It began as a shitty day.
I came to work and I confided to somebody who barely knows me and who has no personal investments in my life, that I wasn't sure things were working out with my boyfriend, Norman. (Ah the blessed joy of the bartender syndrome! You can tell anybody anything, and it doesn't matter because you're not a real person; you're behind a counter and thus have no real life outside of serving drinks... or coffee... whatever...) He asked, "Why?" But I wasn't sure what to say.
I stood there thinking about Norman, and about curling up in his arms and kissing his bare back, and playing with his hair, and whispering stupid nonsense about Satan and buggering clowns with squeaky noses... About fishsticks and Seattle and crazy people (we'll get to THAT part later...)... Why wouldn't things be working out? When I'm so comfortable with Norman, and so happy around him, and... for gahd's sake, I TRUST him! (What a weird idea! To trust someone you're dating!)
Norman came in late last night. I'd already fallen asleep in his bed, and got up for a glass of water to kill the recycled-grape-soda taste in my mouth. Norman was sitting in the kitchen reading some papers. Some academic-looking papers. I flinched. It was six in the morning. But Norman got himself some water, and put the papers down, and crawled into bed next to me.
I don't remember all the exact words -- it WAS six in the morning -- but I remember asking, "when you were in the bathroom, were you saying something about 'all my joyous penises'?" He raised his eyebrows and said, "No, I don't think so..."
"I must have misheard. Sorry."
"Yeah, probably. Baby, I think you mishear a lot of things I say."
(I have bad ears... Runs in the family... Very small crustacean tubes, or something like that... Can't hear a damned thing in crowds and can't make out stuff through bathroom doors...)
And he said, "And don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you understand a lot of what I'm saying, and a lotta times I wish I had somebody who understood me. That's why I've been kind of distant lately, working on my music, and I'm going to be working a lot on my dissertation..."
I don't know. I can't remember. I was tired and Norman sounded a little stoned, a little rambly. It was something to that effect. Something to the effect of, You don't understand me.
And yet, there he was, holding me, kissing me, falling asleep with his body practically meshed with mine. How is it possible to feel so close to somebody and yet so desperately far away?
Sometimes I feel so stupid. ("Baby, you're not stupid!") No, I'm not stupid. However, I am ignorant and uneducated. I can do simple math in my head and have the vague idea that Napoleon was French, and come to think of it, I know enough French -- and Spanish -- to look down for a minute during a foreign film and still know what's going on without the subtitles. I can read, I can analyze, I can write in complete sentences with perfect spelling and grammar (not that I always DO, but whatever). But the truth is, I skipped or slept through two years of high school, and I'm a college dropout. My knowledge, my understanding of how the world works is based on a few books, most of which I've plucked from Norman's shelves in the past few months. That, and Lynchfilms and Pink Floyd songs.
I know almost nothing about music, unless you count my extensive collection of classic rock trivia. One of the most important things in Norman's life, and I'm completely unable to hold a conversation with him about it. I also know almost nothing about philosophy, another of Norman's passions. Nathan asked me once, "So what exactly is Norman studying about? What, specifically, is he interested in?" I didn't really know. Transcendence, I guess. Truth, probably. But Norman hasn't really explained much of his studies or interests to me. I guess he really shouldn't have to. After all, isn't it sort of nice to be dating somebody who has similar interests? Or even the capacity to UNDERSTAND your interests?
But the truth is, I have little to no academic background. I have absolutely no music background -- and Aaron, don't you DARE insinuate that anything of importance came out of so many pointless years of high school chorus... I'm Norman's little dropout. Norman's stupid little dropout.
So I'm laying there, trying not to be hurt, trying to remind myself that I really shouldn't be taking these comments seriously, that Norman was a little stoned maybe and I was half-asleep. But I was hurt, because no matter HOW Norman meant his words, no matter that they came out harsher than he intended them, they're true. I don't understand him, and I'm no match for his grad-student friends, and I was laying next to him, laying in his arms, and I couldn't fathom why Norman would want to be with me. We have so little in common. I'm a minimum-wage kid with no discernible future and a fairly disappointing past; an underachiever who learned to play chess in coffeehouses instead of doing her philosophy homework; a B-student who was almost held back a year for low intelligence; a plain jane with a kitten and a couple food-service jobs and not an idea in the world of what "hermeneutics" are.
