09 July 2000 ~ The Ray-Bob shirt...

Well, it's official... I live alone.

I suppose I really ought to update you on the ongoing housemate-saga... Now would probably be a wonderfully opportune time, as I am finally alone in MY HOUSE...

I came home this evening to a bare living room -- the couch Jeff and his boyfriend brought here is gone. Personally, I couldn't be happier about it. The couch was ugly and uncomfortable. Also, it meant that they were officially gone. That, and the keys lying on the floor. Ohhh, glory be; free at last...

Next, I peered in their bedroom. Nothing. Nothing but a big black garbage bag that appears to be full of recyclables or something...

A wine bottle was sticking out of the top, and so I brought it to the kitchen to recycle it. No recycle bucket. They stole my damned recycle bucket. THAT is low, okay? Especially since it has THIS address written on the side in huge black letters.

I began looking around to see what else they might have taken. They took their toilet paper, of course. And my blue sheet, which was covering their ugly couch -- I fully intend to get that sheet back, because the set was very expensive, at least for me, and very comfortable.

Upon taking further inventory of my things, I've found the following things missing: a reddish shirt (actually it's roughly the color of spaghettios), my Savage Garden CD, and a box of popcorn. Okay, fuck it; they can have the popcorn and worse comes to worse, I can replace the sheet set and the Savage Garden CD. But NO ONE can replace that red shirt. It's the ugliest shirt I have ever owned, but I LOVE that shirt, god-dammit, and there is NO forgiveness for somebody who defiles that shirt. David and Meg gave me that shirt. I named it Ray-Bob, after the guy who had given it to them. He was this headcase who thought David and Meg couldn't afford clothes of their own, so he scoured garage sales and Salvation Army stores for them. He'd bring them over these huge stacks of clothing every now and again, and almost all of it was extremely hideous. But he thought he was doing a good deed, and they didn't want to disillusion him... Well, David ended up wearing some of the nasty clothes, and Meg got a good laugh at the rest of it before they took it back to the Salvation Army or whatever... But that one shirt, that red shirt -- they gave that to me. And yes, it was ugly, and we all knew it was ugly, but god-dammit, that stupid fucking shirt made me a part of the family, you know?

Jeff and his boyfriend can just ROT for this one. There is NO way they could have known the significance of that shirt -- nobody knew except me. There's no way they could have known, and there's no reason they would have wanted it, because it's ugly and worthless and it wouldn't have fit either of them, but it's GONE and I'm infuriated.

I also kind of want to cry. You ever get that feeling that you lost the very last part of something important? Suddenly, I feel as though the last whooping crane on earth just died somewhere beneath my ribcage. It wasn't about the shirt; I have plenty of shirts, and even if it had been a particularly nice shirt, I could have replaced it... It wasn't even about Meg or David, even though I rarely get to talk to either of them and miss both of them very much. It was about that day -- that day they gave me that shirt, and how happy I was that they shared the stupid fucken ugly shirt with me.

[I know I'm supposed to be giving you the housemate-update, but now that I've discovered my shirt missing, I really can't stop in the middle of my rant... It's all got to come out or I'll never be able to sleep...]

...See, Meg and David were -- well, are -- both several years older than me... I was a high school kid. Meg was maybe 3 or 4 years older than me, and David was 7. Now, that doesn't really seem like a huge deal, but then... Then, there was this division... There was the Java Crew and there was the Java Kids. The Java Crew, according to me and my notebook, Diane, consisted of the people who worked at Java Joe's, and a few of the "regulars" who just always seemed to be around: the ADULT ones. The Java KIDS were the kids who hung out in the back with their skateboards and their battered walkmans and their punk-rock patches and their black-markered bookbags. The Java Crew was a little older than me, mostly. The Java Kids were my age; 16, 17, 18... right in there someplace.

Can you possibly understand how hard it is to be a 17-year-old kid who finds herself trapped between Generation X and Generation Whatever? Well, when I put it that way, you couldn't possibly understand... Okay, how about this: your friend Emily, who you grew up with, is practicing to be a veteranarian, and is picking apart the remains of a dead crow in the bathroom of Java Joe's. Do you tell on her because you love and respect the Java Crew and you don't want them to lose business when an old lady walks in there and screams bloody murder? Or do you let Emily go about her bird-picking business because you love her and you grew up with her? When your friend Rachel is giving herself a tattoo in the back of the store with a safety pin and a bottle of India ink, and an old lady is back there looking pretty green, do you open your mouth and say something and maybe get her kicked out, or do you say nothing and let the Java Crew possibly get into trouble because of the actions of your stupid, immature friends?

