Dream Venti

My narcolepsy first reared its ugly head almost eight years ago.

I was sitting directly across from my aging eighth grade social studies teacher in a 12-person class. She wasn’t exactly holding my attention, and my drowsiness betrayed my boredom. Finally, annoyed, she asked me across the entire class if she was keeping me up. It was a trick question—was either answer good? I turned red and muttered a sheepish no. It’s a moment I haven’t heard the end of.

But from that humble moment, a proud tradition was born, a distinguished run of drifting off in every class, assembly, and other academic setting at which I was present. Each of my friends has their own favorite moment. Mine is the time I started nodding forward in English class until my head finally dropped so far it hit my desk, prompting me to shoot straight up. The entire class erupted in laughter.

While some might call it a sickness, I considered it a talent: I can sleep anywhere, anytime, on a moment’s notice. I even fall asleep between subway stops.

At least in college, I could schedule all my classes in the afternoon, or, more likely, sleep through the morning ones in bed. Needless to say, I took full advantage. With night owl genes in my family, early classes were out of the question. Even still, I managed to doze in most of my afternoon classes.

Then I landed a real summer job. It started innocently enough: an 8:30 a.m. arrival was early, but bearable. But one hour into the first day came the news—6:30 a.m. was the regular start time. The last time I saw 6:30 a.m. was when I was still up from the night before, and even in high school I hadn’t woken up before then.

This promised to be a summer-long problem. I had always told myself I would never be a regular coffee drinker. I found the black syrup bitter, overly strong, and usually too hot. Plus, who cared if I dozed in class—I rationalized that I clearly needed the sleep, so it was good for me.

Before this summer, I was a binge drinker. I would avoid coffee like the plague until the day when, say, I had two midterms on one hour of sleep. Then I would down up to 10 cups—as many as needed to stave off sleep for a few more critical hours.

At first, I thought I could tough it out—I’d just go to bed early. But as someone who usually retires at all hours of the night, early for me was still plenty late to leave me exhausted at work. I started dozing at my desk and in meetings. Usually, I could make it through the first couple hours of the morning, but mid-morning and mid-afternoon were danger zones. I worried people were catching my somnolent habits. Finally, I conceded a partial defeat—my body needed help with the hours.

Tea was ineffectual, and the office coffee maker’s concoction was just plain bad. So I sucked it up and headed for Starbucks. It was a dramatic success—even a triumph, to suddenly be so alert—though it was a defeat to be dependent on coffee to function. Who knew an office coffee run could be such a critical part of the morning?

So the schedule became regular routine: an iced coffee with my early breakfast, and a latte around 9 a.m. The size of the latte could be adjusted to the amount of sleep I had. A healthy night’s sleep could lead to a grande. Two long nights of sleep might even let me skip the second cup. But a night out—automatic venti.

I suppose I had it coming. My parents drink three cups a day. They’re such loyal (or, more to the point, frequent) Starbucks customers that my dad doesn’t even have to say their morning order—the baristas already know what he wants.

But I’m still resisting—this routine makes me feel old beyond my years. The transition to drinking coffee regularly hammers home the hours I need to keep for my job and constantly reminds me of how close I am to forgoing my flexible college schedule for the rigors of the workday.

Enough waxing nostalgic for now, though. It’s past my bedtime.

Stephen M. Marks ’06, The Crimson’s managing editor, is an economics concentrator in Dunster House. He fell asleep writing this postca... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.