CARLTON FLETCHER: Learning to live with my Coke addiction

“I met her in a club down in old Soho, where you drink champagne and it tastes just like Coca-Cola.”

— The Kinks

Hi. My name is Fletcher, and I’m a Coke addict.

Hi, Fletcher.

Perhaps I should clear this up before I continue: The Coke I’m addicted to is liquid and comes in a 12-ounce, red and white can. No white powder in a baggie for me, thanks.

And while my addiction is much less expensive than that other kind, its power over me is no less all-consuming. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, supper, midnight snack, fancy restaurant, fast-food joint, bistro, vending machine … if I’m having food, except on rare occasions, I’m washing it down with Coke.

Of course, my habit is reinforced by the fact that I don’t like — can’t stand — tea … sweet, unsweet, flavored or whatever. (And, yes, several right-thinking Southerners have accused me of not being a bona fide Southern boy due to my disdain for the region’s drink of choice. But it’s the way I’m built.)

NOTE: I’ve also caught hell from a bunch of “real men” because I don’t drink beer. A couple have told me — straight-faced and with not a hint of good humor — that they’ve never trusted a man who wouldn’t sit down with them and drink a beer. Telling them I don’t like the taste got me about as much sympathy as telling them I was raised by wolves.

Here’s why, I think — although I hate when people with no training try to psychoanalyze people, even self-analyzers — I am so hooked on Coke. Growing up, we a) didn’t have a lot of extra money in my family to buy such treats and b) were told that soft drinks would give us kidney stones. So my brother, sister and I got one Coke each a week. Thinking back on how we tried to stretch those 10-ounce bottles of God’s own elixir as far as possible makes me laugh even today.

First of all, as any serious Coke-drinker will tell you, there’s not a big shelf-life for an open soda. As Seinfeld explained to Kramer, “I don’t really want to get into the science of carbonation, but …” We Fletchers, though, would try to make our weekly drink (yes, we called it “drank” … we were from Ocilla) last as long as possible by drinking small swallows (“swallers”) at a time. Which became dicey because if one of us found ourselves near the fridge with no one around, we’d steal swallers from any open Coke we found.

I came up with the brilliant solution of putting a rubber band around my Coke bottle, running it down to the level where my remaining soda was. I nearly broke an arm patting myself on the back until I realized my devious brother or sister could just steal a swaller, then move the rubber band down to the new level. Damn … the best-laid plans of mice and Coke drinkers foiled.

When I grew up and started making my own rules and my own money, it dawned on me — immediately — that I could drink as many Cokes as I could afford. So searching through the circulars in the Sunday paper to find which stores had Cokes on sale became a ritual I carry out to this day.

People say that Coke addicts/snobs like me don’t really know the difference between Coke and Pepsi, they’re so similar. Sorry, but to me that’s about like saying there’s little difference between a Mercedes and a Pinto … they’re both cars. Challenged to taste tests to see if I could tell the difference between the two soft drinks, I never failed to pick the Coke.

Now I’m not saying I’d never drink a Pepsi. Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and take what’s available. But when I go into one of those aforementioned restaurants and order a Coke and the waiter/waitress (and thank all of y’all for the thankless job you do) says, “Is Pepsi OK?,” I always say, “I’ll take a Dr Pepper.”

You have to have a go-to back-up plan.