My Parting Shot

Carol Moody

Oh, the mystery of you. How did our relationship begin? Was it lure? Or was it lust?  I may never know for sure. Born and raised a Mormon girl, I was forbidden to partake. 

I remember the stealthy stuff seeping into my senses. Steamy mugs sat everywhere—in every house, every house but mine. Each weekday morning, I waited for the bus at my best friend Lori’s. Her parents poured columns of shiny black liquid into brilliant yellow mugs. I peeked over the kitchen table as they spooned steep hills of sugar into the dark. Mrs. Deacon, the widow next door, drank from a lime green gingham cup. Heaps of whipped cream sat atop her umber slurry. On Saturdays, she let me lick the thick topping. A drink so dressed up, so adorned—I could only peer into the deep. 

That is, until you summoned me from afar at the local Safeway. I discovered you as only an eight-year-old could. I followed a checkered path down the aisle of 12-inch tiles alternating dark grey, light grey, dark grey, light grey. This was when I fell in love with the idea of you. I shrouded my head among bags of Ethiopian grounds. On full inhale, I took you in, a smoky caramel dream, only to be snatched away. Yanking my upper arm, my mother scolded, “Coffee is of the devil. We don’t drink it!”

How come only the devil’s friends could have you? I pictured Satan’s sinners, red-suited and sly, slurping from underground rivers of licorice lava. What about Lori’s parents and Mrs. Deacon? Would they have to drink in the underworld too?

To a young developing mind, my mother’s threats were like Wile E. Coyote’s cartoon dynamite sticks, repeatedly exploding but missing the Road Runner at every turn. I catalogued her latest account of Satan-turned-barista with all the others: a wayward woman morphing into salt for looking sideways at Sodom, a gentle fellow tumbling about the bowels of a whale, two cities burning after a venomous god spit fire from the sky. 

The principled tug of war between my mother’s admonitions and my secret desire to drink of you tempered over time but never dissipated. Sometimes, when no one was looking, I’d sneak a sip from a wayward grandpa’s cup, only to discover that it was Postum™, a lowly hot beverage made from grains. 

I soon learned the actress from those “good to the last drop” coffee commercials was really the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz.  And like most kids of my era, I played out my anxieties in the backyard sandbox. I built castles surrounded by moats fed by the headwaters of a moldy hose. The spout gushed for hours saturating the spongy earth below. I convinced my brothers and sisters that the sludge was the witch’s poisonous coffee. My sunburned, freckle-nosed siblings joined me in pretending to drink the witch’s brew while falling to fantastical deaths. Excavating gritty potion with both hands, we gulped, we gasped, we belly flopped onto the lawn, into the bushes, and into a makeshift pool in an old truck tire. Only to rise up and sip some more. 

Over time, less theatrical coffee fantasies infused my thoughts. My longing for you, the blessed, the beautiful, the blackest of all beverages never faded. I snuck away to visit you in the coffee aisle whenever I could, sourcing my hope with a smack of your aroma. 

When I left home for college, I adopted a not-quite-coffee, coffee ice cream habit. I trusted that bland and beige could tie me over. A coffee flavor so dilute, I almost lost you. Somehow you remained in my sights only more subdued on my palate. I blended in with Mormon culture. Still, according to my parents, I was easily deceived by worldly pursuits. My prophets became Vonnegut, Whitman, and O’Connor. I believed in the power of satire, in “every atom belonging to you belongs to me,” and when all is said and done, “The Life You Save May Be Your Own.” 

By the time I matured into my thirties, I was married, raising three children. Although my family life was satisfying, I felt incomplete. My cravings returned full-bodied for the one and only true beverage. This was when my adult relationship with you began. It was a voyeuristic journey of sorts, I saw you at coffee shops with everyone else but me. You greeted your friends first thing in the morning. You provided the perfect ending to an evening meal. You delivered the ever-anticipated ritual for the next day. Oh, the pining. When would I cross over and join you in a bond both bitter and boundless? We would be the perfect pair. You could pour over my pallid, Mormon soul in a holy conjugal of café au lait.

