JAVA HONEY

Mia, figlia di Cassiopeia,
How do your ganglia glow?
With gossip ripe and naughty tripe
And little lies decked with a bow.

The new roaster thinks he’s the next Emily Dickinson and offered me these lines—jotted on a scrap of butcher paper—as evidence. Color me skeptical, sweetheart. Granted, his take on the misunderstood artist routine bears a touch of comic pathos, rendering his presence in our drab warehouse faintly ridiculous, like a thoroughbred trapped in a petting zoo. But that hardly makes him brilliant.

I’ve loved coffee all my life. I earned my nickname, Java Honey, before I could drive—and assuredly not because I imbibed the occasional mug of Maxwell House. No, I’ve always been a connoisseur, aficionado, habitué, snob. I like the good stuff. It’s only natural, therefore, that I’ve wound up working at Strange Bird Coffee Roasters, where I serve as a kind of liaison between the Bird, as we say, and the many shops, markets, and restaurants that serve our fine product.

The new roaster doesn’t have a nickname. He goes by Jake—a perfectly acceptable cognomen for a roaster, except that it doesn’t suit him. Roasters are bad boys—grubby, tattooed, roguish, and wildly attractive. Jake, though he tries, is bookish with spectacles to match, absent-minded, baffled by machinery, and a little too pretty. I’m sure he likes girls, it’s not that . . . but not many girls I know like him the way he wants them to.

I consider it a miracle he hasn’t yet been fired.

My duties require me to spend most of my time out in the field, but I do of course make regular stops at Strange Bird Global Headquarters—the aforementioned warehouse containing our roasting facilities, flanked by two wings of offices. These visits afford Jake the opportunity to regale me with his quirky attempts at conversation. Usually I just walk briskly and silently past—but I always hear, even through the roar of the propane burners, the off-kilter question, weird remark, or gnomic non sequitur he hurls in my direction.

“To know the center, investigate the circumference.”

“What will you learn when you wake beside the river?”

“Those pants are hot!”

This sort of thing.

I share an office with my colleague Caroline, whose wit is gentler than my own and so casts Jake in a somewhat sweeter light—less Asperger’s Syndrome, more Henry Darger, perhaps. It is she, in any case, who defends him whenever I indulge in a bit of slanderous fun at his expense. Our town, you may be sure, is well-supplied with Jake tales.

Though it happens rarely, one of the best ways for a girl to win temporary local fame is actually to date Jake, then dish the gory details afterward. Thus we know about his shabby apartment filled with books and sketches, his reclusive habits, empty bank account, poor diet, and bumbling sexual technique. I shudder to imagine carrying out such an espionage job myself, though I did once invite him to a party only to insult him in front of my friends. Honestly, he’s so vain—he needs us to bring him down a peg or two.

Caroline’s point, however, is that, regardless of how accurate our cattiness might be, it only reflects badly on us. Our collective image of Jake, she says, is really just a portrait of our own insecurity—especially in my case since, she maintains, Jake and I look so much alike we might be siblings.

Needless to say, Jake and I look nothing alike.

But I do admit there’s more going on with him than just his eccentricities—one might even say that these are simply the clouds obscuring a deeper, more authentic activity.

Caroline had a dream recently in which the word bodhisattva appeared in fiery script on a black starfield. She’d never known the word before and was surprised, when she looked it up, to learn its meaning. While she didn’t come right out and say so, I know she attributes the dream to Jake, to his presence in our lives.

The truth is, we’re all a little afraid of him—and it has something to do with the fact that, as implausible as this sounds, he seems to be the instrument of some tremendous, mysterious power. I don’t intend to suggest that the goofball I work with is one of Satan’s minions. I mean, rather, that, just beyond the threshold of what’s possible to articulate, a kind of energy pours through him, a force composed of wisdom, love, even blissful peace.

Have I introduced a paradox? Is the young man I describe not the most impossible tangle of contradictions?

I plead guilty, Your Honor. Yet he exists. Many of my friends have admitted to me that they find Jake positively uncanny and, under the direct glare of the energy I’ve described, feel as though they’re being abducted by aliens. Consequently, Jake attends less than his share of social soirees.

Still, there must be some rational explanation.

Sometimes, walking in the woods, one comes upon a tree with a cicada’s translucent, hollow exoskeleton clinging to the bark. The insect outgrew its old shell and molted—burst through. Is it possible that Jake is transforming himself in analogous fashion? All his surface awkwardness might just be the husk of a former personality shielding a new one taking shape beneath, hints of which we glimpse in those flashes of miraculous radiance. It seems so farfetched. But, if not, who—or what—will ultimately emerge?

Caroline believes that we at Strange Bird will bear witness to the event and that we are therefore obliged, by being supportive, to help Jake carry it through.

Meanwhile, I focus on my work. This is an exciting time at the Bird. We’re poised to grow exponentially in the next quarter, and I’m lucky enough to be in charge of one of our major new accounts. Obviously, this state of affairs puts me in a capital mood. Jake told me he finds my burgeoning self-confidence exceptionally winning.

“That may be,” I replied, whirling about. Just over Jake’s shoulder, another roaster opened the gate on his machine, and a wave of hot coffee beans poured out into the cooling tray. “But you know I have a boyfriend.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“He’s a drummer in a rock band and a talented painter and is simply covered with tattoos.”

“You’re out of my league, I can see that.”

“Certainly I am.”

“Miss Mia, I’m glad we got that straight.”

“Why, everybody knows you’re the town freak!”

“Is that so?”

“Indubitably.”

“Well, maybe you’d be willing to consider making up your own mind. Most of those people have never even met me. You at least have the advantage of observing me at close range.”

“All I see is a funny-looking poet with no sense of style.”

“Fair enough.” He reached into his pocket and fished out a pair of glasses. As he unfolded them, I saw that one lens was tinted blue, the other red. He slipped them onto my face. “Notice any difference?”

“Sure. Now I see a purple poet with no sense of style! Can I keep them?”

“Of course. They’ll help you see the truth more clearly from now on.”

I thanked him and continued on my way.

I have to admit I do wear the glasses from time to time, though never when I’m on duty. Usually I’m at home by myself. I stare out the window and think about Jake and wonder what it’s like to change into another person.

To be honest, I think it might be fun.