As kids we all had monsters. Some people stored them under the bed, I kept mine behind the door. As little Robby, I remember I couldn’t walk into my bedroom without looking through the crack between the door and jam for shadow lurkers against the wall.
I remember my babysitter used to love it. A I stuck my eye to the crack, she’d reach out and touch me, “Boo!”
I’d scream. She’d laugh. Good times.
“What are you afraid of?”
“The thing behind the door.” I could never believe my parents let the stupid girl watch me. What else would I be afraid of?
“What’s it gonna do?”
“It’s gonna close the door behind me and say---“
“Today is your last day.” This isn’t the thing behind the door. It might as well be, but it’s not. It’s my friend.
“I know! I’ll get it done. I just need to do this in my own way.”
“Ok…”
My friend’s been pestering me all week. It stared with an email flyer:“Hug your barista week, Jan 26-30,” She added her own personal Nike message, “Just do it.” That was last Friday. Since then, her sleeve-tug reminders have continued, “Have you hugged a barista yet?” And no. My friend is not a barista. That would be too easy. Apparently friends are anything but easy, and that is just a shame.
I shouldn’t complain. This friend wants me to hug baristas, a few weeks ago, another friend I suggested I touch them with something far more intimate.
“Uhm, no. They’re young enough to call me daddy. I’m gonna say no.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
I mean really, I’m having my reservations about hugging my barista, what makes anybody think I can stir anything more than cream and sugar with them?
And if you haven’t figured it out yet, here’s a little Rob fact for ya. I have a very defined personal space and I wear it like a condom. I like it that way. Touching always leads to something more intimate, and we all know what that is: trust.
When MyEx left, the first thing she packed away was touch. I love touch. It’s personal, it’s intimate, and to know a person’s body is one step towards knowing their soul. It’s like the first bond to trust. I haven’t been really trusting since the divorce.
If you’re close enough to touch, you probably should step back. I know you’ve just been lurking in the shadows, waiting to close the door on me. Since my ex left, I haven’t found anybody I can trust. And I’ve done very limited touching.
I’ve gotten good at it too. Some people can hold their breaths for almost five minutes. So far, I’ve gone 30 days without touching another human being.
“You have two days left to touch your barista.”
“But I’m going for a no-touch record…”
“Two days.”
We all view touch differently. To some people it’s just something everybody does. My persistent friend insists that it’s like water and you need it to live. Maybe so, but I’m a camel. I’ll stock up thank you.
Still, I know others that are quite different. I once spent some time with a woman who’s touch was for sex and not much more. Her personal space belonged to her, and there were serious penalties for poachers. The thing I remember most is that she had been married, and what she took with her was her scars, baggage, and this really cool wingback chair. It was nice. It was a dark grey fuzzy comfy thing that you could easily shift sideways in, and lean your neck on one arm while your legs flopped over the other.
The only other furniture in her living room was a couch she’d bought later to fill space. It was a nice looking and made of microfiber. My comfy genes didn’t tingle. It was ok, but it was obvious that she’d bought it for looks and not for feel.
While I visited her, we spent a lot of time in her living room. She lounged in her chair; I sat on the couch. That was her space. That was our intimacy. It was good for her.
For me, now I’m single again and getting used to my space. A space not filled with monsters. When I got older, my monsters changed. Hugging a barista reflects that. Hugging a barista sounds like asking Jenny Allen to dance in junior high. Sure she’s cute soft and warm, but she’s lurking in my foggy libido. What if---
What “what if?” It doesn’t matter. Pick one. What if she likes it? What if she doesn’t? What if I talk? What if I hump her leg? What if I wet myself because I can? These are all things that could happen. And yes, monkeys could fly out of my butt. People tell tales of the dreaded butt monkey days.
“It was back in oh-nine. That was the worst butt monkey swarm on record…”
“Today’s your last day.” And I have an axe.
Great…
See, I’ve been plotting this out. I have a corkboard with barista Polaroids and test names Sharpied beneath each shot. Some pictures have exes, others have question marks. This is a hug. I need to be sure.
There’s a cute twenty year old with long hair, she’s cute. She’s sweet. She’s B#1. She has an “X.” I can’t hug her. She’s too friendly. I don’t want her to think I’m creepy.
B#2 I have no desire to hug.
B#3 She’s the manager, she’ll kick me out.
B#4 I’m not even sure she works here. She just hangs out behind the counter and talks a lot. She gets a question mark
B#5, she’s cool. She’d probably be ok with the hug thing. Her boyfriend might not though. I leave her with a question mark.
B#6 Too Hot.
B#7 Too Cold.
B#8 Uhm…well, if I were the last man on earth, she might. Just in case this is Armageddon Friday, I’ll leave her with a question mark.
So I go for Friday night hugging and coffee. Stepping into the bookstore the first thing I see is a bargain table. There’s a paperback copy of Green Mile, it’s 10% off.
“Dead man walking…”
Great…
I shuffle down the aisle to the coffee shop in the back. At the counter is B#5 and B#? I haven’t taken a picture of. I forgot she worked here. I turn to leave. I haven’t planned on this. I can’t go into this half cocked (so to speak).
“Hey Rob! What’s it gonna be tonight?”
I swallow hard. Sometimes a man’s gotta do…“A hug.”
“Excuse me?”
I explain the whole hug a barista thing, mingled with pesky friends. The girls are nothing if not accommodating. B#5 takes the picture, B#? takes one for the team.
When it was done. It was done. You know what though? I hugged a barista, and lived to tell about it. If I can do that, maybe there’s hope for me. Maybe the monsters in my world are just mist and shadows behind the door. Sometimes you just have to step into the room to see that.
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