I’m addicted to coffee. Not simply coffee, but Starbucks triple long shot espresso with a splash of cream. This provides a morning jolt without an overabundance of caffeinated liquid to wreak havoc on my kidneys. This creates a problem. If I don’t get my morning espresso, I’m catapulted into a migraine headache by noon.
For Thanksgiving my wife and I traveled to St. Louis to visit her family. I awoke on Wednesday morning determined to find a strong brew to start my day. I sampled the free coffee in the hotel bistro. It was swill. No problem. St. Louis is a large city and I assumed they’d have multiple coffee houses like Los Angeles.
I asked the hotel concierge if there was a Starbucks nearby. She frowned as if I’d asked her to explain the theory of relativity.
“Uh, it’s pretty far,” she said.
“How far?”
“Do you know where Kansas is?”
Surely she must be kidding. I did a quick Google search and learned there were six Starbucks locations in St. Louis. The closest was inside the Marriott Hotel just down the road. It was 27 degrees outside but I was determined. I donned a pea coat and scarf and trudged a half mile along a busy road. I entered the Marriott lobby and there it was, glowing. A full-fledged Starbucks with a multitude of shiny machines. I approached the counter but didn’t see a barista. I called out “hello.” Nothing.
I walked to the hotel front desk and asked if Starbucks was open.
“They’re closed until after the holidays,” the female concierge said.
“Why?”
“They just are. There’s complementary coffee in the dining room.”
“No, no, that won’t do. I need the real stuff.”
“It is real,” she said.
I lingered a moment weighing my options.
“You think it’d be okay if I went behind the Starbucks counter and made my own espresso? I’ll pay you of course.”
She looked at me as if I were crazy. “Absolutely not,” she said.
“I understand,” I said though I didn’t understand. Why put a Starbucks in a hotel if you don’t keep it open? I stared at the espresso machines and then marched back to my hotel. I remembered there was a Starbucks in the airport. We didn’t have a rent-a-car but there was a hotel airport shuttle. I bordered a shuttle van and asked the driver to drop me at the terminal.
The airport was bustling. I’d forgotten it was the day before Thanksgiving, the busiest travel day of the year. I tipped the driver five bucks and entered the terminal. I spotted the green Starbucks sign glowing in the distance. It was behind security lines. That’s when I realized I couldn’t get past TSA without a ticket. This was a foolish oversight on my part. My cognitive circuits were starting to misfire due to lack of caffeine.
I exited the terminal but the shuttle was gone. I hailed a taxi and jumped in the back seat. I flashed a 20-spot to the driver and told him the money was his if he could find me an open Starbucks. His dashboard ID said his name was Vasily. Good. Russians love coffee as much as I do.
We drove several miles until we reached a shopping center. The cabbie pointed to a Starbucks wedged between a pet wash and a weed dispensary. I handed him the 20 and told him to wait. I entered the store and asked the bearded barista for a quad long shot espresso allowing myself an extra shot to make it through the day. He said, “Sorry, our espresso machines are down.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. We have regular coffee though.”
“That won’t do. Where’s the nearest Starbucks from here?”
“There’s one on Hampton Avenue but they might be closed for Thanksgiving.”
“It’s not Thanksgiving yet.”
He shrugged. I returned to the cab. The meter was up to $18. I explained my dilemma to the cabbie hoping he might return the 20 since I didn’t get my coffee. He didn’t.
“There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts around the corner,” he said with a Russian twang.
“No fucking Dunkin’ Donuts,” I yelled with unexpected rage. I was starting to crack, a sign of caffeine withdrawal.
“Sorry,” I said. “Do you know of any other coffee houses nearby?”
“There’s an Ethiopian place in Olivette. I think they make strong coffee.”
“Let’s do it,” I said.
We drove through a rural neighborhood to a strip mall with a Honeybaked Ham and an Aldi market. The cabbie parked in front of a place called RevoCup. A sign in the window said “Closed.” A thin older man with reddish brown skin was locking the front door. I jumped from the cab and ran toward him.
“You open,” I asked in a voice a little too loud and desperate. I could tell by his wide eyes I’d startled him.
“We’re closed, sorry.”
“But you were just inside.”
“I opened for a friend who wanted beans.”
I reached for my wallet and flashed a wad of cash.
“How much to be your friend?”
“There’s no cash in the store, sir. We’re digital payment only.”
“I’m not here to rob you,” I said. “I just want coffee.”
“If you don’t leave I’m calling the police.”
He’d deemed me a threat and there was no way to change his mind. I returned to the cab. The meter was now up to $26 but my head was starting to throb and I knew if I didn’t get espresso soon the migraine would kick in.
“Any other options,” I asked the cabbie.
“There’s a coffee roaster in St. Charles but it’s a bit of a drive.”
“Go,” I said in desperation.
The cabbie hit the 70 Freeway and drove past the St. Louis Arch. It reminded me of an infinite sign, the amount of time it was taking me to get coffee. We exited the freeway and drove through a warehouse district.
