A BREWER’S DOZEN
The road to twelve coffees in one night is littered with regret Calum Marsh
THERE IS CURRENTLY ONE TIM HORTONS FOR EVERY 9,000 CANADIANS COMPARED TO ONE MCDONALD’S FOR EVERY 25,000 CANADIANS AND ONE STARBUCKS FOR EVERY 26,000 CANADIANS, ACCORDING TO A CBC REPORT, WHICH MIGHT EXPLAIN WHY DOUBLE DOUBLES ARE SO POPULAR.
The Denny’s in Belleville, Ont. is nestled in a snug lot between the shopping mall and Highway 401 and never closes, not even on Christmas. In the summer of 2005, having retreated to my family home for the uneventful interval between my first and second years away at school, I would nightly venture to this diner with a friend, Tate, with whom over unlimited coffee refills I would install myself in a ruby- red plastic booth for hours. The overnight waitress – I wish I remembered her name – never let a mug sit empty on a table in her charge very long. Tate and I would make it through four cups, sometimes five, before the conversation wound down for the evening and, when arriving at my mother’s house to sleep at last, I would twitchily greet the dawn.
On occasion Tate and I would be seized by a zealous whim: once we elected to visit a casino in a town miles away, only to discover at the end of the 40- minute journey that it was closed for renovations. One night Tate proposed that we call on a mutual friend in Bowmanville, an hour and a half away by the 401 – but really much less than that, Tate assured me, in the starry solitude of three in the morning, no commuters around yet to clog the lanes. To fortify myself for the expedition I doubled my usual intake of caffeine: ten cups before we set off, and another two for good measure procured on the road. Rallied by this hot black tonic, duly roused and energized, I blasted down the motorway in a euphoric stupor, giddy with the thrill of real adventure.
We knocked on Laura’s door at half past four. She was staying with a friend and his family was asleep, so we couldn’t come in or hang about there. We considered retiring sheepishly to the Denny’s in nearby Whitby. But Tate, unrelenting, tendered a more daring suggestion: that the three of us continue on to Toronto, to do exactly what he wasn’t sure. This seemed to us preferable to the alternative – defeat – so to the 401 we returned. I felt mighty. A dozen coffees still coursed through my bloodstream. Delirious, I was certain I would never sleep again.
The sun gleamed behind the skyline as we approached the city on the Gardiner Expressway. The dashboard clock read quarter to six – too early yet for the morning drivers, the road clear and silent. Tate in his mania pulled off and came to a stop before the only destination that seemed appropriate: the CN Tower, j ust now beginning to be bathed in the morning’s tentative light. We stepped out of the car and walked toward the enormous concrete base, when suddenly I felt it: the crash. What was this sensation? Twelve cups of coffee had completed their voyage through my body and had withdrawn their restorative effect. In their wake they left a pain that vanquished my high spirits and crushed my body and mind.
I felt sucked dry of whatever had fueled me. My knees quivered; my arms seemed to float. I was hollow. About two feet from the tower I dropped into a sort of curtsy, my belly shrinking inward as if hit by a cannonball, and I was obliged to reach the cool concrete on my knees, crawling into a feeble hug. Clinging to the monument, face twisted in a grimace, I looked as though I’d made a pilgrimage to the Wailing Wall, in spiritual rapture rather than near death from an overdose of caffeine. Tate and Laura were kind enough to help me back to the car, where they draped me shivering across the back seat. We were all exhausted. Tate found an underground garage and paid the day- rate for a nap – though, of course, I could hardly sleep. Instead I clutched my abdomen and gently shook back and forth, resolving with the clarity of an addict at rock bottom that I’d never drink so much coffee in one night again.