12 January 2001 ~ Watched, unmarried, and flooded...

I was treading up and down through the coffeehouse today, mumbling, half under my breath, "Bring outcha dead! Bring outcha dead!" and collecting dirty dishes from tables. (It's been very much a Monty Python week, although I'm not sure why) And I realized, you know, I love my job. Love it. Never a dull moment, and even if there is, there's always Ann Landers to read. I can't believe they pay me to do this.

So I worked, and I reveled in the idea of basically not paying my electric bill for the rest of the year, and I griped about my stupid cat, I forced people to read passages from the book I've been reading, glorying in watching their eyes grow large, I explained what a "peaberry" is to a kid with awesome hair, and I did a lot of dishes.

...And made the best cappuccino I've ever made in my life.

They PAY me to do this! Gahd, what are they thinking?

I made a delivery today to one of Javas' regular customers, who said, "Helena, that was a GREAT article in the paper the other day!" Disconcerted, I smiled and said, "well, actually, I was a little disappointed in it... I'm not really so morbid or depressing as she made me out to be. But you know that..." Sherry, the customer, usually sees me bouncing around and demanding that people try the biscotti; I bet Sherry never in her life imagined "depression" and "suicide" as having anything to do with hyper little Helena and her knowledge of peaberries and amaretto-soy steamers. Thanks a lot, Press & Sun-Bulletin.

"Oh, but it was a nice article," insisted Sherry. "And in that picture they printed, what's that poster on the wall? Is that... Eraserhead or something?"

"Yeah," I grinned, and went on to explain about Eraserhead. Sherry's so cool. When I grow up, I want to be like Sherry and live on Washington Street and drink soy-amaretto concoctions.

It occurred to me that now nothing is sacred. I knew, of course, when the reporter called me to interview me about my journal, that a lot of people would see the article, and a bunch of them would come to my site. It didn't, however, occur to me that people I sort-of KNEW would be coming to my site. People who see me passing by every day, and whom I might make small-talk with, but... Wow. Now I'm an open-book; Helena Thomas is no longer Helena Thomas, but somebody you see every day and somebody who gets you your coffee, your fishsticks, and buys orange juice at your gas station. If I ever had a secret life, not that it ever was so secret, and not that I intended to compartmentalize, it's gone now. No secrets.

Which, I guess, is okay, as I'm not one of those people who goes around proclaiming, "I'M A PRIVATE PERSON!" I just didn't expect this.

Of course, the people who read the stupid article -- which I DIDN'T WRITE, so people can stop saying "nice article" -- but not the journal are now going to think I'm AWFULLY fucked up. Okay, well, whatever. I guess they're just going to have to get to know me a little better if they want.

Who ARE you, Helena Thomas? I see you every day, and all this time, you've been going home after work and typing all of this stuff I never knew about... What ARE you? I thought I knew you... I thought you were the smiley kid with the coffee who always bitched about her cat and her ex-housemates... I didn't know... THIS...

Who ARE you?

My favorite response to this bizarre turn-of-events, ie, the article in the newspaper, is a private entry in my guestbook from a local DJ... He mentions something about me making him a cappuccino, says he recognized the picture in the paper and decided to check out my site. It's funny; I wouldn't recognize him if he ran over me with a truck. Rather, I might know him as "The Cappuccino Guy," although there are a few of those, and I'm sure I've seen him before, probably a number of times, but I can't put a face to him.

He says he's the night-time DJ at a station around the corner. Of course, several stations are housed in the same building around the corner, but, come to think of it, I think I might listen to his show twice a week at Sharkey's; I think it's the same person. How strange. I am so close to this person; so close I've taken money from his hand and put coffee into it. So close I've listened to his show night after night for gahd knows how long. So close that he's probably reading this, knowing how my day went and what I'm doing tonight, knowing damn near everything about me... So close that if he said, "...and here's a little Jethro Tull for ya..." I'd know him instantly by his voice... So many ways I sort of know this person, and yet he's faceless to me. A name without a face. A voice without a face. A guestbook entry without a face, but with a voice and an aroma of cappuccino... Is he 90 years old? 28? Wears a beard? Short, tall? The guy with the ponytail?

I feel watched.