You could do so much better than me...
I almost got up, dressed, and left. I wanted to be alone. I wanted Norman to be alone. I wanted not to be a cuddly little thing in Norman's bed, but somebody who's actually got a little bit more substance than a cute body and a decent knowledge of how to make a latté. I wanted to go home and read and maybe cry and listen to Radiohead. Norman doesn't like Radiohead. But just one Radiohead line kept running through my head: "I don't belong here..."
But I didn't leave. I stayed and was warm and cuddly and ignorant.
[In college, in my political science class, we talked a lot about art: what constitutes art and why and why it's relevent... Professor Bank asked, why is a stick-figure drawn by Jean-Michel Basquiat considered art and a stick-figure drawn by a six-year-old is not? The answer, sort of, was the intent with which the picture was made, and the passion and inspiration within: the parts of the drawing which are not visible. The six-year-old has no concept of what he's doing. Jean-Michel Basquiat must have known his work LOOKED like a six-year-old's, but there was a passion and a drive in his life and his work... Thus, art may be partly defined AS art because of its appearance, but intent and emotion must also be taken into account. I feel very much like a six-year-old. I am not incapable of creating happiness in the world around me, but perhaps it's just the whimsical doodlings of a stupid child; no goal, no particular intent or passion. Norman must feel very much like he's dating a retard.]
You could do so much better...
"...I don't belong here..."
And so I fell asleep, trying not to cry, trying to force myself to believe I've got something to offer other than sex and sweet-nothings. Sweet nothing... I awoke, mid-afternoon, and went to work, unhappy and angsty.
...Of course then, nothing seemed to go right, as things always seem to work out. I asked my co-workers for help, and they didn't hear me, and I became frustrated and a little bitchy. A customer -- a regular, whom I like -- kept making strange requests (more foam in her drink, less foam in her drink, extra salad dressing please and a bigger cup of pasta salad, etc, etc, etc...), which put me in an even more rotten mood. And then, the worst of all: a crippled man came through the door.
...But not just any crippled man. A man who had been banned from Java Joe's for harassing other customers. A man who used to drive his wheelchair up to random tables and tell lawyer-jokes to lawyers, ie, "a lawyer, a rabbi, and a dentist are in a boat..." A man who used to tell random women they were pretty, and say things like, "you're a lucky man to be married to this good-looking woman; I wish I had somebody that pretty to sleep next to me every night." A man who used to try asking me out every ten minutes. A man who used to make all sorts of crude comments to the female staff. He's crazy, he's rude, and because he's handicapped, someone has to help him get his self-serve coffee. Now, I very much enjoy getting coffee for Bob, another regular customer who has a wheelchair. But I DESPISE waiting on this man; he drops things so you must pick them up, and he tries to squeeze your bottom. He stares at you hungrily as you're getting him his coffee. He watches you, he asks rude questions about your sex life, he tells stupid racist jokes, he tells sexist jokes, he tells jokes about lawyers and rabbis and dentists. I cannot stand him.
I smiled when I saw him come in the door with a walker-type creation. I was cranky and he was banned from Java Joe's. Instead of telling him to leave immediately, I got him his order -- rather rudely -- and smiled to myself. The fun was just beginning.
I waited for him to piss me off: "Do you cash checks here?" he asked me. "No," I replied. "This is not a bank." He insisted I hadn't gotten him his order correctly, and demanded a refund. I slapped his refund back on the counter in front of him, not even looking at him. He slunk up to a customer at the bar and told a "Mexican" joke directly in front of a person of Hispanic descent. Infuriated, and yet tensing myself up for some real fun, holding myself back, I went outside to have a cigarette.
A girl came outside. "What is that crazy guy's problem!?" she demanded, upset. "He was just asking me if I had a husband, or a boyfriend, and was like, staring at me and sort of... almost coming onto me... Gahd! Ew!"
