, inequitable law, and specious rationalization, as well as self-serving aggrandizement and appeasement of the highest bidding lobbyist. Other common side-effects include excessive pork barrel expenditures and cuts in vital public services with a commensurate rise in taxes and large pay increases for the government leaders.” That’s a label I could believe in.

  For all these reasons, this volume of essays carries a warning that, if not properly used, the contents could be harmful. That’s because, innately and at bottom, an essay is an opinion; and opinions, as we’re told, are like . . . well, like eyebrows. Everyone has a set, and in most cases they tend to get unruly if they’re not properly trimmed. Unfortunately, no one is less bothered by overgrown eyebrows than the person wearing them, and no one is less bothered by the potential misuse of untrimmed opinions than the person expressing them. They’re not automatically harmful to your health, but if misused or misapplied, they can cause serious consternation.

  The best way to trim opinions is to use them properly, by assessing them, thinking about them, and then either agreeing or disagreeing with them. I’d love for my set of opinions to find agreement with everyone else’s; it’s possible, though, even likely, that many who read these will not agree with them. None will cause injury or death, though. There’s no government ordinance in danger of violation here, and they can be used both above and below the surface of any body of water. I’m in no danger of anyone commissioning a research institute to investigate them or of wasting any tax dollars in presenting them; in fact, the biggest danger is that they are merely inconsequential. But importantly, no laboratory animal was harmed in their conception or expression.

  My fondest hope is that a reader might find a thought or two that will be worth contemplating. Perhaps a chuckle might arise here, a sober thought there. I cannot imagine that my opinions are right most of the time, or even some of the time. If that were true, I’d be inclined to start my own religion. In the meantime, though, I’ll just hope for the best, find a handy body of water, and maybe cook up an egg—before it’s too late.

  LET’S HAVE ANOTHER CUP OF COFFEE!

  “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.”

  —T.S. Eliot

  I don’t remember my first cup of coffee. That may not be remarkable on the surface of it, but somehow, it seems striking that that particular memory escapes me. I remember my first drink (back porch, Teen Canteen, Quanah, Texas, 1963—a sip from a half-pint of Thunderbird wine, shared by five guys, one of whom was immediately sick and never drank again). I remember my first “real” steak (Fort Worth, Farmer’s Daughter, 1966—until then, I thought all steak was served beaten, battered, and fried); my first tailor-made cigarette (back seat, Billy Hugh Price’s 1964 GTO—white vinyl, 8-track cassette, 428 cubic inches, bored and stroked, four-barrel carb and twin glass packs, Hurst Shifter and a posi-track rear end—“There’s nothing like a Lark,” I said). I also remember my first sexual encounter (none of your business—let’s not get carried away). But I don’t remember my first cup of coffee. It seems that I’ve always drunk coffee.

  Coffee is my best friend, my early morning companion, my late night sentry. Some days, I drink it constantly, and I’ve started no day without it for as long as I can remember. It has staid me on birth nights, on death watches; it has been my sole companion in lonely bus terminals, crowded train stations, and distant airports. It has seen me safely down ribbons of slick, winding highway when sleep nagged my eyes from the road. I have drunk it from china, porcelain, and tin, glass, plastic, Styrofoam and stainless steel. I’ve had it perked, brewed, dripped, and boiled. I’ve sat at a table in New Orleans and sipped bitter chickory while loutishly dressed fools paraded in front of St. Louis Cathedral. I’ve shouldered with it beside a diner’s counter in New York’s Time Square on a frigid New Year’s morning when traffic snarled and crowds pressed against each other like Eliot’s dead undone. I’ve sipped it with truckers along interstates in greasy cafes where the food was always good, and I’ve stood with stamping feet at concession stands and blown a cooling breath over its steamy ebony while my children played their games beneath a blue norther’s sky. It’s skated the black-iced glaze of Philadelphia with me, taught me the wonders of Canada’s Rockies, and helped me hold at bay the pounding memory of last night’s fiesta in the desert mountains of Mexico. I’ve savored its inky richness while contemplating a placid lake, and nervously slurped it while hurricane clouds boiled overhead. I’ve drunk it while sailing and hiking, while fishing and hunting, while studying theatre notices in London and while rocking across the storm-tossed Irish Sea. I’ve sipped it in the fanciest of hotels and the crudest of campsites.

  I’ve paid as much as five dollars for a cup in a big city restaurant, and as little as a nickel in a roadside diner. I’ve accepted free coffee from the thermoses of strangers, and I’ve shared a half a cup with a friend when that’s all there was and all there was going to be.