Surprisingly, it's not such a bad feeling. It's sort of intriguing. Not quite the paranoid sensation of "are there cameras in this public restroom?" but a sort of mystery. I must now assume that everyone I see knows everything about me, that YOU, the nameless girl with the red jacket; YOU, the couple that looks like Barbie and Ken; YOU, the hot lawyer guy with the briefcase; YOU, the cappuccino guy; know everything about me. I am no longer anonymous, no longer a name without a face. *I* have a face, and none of the several dozen "hits" I've had today do. You are now "hits," as well as people I see everyday: numbers and guestbook entries as well as faces, but never the two shall meet unless you step up to me, introduce yourself, and say, "hey, Helena, I read your journal." Such a thrilling dichotomy! So surreal!

Now, can I go see a movie tonight without being recognized as THESE WORDS? Can I go to work tomorrow without someone knowing my life story? I don't know. Is this fame? Is this what it's like to be Madonna in a restaurant? Is this what it's like to be the mayor, or the president? *shudder* What a kick!

I'm not afraid, just... jittery. In a good way, I think. I've never had anything like this happen to me. I'm fascinated by Mister DJ, too; so public, speaking to hundreds and hundreds of people every time he opens his mouth in front of the microphone, and yet, faceless, like I was. What brilliant, beautiful irony.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Heard yesterday that Erich is engaged. Am not sure what to make of that. He wanted to marry me once, and I wanted to shoot him in the stomach.

So strange that my peers are old enough to marry! How unreal it seems to me! Two of my old JavaKid buddies went out and got themselves respectively hitched. And now what? I always wonder what happens after you get married. Is it weird to go to the same old hangouts? One day you're hanging with your friends and your boyfriend in a bar or whatever, and the next day, you're hanging with your friends and your HUSBAND? Do you drop off the face of the earth then? Do you settle down and have a family? Do the stupid old kid-things stop mattering? Are you suddenly a unit apart from your family and friends?

I've had three marriage proposals in my life, if you count Erich, whom I wanted to shoot in the stomach. Another was Mike, who barely knew me except as the first girl he'd slept with. The other was a passing comment: more of a "how was your day?" than a "want to spend the rest of our lives together?" And after that comment, which that person likely doesn't even remember, I decided I never wanted to get married. "You and I should just get married or Whatever."

Funny, how these things affect me. How I knew it was just passing nonsense about how to solve all the problems in the world in one fell swoop, ie, matrimony, and yet, I went home, and I thought about it, and I wondered, do I love you that much? could I stay in love with you for the rest of my life? can I go to school and get a job and grow up and struggle through my teen angst and still believe you're The One? can I DEAL with you for the rest of my life? can I deal with you through the end of the week? what if I met someone else? how well do I know you? what if you cheated on me? would I hate you, or would I ask you how it was? would we be Soul Mates anyway without the bureaucracy of a marriage license? Those thoughts scared me, even more because I knew they were not thoughts he was having. If anything, he wanted a tax-break and a way to piss off his ex. And perhaps a very good friend around for a very long time. This was a very long time ago. I don't suppose anybody remembers but me, although I still remember what music was playing and what the room smelled like.

I still can't comprehend this marriage bit. I'm too young to be a wife. But no, I'm really NOT, at that. After all, Erich's a few weeks younger than me. Mike, Bennie, and Marianne, all of whom are hitched or soon-to-be-hitched, are within a year of me, except Marianne, who's two years younger. I'm too immature to be a wife? Maybe that's it, although I don't really think so. I'm too commitment-shy to be a wife? Perhaps. What would I DO with a husband? Seems the entire world revolves around the nuclear family, beginning with husband and wife, then kids. And what if I'm scared of being just like everybody else? What if I'm scared of getting old and growing up? What if I'm scared of being like what I remember my parents as being? What if, once and for all, I'm an adult and I've got somebody at my side to love and cherish for ever and always? What if I love someone but I've got noplace else to go if I'm pissed off at them? What if I'm never again allowed to kiss anybody else in a more-than-friends way?

I don't think I'll ever get married, at least not until... until what? I don't know.

So strange to see kids I used to play with getting married. So final.

I hope Erich's fiancée shoots him in the stomach.

*grin*

* * * * * * * * * * *

I just found my bathroom ceiling partly caved in and yellowish water dripping down the walls. My landlord is at a funeral, and can't come to the phone right now. WHY must people die when my bathroom may be flooded in the morning? I hope I don't drown. Actually, maybe I'll go out and get something to eat and stay at Norman's house tonight. I hope my kitten doesn't drown. Well... okay, she can drown. She ate an entire bag of my Chexmix last night and then had the chutzpah to meow at ME when she got a stomachache. She can drown. Whatever.

This bathroom situation is making me very nervous. I think I'm going to leave now, and bid you all a very hasty farewell...

~Helena*