Yet as often as I imagined a meet up with you, obedience and looming consequences unseated my cravings. Yes, consequences, judgement, and exclusion were realities for adult Mormon sinners. I was supposed to be that role model, that stalwart lady, that woman of faith. I resisted you as long as I could. I had no more will for the fight. It happened.  The crossover, the left hand, the wrong hand, the sinister hand turn into the local coffee shop. Day after day, I felt the pulse of that place percolating, calling me out and calling me over.  Day after day, I abstained. Until one morning, I found myself in the drive-thru. Yes, my first time was in the drive-thru, and it went something like this:  

Me: Um, could I um have a Mexican hot chocolate, please? 

Barista: Sure. Espresso shots? 

Me: No. I mean, Yes.  

Barista: Yes? No? What is it?

Me: Yes, I mean yes.

Barista: One or two?

Me: Three. 

I thought if I had gone this far, I might as well go all the way.  And the tripling did not disappoint. The pure Arabica, the holy Robusta infused my oceanic desire. My soul unmoored, swaying like a drift net with warm currents flowing through it. My lifetime infatuation was now a tide of opportunities. We were just getting started.  

That first time led to our steady relationship. I committed to you. My daily ritual evolved from a Mexican mocha to the hard stuff: drip coffee—a straight-up, throat searing 24-ounces every morning. I even smuggled you to work with me at BYU, a university owned and operated by the Mormon church. I left you in a thermos in the car for quick meet-ups later in the day. 

A few months after our first time together, I attended an early morning faculty meeting. I slipped through the side door. Afraid of calling attention to myself for being late, I settled into a seat on the back row. I’d spent too much time bantering with the baristas at The Coffee Pod, my favorite coffee shop, located in an unassuming strip mall one mile west of campus. Coffee was not sold nor served at BYU because of the century-long prohibition by the Church. For nearly a year, I had entered the Lord’s university fully caffeinated with sin. 

My guilty eyes met those of the department secretary. She asked if I could say a prayer to bless the boxes of donuts at the far end of the table.  

“Yes,” I said, like a good Mormon girl should.

I asked God to bless the staff with peace of mind, to give them clarity for solving their problems, and trailed off with a weak “amen.” The faculty fought doggedly. I knew a prayer, especially from me, would not change the outcome of that meeting. 

Anxious to leave the arguing behind, I stole out early and headed to my car parked beside the dumpster, our secret meeting spot.  A few minutes later, a knock on my car door startled me. It was a colleague from the meeting. My coffee sloshed. My stomach seized. All I could do was roll down my window, now foggy. Her eyes volleyed between my thermos, me, my thermos, me—a transgressor motionless in her glare. 

“I need to consult with you about a student. Can you meet me inside?” 

“Sure, I’ll be right in,” I said, pulling my lower lip back, tight and wide. I debated outing myself, confirming her suspicions. But, tucked inside that stunned moment, I wondered if I was ready. She was the same colleague I told the year before that I didn’t believe in Satan. She countered with, “You have to. No Satan, no God! The Mormon plan of salvation is about opposition in all things.” I knew then that disbelief in the devil could jeopardize the plan for me, yet being caught with his contraband could put me out of the running altogether.

Still clutching my thermos in both hands, I stared forward.  She leaned in, her eyes squinting, her chin barely brushing the top of the window. “Alright then,” she said, as she spun around and walked a straight and narrow path into the building. Her neatly coiffed hair bobbed up and down above her shoulders. Her A-line skirt flowed seamlessly across the back of her knees. Her patent leather pumps steadied her stride.

I sat in my car seeking solace in my last remaining sips. When I stepped out, my reflection in the driver’s side window revealed a lopsided stain. I’d spilled a generous amount of coffee dead center. I glanced down pulling my shirt forward by the hem. I saw for myself—the dark and the deep—it belonged to me. 

My time had come. I resigned from BYU. I left the Mormon church. I felt discarded, tumbled about, and spat upon by God. But I did not look back. 

My motley brew, my first love, I chose you.