I cannot tell you how my loyalties were torn. I knew all of the things that went on: the crusade to get the Java Kids out of Java Joe's, the awful things the Kids did without ever getting in trouble for it...

Generally, I sided with the Crew. The Kids never knew how many times I tattled on them. Often, when I knew they were going to do something awful, like set a fire, or make a bomb, or have sex in the alley, I turned my back on the whole situation. I pretended I didn't know about the coffee-mugs they hid in the bushes so they wouldn't have to pay for refills. I pretended not to know a lot of things. And when things got really bad, like Emily picking apart the dead bird, and Rachel giving herself a tattoo, I spoke up -- very quietly whispering, "Um... guys, can you go see what so-and-so is doing before anybody ELSE sees what they're doing?" I loved that place. I loved it more than anyplace in the world, and I loved the employees too... even Collin, who was just fucking retarded and could never make a sandwich without stuffing half of the ingredients into his mouth.

Sometimes, I sided with the Kids. Sort of. They'd run off someplace, and I'd tag along. They'd break into a house and I'd keep guard (I swear I will tell that story someday, but not now...). They'd wrestle and spar and I'd watch instead of wandering away. They'd gossip and I'd listen. And one day, I sat with some of them, absently picking petals off one of the flowers in the center of the table. Kim, who was -- I think -- the manager then (at least SHE thought she was), saw the partly-shredded flower, and freaked on me. "WHY would you do that, Helena?" she accused. I said I didn't know and hung my head. I didn't think I'd ever been so ashamed in my entire life, and I didn't think it could get any worse until she told David and Meg, and David came over and said something -- I can't even remember what anymore... I felt like such a little kid. I so desperately wanted their respect, especially David's, and even Kim's... It was such a stupid trivial little thing: being told not to pick petals off the flowers. But I didn't WANT to be told "don't do that." I didn't WANT to get into trouble. I didn't want to be a fucking Java Kid. I wanted to grow up; I wanted respect and comradeship. I fled the restaurant in tears and didn't come back for several days. Kim quit a few days later. I never saw her again. To this day, I feel like I'm about four years old when I think about that incident.

On the flipside, of course, the Java Crew did take me under their wings, and most of them really did respect me -- maybe not quite as one of their own, but close enough so that I was allowed in the restaurant after hours, when the chairs were on the tables and the doors were locked. I got to help carry the day-old bagels over to the soup-kitchen thing. When Alan complained about "The Kids," he didn't include me. Meg used to tell me, "Helena, go back and see what the Kids are doing and then come back up here and tell me." Those things meant a LOT to me. It was harder than hell to resist some of the peer pressure put on me, and I do admit I'd done a few unsavory things with the rest of the Kids, but for the most part, I EARNED that respect: I fought for it tooth and nail.

And of course, I was in love with David... I knew he honestly considered me a friend, but I also knew there were seven years between us. And seven years is a LOT when it's like, 40% of your life. I wanted so badly just to make that gap disappear. If I could have had one wish, that would have been it: to be a little older, and a little wiser, and a little more knowledgeable about Twin Peaks.

But there were certain times I knew I was a part of things -- REALLY a part of things. Like when Meg offered me alcohol. Like when Collin begged me not to tell about him eating 90% of some lady's sandwich one day. Like when Kurt and Meg played Trivial Pursuit and had me read the cards to them as they were cooking. Like when David let me close the store with him one night and we stole a pint of ice cream and brought it back to his apartment to eat while we watched a movie or something. LIKE WHEN DAVID AND MEG GAVE ME THAT SHIRT.

It's 5.30 in the morning. I was supposed to tell the story about my ex-housemates and what assholes they are, and all of that, but...

...but right now, all I can think of is that shirt; that stupid ugly shirt. It was like an acheivement award or something: for finally fucking growing up enough to be an honorary member of the Java Crew. At seventeen, that's one hell of an accomplishment...

I hate Jeff right now. I hate his stupid boyfriend, too. I really want to resort to whining and throwing things and letting myself be a little kid who's had her favorite possession taken away. I feel a lot like a little kid now. I feel a lot like a little kid who's just been scolded.

I feel like lighting a fire out back of Java's.

I'm going to sleep before I get myself any more worked up. Tomorrow, the rest of the story about Jeff and Thinger. And how they threw my Twin Peaks tapes all over the floor. Ohhhhhh, I hate them. I hate them SO much right now, I could just kill them.

~Helena*

"...and she won't give up... 'cause she's seventeen..." --The Cars, "Let's Go."