  I’ve read the best newspapers of the world while sipping coffee, written reams with a smoking cup beside my keys, talked with the best of my friends
, fenced with the worst of my enemies, celebrated victory, mourned failure, pondered accomplishment, nursed regret, all in the gentle steam of a coffee cup. I can’t imagine a day without it.

  It seems odd, then, that I can’t recall my first cup.

  I do recall when I was very young my mother prepared coffee for me. She would dump in about half a cup of cream, two or three teaspoons of sugar, and fill the rest of the mug with her strong brew. Eventually, the coffee outweighed the cream; soon, the cream disappeared altogether when granulated substitutes started replacing it on coffee bar counters. I never could get the powder to dissolve. Nothing’s worse than lumpy coffee.

  I still like a “little sugar,” about half a teaspoon, in my coffee—and only in the first cup—but truthfully, I do that more out of habit than need. Coffee requires tradition. But when it’s fresh, hot, and strong, it doesn’t require anything but itself—and maybe a smoke.

  People who say that coffee is bad for you are Meddlers. They’re the sort who lie awake nights trying to figure out how to spoil everyone else’s pleasure. They’re the sort who serve broiled chicken breast to perfectly innocent guests who never did them any harm. They’re the sort who put beans in chili and ketchup on hamburgers. They’re out to ruin everything that’s good in the world. My advice is to avoid them if you want to enjoy yourself.

  But the subject is coffee. One of my earliest memories is of my father drinking coffee at our kitchen table. He usually wore khakis and an undershirt. He’d sit there stirring an ice cube into coffee so hot it would take the finish off the table’s surface had he spilled it, so strong it almost didn’t require the cup to hold it. Next to the cup was a pack of Luckys, next to the smokes the morning paper. It was his habit to rise early on days when he hadn’t worked the night before, then sit there and watch the West Texas sun come up, glance at the news, the scores. Sometimes I would come in and find him there, smoking, sitting quietly, reading a bit, and puzzling over whatever problems faced him. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even speak to me. He would slowly spoon an ice cube from a glass of water into his cup, stir it until it dissolved. Then he would sip it. I never saw him use the spoon to taste the coffee. He always just sipped it from the cup.

  He liked his coffee strong. One scoop of grounds per cup.

  As I grew older, I started getting up and having coffee and a smoke with him. I think we somehow came to understand one another, at least a little better than usual. We never fought over coffee. That, too, was a kind of tradition.

  When I eventually became a father, I followed the pattern, and I still do: rise early, pour my cup of coffee, go off by myself and drink and smoke and look over the newspaper, and think. It helps clear my mind, gets me ready to face the day. It’s a lot easier on my knees than jogging.

  My children never joined me. My daughter didn’t drink coffee—it was bad for her, she was told in school. Meddlers. But my wife still looks forward to our morning coffee, even when we don’t talk very much. It’s a nice time, and coffee makes it that way.

  When my son was in high school, he got up and worked out in the early morning when it was cool. I taught him to make coffee so it would be ready when I rose. He did pretty well with it, but he didn’t drink it. It wasn’t appealing to him. He made it stronger than he should have, but I didn’t mind. It reminded me of my father.

  Today, people—especially Americans—don’t like their coffee strong. They prefer it weak, and they prefer it tepid, pre-ground and slowly dripped out, like their politics. Almost no one perks coffee any more. They brew it, drip it, sometimes make a concentrate of it and add it to warm water. That’s not coffee. That’s something else. Strong opinions require strong coffee. They eschew nicety. So does strong coffee. It’s not for the faint of heart, not for the faint of mind.

  I know people who drink soft drinks—cola and the like—instead of coffee. They’re just after the caffeine, you see. But they’re cheating themselves. People don’t sit down to share a Coke or contemplate life’s mysteries over a Dr. Pepper. They merely drink them, then forget them. Coffee is a memory. Cola is a convenience.

  What makes coffee appealing, of course, is the aroma, not the taste, or the appearance. If it’s any good—and if it’s strong—it’s bitter and black and very hot. What could be less appealing in a beverage? So, it’s the smell.

  Coffee also has sound. There is no music in the world that is as startlingly pleasant as the sound of fresh coffee being poured into a cup. There’s a kind of liquid crackle to it, if such a thing is possible. It can awaken the sleepiest dreamer, enliven the drowsiest dinner guest, enjoin the most reluctant in conversation. That sound is a promise, and no other beverage duplicates it. The sound of coffee is the sound of life, a herald’s call to a brighter future. The future might be suggested by tea’s leaves, but it’s guaranteed in coffee’s staccato melody.

  Coffee is ecumenical. Anyone who has ever seen a western knows that. What’s the first thing a cowboy says to a stranger who rides up to his campfire? It’s always, “Want some coffee?” If the stranger accepts the coffee, then the audience knows that everything is going to be all right. If he doesn’t, watch out. Gunplay is soon to come.