I finished my cigarette. I giggled. I went inside. I walked up to the guy with the walker-thing. I was ready for a confrontation.
"Excuse me, sir, WHAT did you say to that girl?"
"I didn't fucken say nothing to her!" he cursed -- loudly.
"Sir, you've been asked before to leave the other customers alone, and if I'm not mistaken -- and I'm not -- the owners of this establishment have asked you not to come here anymore because you were bothering people you didn't even know. I want to know what you said to her; she's upset about something you said."
"I didn't fucken say NOTHING to her! You get the fuck away from me!"
"If you're going to be bothering the other customers, you're going to have to leave. People don't need to put up with your smart remarks, and this is not a place where people come to have you upset them."
"Get the fuck away from me!"
"I WORK here, sir, and I can be ANYWHERE I WANT, thank you. You, however, have been asked to leave, and if you're going to be belligerent, you're DEFINITELY going to leave. If you don't want to do that, I will call the police and have them escort you out."
"Fucken go ahead. I didn't say nothing to nobody! Get away from me! Get the fuck away from me!"
"All righty then." I began walking away, sort of grinning inwardly. Crazy guy, nothing; Java Helena, a hundred.
I called the police, during which time the crazy guy staggered across the room, attempting to flee. He must have knocked into one of my co-workers or something; I couldn't see what was happening, but I did hear some things being thrown around, and the crazy man's cane-walker thing being slung viciously around. Then I heard my co-worker raise his voice slightly, attempting to calm down the crazy guy. There was a lot of screaming, some cursing, and a yelp: "GET YOUR FUCKEN HANDS OFF ME! I DIDN'T DO NOTHING!" Apparently, the crazy guy took a swing at my co-worker. Perhaps not the most brilliant thing in the world for a precarious handicapped person to do, but certainly a reason to hit "redial" on the phone immediately and tell the police that an altercation was breaking out. They were in the restaurant within one minute.
Heh heh heh! No more crazy guy. Banned for life.
Okay, so all of this COULD have been prevented; I really didn't HAVE to confront the guy. I could have been a little less aggressive. I could have let him be a pest and had everybody else ignore him. But I was in a shitty mood, and I wanted that dude OUT.
For the first time in my life, I kicked somebody out of my place of business. For the first time in my life, I called the police for something important. For maybe the second or third time in my life, I confronted somebody and was actually assertive. My voice didn't break, my eyes didn't stray, my words didn't fail me.
I stood behind the counter for a moment or two, shaking. Pleased with myself and no longer cranky, but shaking and a little scared of the bitch I'd suddenly turned into. Of course, IMMEDIATELY, a flood of customers decided to order things, and a shaken and somewhat-traumatized Helena had to handle hot milk...
Maybe five minutes after the cops had reckoned with the crazy guy, a gentleman wandered up and said: "Helena?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Derrick. I've read your journal..."
*sigh* Of ALL times to meet my honorary pet-DJ (I also have a pet lawyer and a pet hairdresser), it WOULD be when I'm a mess and trying to recover myself before I had to sit down and do some deep-breathing. Funny: I listen to his show, and he reads my journal, and we WOULD end up formally meeting one another after I've just freaked out. Oh well. It was cool anyway. I hope I didn't come off as being insane.
...And then Norman showed up. He apologized for starting some kind of serious conversation when he was maybe a little stoned and it was six in the morning. He said his words hadn't come out right. I smiled. I kissed him. I made him a triple-Americano with special Seattle-beans. I told him the adventure of the crazy guy and we laughed.
I still couldn't rid myself of the thought that I'm a cute little prop to him; that for whatever happiness I might have brought him, I'm still fumbling around in the dark and drawing stupid stick-figures with espresso grounds. How does one transcend that, anyway?
I helped close the store, and I put on some techno, and I came home. It's been a long and draining 24 hours. I think I'll take a nap.
~Helena*
"...and the freaks are all out on the town..." --Sheryl Crow