24 November 2000 ~ Ask your favorite barrista...

There is a Jennifer Holliday song running through my head. I hate Jennifer Holliday.

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How to come onto somebody:

Ask, "Hey, you ever see Blue Velvet?"

If they say no, tell them they look like somebody who would enjoy it, and invite them over to watch it. If they say yes, they have seen it, and hated it, you don't want this one, and should immediately give up. If they say yes, they've seen it, and liked it, tell them you have a copy of Eraserhead and would they like to come over and see that sometime...

I PROMISE this works. I have SEEN it work. As a matter of fact, not only have I MADE it work, but it's worked on me, though not in awhile...

I'm not sure I want this knowledge anymore.

I'm not sure I really care to have a small Helena-fan-club, either. I'm not sure I'm still comfortable with the little sign that says, "Ask your favorite barrista about gift certificates." I'm not sure I like the idea of being anyone's favorite barrista.

As a matter of fact, I most certainly don't like that idea at all -- not anymore.

Sometimes, it feels as though everybody loves me. My friends plead with me to make them sodas and lattés, because "you make 'em best," and they plead with me to sit down and watch their chess game, or sit at the counter chatting with me about Radiohead and the weather, and "back when I was young," or Noreen, or... Whatever. And it's quite nice, and I feel very competent, and I know most of the right things to say...

But then Java's closes, and I walk home alone. No friends to walk with me, no parties to go to... A few invitations, maybe, to go have a couple of beers on North Street, but I'm always a little scared to take anybody up on that offer... So I go home, or I go to Norman's apartment. I type or watch movies. The next evening, I'm back at the coffeehouse, and it starts all over again. Everybody's favorite barrista, but I go home alone.

Now, it wouldn't have to be this way. I know damn well I could go to North Street for a couple beers. But I don't know if I'd be intact in the morning. Worse comes to worse, I could always tell somebody I've got a copy of Eraserhead and see if they followed me home -- this has NEVER been known to fail, anyway. But that's not exactly what I want.

What's happening is that Helena's closest friends aren't really all that close unless they're sitting in Java Joe's. And if they're not sitting in Java Joe's, they don't remember Helena at all, unless they've got that strange fantasy about sleeping with a barrista, which as not as uncommon as you might think.

What's happening is that Helena currently has the option of going home with somebody different three times a week, and somehow, working at Java Joe's has given her enough self-confidence to know she actually could do it if she chose. But one-night stands and being the town ho aren't in Helena's plans.

Helena is a little lonely.

Helena feels like a fraud, because when she's not making lattés and being L'il Miss Customer Service, she's reading quietly or listening to soft music. And NOBODY has the faintest clue of what I do when I'm not in public. My life is divided into two sections: barrista and bookworm: public and private, and never the two shall meet unless Norman stops by for coffee. It feels strange when Norman's around in Java's. I always wonder if he's watching me and wondering which part is really me: the barrista or the girl who cuddles up next to him for movies and bass-lessons.

I feel as though I have a lot of secrets, and it's completely unintentional. I'm not trying to hide my life; I'm not trying to compartmentalize everybody and keep my small pleasures to myself. I would love to have people come over to my apartment and watch movies with me and get pizzas and chill. I would love for people to come over and study at my house while I read, and to giggle more than we read.

I'm not entirely sure any of this makes sense. My job is not alienating me from the rest of my life. My job has brought me closer to dozens of people, and I'm qite happy with it. But when the doors close, those dozens of people have gone off without me, and I keep getting the distinct feeling that there are very few ways I can combat that slight feeling of desertion. But I'm not planning on sleeping around, and I'm not planning on going to the North Street parties...

This isn't making sense, and I have to get going.

~J.H.T.*