Coffee Bean Battle: Rediscovering the Dark Roast Coffee That Both Saved and Cursed Me!

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This morning, as I eased into my routine—wake up, stretch, sweat a little, and coax life from a pot of java—I found myself reflecting.

I didn’t drink coffee as a young man. Couldn’t stand the stuff, actually.

My parents—very much the Ward and June Cleaver types (and if you get that reference, congratulations: you’re officially old). —drank it religiously.

But me? I didn’t even like the smell of it back then.

Then came the Army. The military changes you in many ways, some you expect, some quite unexpected.

Sleep deprivation. Constant alertness. Hard work. And the woods of Grafenwöhr, Germany.

Forty-five straight days at a time of take your pick: freezing wind, baking sun, monsoon rains, damp clothes, or sun burn, and pure exhaustion while operating an M110 8-inch howitzer.

220Lb Artillery rounds, gunpowder, fuses, noise, smoke, and just plain back breaking work!

Well, yes, it changes you. At the very least it wears you out!

Back then, it was survival it wasn’t about comfort.

For me coffee started because it was about staying warm… and awake.

You’d wrap your hands around a dented canteen cup filled with percolated sludge—half sip, half chew, caramelized coffee grounds magic!

So, somewhere between grimace and grit, I gave in.

I drank the coffee.

Out of desperation at first.

And then… I kept drinking it.

That was my first brush with the bean.

Like Luke Skywalker, I was slowly being seduced by the dark (roast) side.

Unlike Luke—I lost that battle.

Years later, out of uniform and working in the private sector, I was shamelessly downing a full pot a day.

I am not sure when it happened, but a coffee cup became a permanent fixture in my hand.

Like an old tattoo, I didn't even notice it any longer.

But when your staff starts saying,

“Sir, you sure do drink a lot of coffee,” you pause. Self-reflect.

"Maybe I do need to scale this back some".

So, I reformed:

I jumped on the green tea bandwagon,

or joined the green religion,

or found my green deity,

or whatever the cool kids say these days.

Yes, I switched to green tea.

I was becoming that guy—zen, caffeine-lite, no jitters.

Cup of hot water, little green tea bag string hanging over the side making that statement for all to see, "yes, see how I had evolved beyond the bean".

I stayed clean from the bean for five years.

I most certainly was cured right, 5 years is a long time!

Teeth were whiter, breath fresher, and my little tea bags must be more ecologically friendly than coffee filters, right?

Then came Rock Island Arsenal.

I re-entered government service, and post-9/11, everything changed.

Twelve-hour shifts. Thirteen days on, one off.

Military contracts humming like turbines.

HMMWV armor.

939 truck cab components.

Every weld, bolt, and bracket mattered.

One foggy-eyed morning, half-asleep at a milling machine, I stood up to get more hot water for my tea.

As I passed Danny—working the next rig—he nodded toward his old-school coffee pot and said:

“If you need a man’s wake-me-up, help yourself.”

I paused.

I felt the old beaten down tiredness I hadn't felt since the Army entering into my bones...

I walked over.

Stared for what seemed like hours into the caffeinated void. (It was really like 30 seconds).

I watched my hand reach out, and like in some caffeinated trance, I watched myself in virtual slow motion pour a cup.

With a quick glance to the side, I saw the crooked little smile on Danny's face. Like the Emperor in Star Wars, he knew my fall to the dark roast was almost complete.

And with one long slow sip, just like that... I was back to the bean.

Oh, the power of the "dark side",, I mean roast, dark roast.

No enlightenment.

No chanting monks.

No single ray of light marking the moment!

Not a single angelic voice from beyond.

No demon laughter.

No welcome home.

Just the bitter truth in a chipped old, now former tea mug.

Yes, I’ve got Stockholm syndrome. I am in a symbiotic relationship with little hope of return.

The bean has me. And I’ve stopped resisting.

Because honestly, there’s something beautifully grounding about it.

Comforting, ritualistic, familiar.

That first inhale of the Hazelnut, or French Vanilla, or good old Folgers as it starts to brew filling the area with the aroma of hope.

That slow pour.

That sound as your cup is filling up.

That dark ritual that signals: you're still in the fight.

It’s not just a drink anymore.

It’s a companion. A daily constant.

A reminder that no matter how crazy the day gets… I’ve got this.

Just slow down and have a sip.

So, if you ever see me early in the morning, just know: The reason I’m vertical and tolerable is because I’ve recommitted to the dark side—I mean, dark roast life.

The Army gave me discipline.

The government gave me policy.

But coffee?

Coffee gives me... me.

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