Mochaholic

Old Man's Narcotic

Olive’s coffee shop and bakery on Halloween.

I go to Olive’s virtually every day for my fix.

Medium, extra hot, 3 pumps of mocha. They begin preparing it when I walk in. Because my name, Blayney, is too difficult to explain when they ask, I use Chuck, a takeoff from my first name, Charles, which my step-children began calling me when they were trying to work out how to address me.

“Good morning Chuck,” is the barista’s greeting. Maybe that’s the reason I drive to get my costly drink, when I can make it at home for a fraction of the cost.

Being known, especially in a new town where hardly anyone knows me, is a tonic for an old man.

As you can see, they have fun. Which is a part of what I pay for, the good spirit. In these mostly grim days, a shot, not merely of extra hot, extra chocolate mocha, but of young seemingly happy women, is worth a lot.

I remember the first time I ever went to a coffee shop, had a mocha. Lacey took me. She had gone with a friend who introduced her to this exotic – to us – drink.

Could you peg me by this? Tell what tribe I come from? Do MAGA people have mochas? Or would they consider it effete?

We migrate between coasts seasonally. When I left San Diego last May, my last stop before we left was to the place where I get my daily mocha. I like to think the baristas and I shared a heartfelt goodbye. What are the chances they’ll remember me, even if they are the same ones who were there then? After I will have been away for several months from Newburyport, will the ladies at Olive’s greet me as I walk in?

How much does their age and gender, lend to my morning does of happiness?

Will they mark my cup, even when I’m fourth in line?

What’s a cup of mocha worth? $6. What’s a cheerful greeting from a young woman who calls you by name, worth?

Priceless.