  Coffee is romantic. In a love story, if a guy meets a gal (sorry, I didn’t promise any political correctness here) he likes and wants to get to know her better, he says, “Hey, want to go get a cup of coffee?” If he says, “Hey, want to have a drink?” we know a great deal more about him—and her, if she accepts—than we might want to know (or approve of). But if they go for coffee, we know that nothing bad will happen. At the worst, they’ll lie awake all night and think about each other. What could be more romantic?

  Coffee is a treatment for sleepiness, for drunkenness, for depression, and for anxiety. “Just relax, I’ll put some coffee on,” is a standard line in a million movies. It tells the audience that everything will be all right, the crisis will be diffused. Coffee is perking.

  Coffee is family. Coffee in my childhood house was always perked, always strong, always hot, always fresh. We were Baptists, so there was no alcohol permitted (in view). But Baptists do drink coffee; it was the beverage of choice in our home, in our church, in our lives.

  Some people drink hot tea, but that’s un-American. Tea is something you steep, then ice down to go with chicken-fried steak or barbeque. Hot tea is effete, elitist, aristocratic. Coffee is earthy, proletarian, democratic. When I was young, it made perfect sense to me that the revolting colonists would have destroyed British tea. The Sons of Liberty would never have chucked crates of Columbian Dark Roast overboard into Boston Harbor. Tea is cheap, but Yankee parsimony would have forbidden wasting so much coffee. The spirit of Juan Valdez stood sentry for the Boston Tea Party.

  Tea is also brown, and thin, and lacking in character. It goes well with crumpets and doilies. “Strong tea” is a contradiction in terms. Tea is for lightweights. Coffee is for the earnest, the committed.

  Coffee has nicknames—java, joe, mud, oil—and they change with the times. Tea is always—well, tea. Even the sound of it lacks character. Say them together: “Tea.” “Coffee.” One sounds like something you do in private; the other sounds like something you might want publicly to be. People have named dogs, sons and even daughters “Coffee.” There’s even a town in Kansas named Coffee. Who ever heard of anyone named for “Tea?” Coffee makes grounds and has substance. Tea leaves leaves and has only aftertaste.

  Some people believe there’s philosophy in tea, and that may be true. But there’s wisdom in coffee. Given a choice, I’ll take wisdom. You can never have too much wisdom, and too much philosophy becomes confusing, sometimes dangerous.

  ###

  My mother’s family often gathered at my great-great-aunt Minnie’s home. The single constant in all those get-togethers was coffee: gallons of it. Some of my uncles used cream, some of my aunts used sugar, but all of them wanted it perked, hot, dark and strong. They drank it for hours at a time, long into the night.

  It was a kind of com
munal beverage, binding in its informality, its universality, its constancy. It went with everything they ate, but mostly it went with conversation. No one talked about the coffee, except to say, “I’ll put on a fresh pot,” or “Do you want some more?” It was a tie that bound a family together, stimulated conversation, prompted both laughter and tears. No one worried about caffeine in those days. They only worried if the coffee wasn’t hot and fresh.

  In high school, coffee took on a special importance to me and to my friends. After we had driven around for hours and used up all of someone’s gas, we would go out to Dutch’s Cafe on Highway 287 and sit for some more hours, well into the early morning, and drink coffee. Then, a cup from Dutch’s “Bottomless Pot” was only a dime, and refills were free. We would sit for hours in one of those raggedy old booths and look out the dust-blown window at the traffic going by to Dallas and Denver and talk out our wonderings about the world away from there. While we talked, we swilled cup after cup of Dutch’s famous dark roast. We rarely ate anything, rarely had enough money for anything, and Dutch never asked us to leave. Our dreams, ambitions, speculations, and fears were all articulated there. They were fueled by coffee. They were strengthened by it, too.

  Somewhere along the line, I became a “coffee snob,” but not in the way that sounds. I am not a purist. I merely want my coffee to taste like coffee. I have little patience with people who demand special things from their brews or think they have to be exotic to be any good. Nothing is worse than coffee that tastes like oranges, chocolate, hazelnuts, almonds, or some kind of flower. If people want those tastes, they should eat those things. If they want coffee, they should drink coffee. If they want both, they should eat those things with coffee. Trying to “dress up” coffee by making it taste like something else seems silly to me.

  I’m also not much into espresso, café au lait, cappuccino, or latte. Espresso has the essence of coffee, but it lacks the familiar and democratic texture of the real thing. It’s also served in tiny cups and sells for too much. It’s just not natural, somehow, or satisfying. As for the others, well, if I want a milkshake, I’ll order a milkshake.