We stopped outside an unmarked brick building with barred windows and a metal door. The fragrance of burnt coffee beans told me this was the place. I glanced at the meter. $38. I’d soon be out of cash but at least I’d have my coffee and be headache free. I asked the cabbie to wait.
I pressed the front buzzer. No answer. I pressed again. Nothing. I looked through a window and saw a tattooed millennial roasting beans while grooving to music on his ear buds. I reached through the security bars and knocked on the glass. He didn’t hear me.
There was another window about 10 feet above the ground. This one had no security bars. I retrieved a wood pallet near the dumpsters and used it to lift myself up until I was sitting on the window ledge. I pushed the window open.
“Hey,” I yelled toward the millennial. He still couldn’t hear me. “Hey you!”
That’s when I heard the loud chirp of a siren. A cop car with flashing lights pulled behind me. Two policemen exited the car.
“What are you doing,” a mustached cop asked.
I jumped to the sidewalk and put up my hands.
“I’m trying to get some coffee. No one answered the door so I wanted to see if anyone’s inside.”
“Looks like you’re trying to get in,” the first cop said.
“No, no.”
“You have some ID?”
I gave the officer my driver’s license.
“Los Angeles,” he said. “You’re a long way from home.”
“I’m visiting family for Thanksgiving.”
I reached into my jeans pocket and pulled out the boarding pass from the previous day’s flight. I gave it to the officer.
“I flew in yesterday. I’m just trying to get coffee, I swear. Nothing’s open.”
“There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts…”
“…I don’t drink Dunkin’ Donuts,” I said in frustration.
The officers locked eyes.
“Sorry. I’m getting a bad headache. I need caffeine.”
The second officer intervened.
“What’s your go-to drink?”
“Triple espresso with a splash of cream.”
“I prefer macchiatos,” he said.
“How’d you get here,” the first cop asked.
“Taxi.”
I pointed behind me but the cab was gone.
“He left,” I said.
“You don’t want to be walking around here. It’s a bad neighborhood. How about we give you a drive to the Loop? They oughta have a coffee place.”
“That would be amazing, thank you.”
I jumped in the back seat and they drove me towards St. Louis proper. We passed several bars and check cashing sites. A trio of ne’er-do-wells stood in front of a battered liquor store. They looked scary and high. We drove through a business district with tall buildings. A staticky call came over the police radio.
“211 in progress at 1099 Cole Street.”
“That’s us,” the first officer said. “Sorry, bud. Gotta let you out.”
He dropped me by the curb and pointed toward Busch Stadium in the distance.
“Keep going that way and you’ll find coffee.”
I thanked them and started walking. I wrapped the scarf around my neck to fend off the frigid air. My head was throbbing. I reached the outskirts of downtown and walked past a Jimmy John’s and a smoke shop. I came upon a thrift store. Sitting in the window beneath a mannequin donning a feather boa was a vintage espresso machine. The Java gods were screwing with me.
I approached a brick building that was once a bank. A well-dressed man stood in front smoking a cigarette.
“What’s up my man,” he said with a New York accent. “Cold enough for you?”
“Do you know if there’s a coffee house around here?”
“We have coffee if you want to come inside.”
I read the building sign: Church of Scientology.
“That’s okay,” I said fearing I’d never be seen again if I walked through those doors.
“It’ll clear the cobwebs from your head,” he said.
I definitely had cobwebs. And my vision was starting to blur. I’d hit the point of no return.
“What kind of coffee you have,” I asked.
“Don’t know the brand but it’s strong. I’m an espresso man myself,” he said.
“Wait, what? You have espresso?”
“Absolutely. Just made some a minute ago.”
“You are my guardian angel, sir” I said. “Can I get a couple shots right now?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
I followed him through the lobby and down a flight of stairs. We walked through a hall painted blue into a kitchen. A beautiful red espresso machine sat on a cutting board next to a can of Illy beans. I watched as the man ground the beans, placed them in the machine and steamed fresh espresso. He handed me a cup and I downed it in one shot.
“Bless you,” I said. “May I have another?”
He made me a second shot. Then a third. The effects were immediate. My static dissipated, my cranial throbbing subsided and I felt a surge of energy as if I’d had a blood infusion from L. Ron Hubbard himself.
“How is it,” the man asked.
“Best I’ve ever had.”
“I’m Peter,” he said. “How old do you think I am?”
I looked him up and down. He was thin with olive skin and gray hair.
“I’d say you’re in your 50s.”
“Nope. I’m 72,” he said.
“You look good.”
“Want to know my secret,” he asked.
“The espresso?”
“No. This place.”
He proceeded to talk about the benefits of Scientology and how it keeps you young, fulfilled and anxiety-free. As he babbled, I squeezed past him and made another shot of espresso. The coffee was working it’s magic. I felt rejuvenated, grateful to be alive. My phone rang. It was my wife wanting to know where I was.
“I’m at the Church of Scientology having coffee,” I said.
“What?”
“I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
I thanked Peter and told him he’d given me a new appreciation for his religion.