Starter Fluid in Virginia City

In Virginia City, the morning does not arrive so much as it imposes. It comes creeping over the hills like a bill collector, unwelcome and punctual, and finds a man in no condition to receive it.

There are those rare citizens who greet the day with a smile. These people are either newly arrived or under suspicion.

The rest of us rely on coffee.

Coffee, in this town, is not a beverage. It is a moral arrangement.

It is the thin, steaming line between a functioning society and a collection of individuals staring at walls, wondering who authorized existence. Without it, a man is liable to forget his own name and sign important documents with a question mark.

I have seen otherwise sensible citizens in Virginia City attempt conversation before their first cup of coffee. It is not a success.

Words come out in the wrong order, if they come out at all, and thoughts arrive late, like trains with no respect for schedules. One fellow tried to butter his hat and tip his toast, and he has not been consulted on civic matters since.

But give that same man a cup, strong enough to alarm a physician, and you will watch a resurrection take place. His eyes regain their focus, his opinions return with confidence, and he is prepared to argue about things he understood perfectly well yesterday.

Coffee is a stimulant, which is an understatement, like calling a stampede a brisk walk. Coffee does not so much stimulate as it negotiates, persuades the brain to resume operations under terms it would otherwise reject.

I do not claim it improves a man’s character. It merely makes him capable of displaying it in public without causing concern.

Thus, in Virginia City, we keep our coffee close and our expectations modest. For the morning is a difficult institution, and we are, most of us, poorly equipped for it.

Still, with sufficient starter fluid, a man may yet pass for competent until noon, which is all society has ever truly required.