Dream machine

I rejoiced and hummed when Jamba Juice opened a new venue directly across the street back in January. It wasn't that I'd minded the five-minute walk to their location in Columbus Circle; I didn't even care about the throngs of diners mobbing the adjacent restaurant. No, what drove me up the wall about the old locale was Wink.

"Welcome to Jamba Juice! Great big day, isn't it?" Wink would sing, hair flaming beneath his cap, whenever I or anyone approached. Possibly he did this on his own, too.

"Sweet choice!" he'd commend me after I sucked up my pride and requested an Orange Dream Machine by its unfortunate name.

"Thanks a lot -- you've been awesome!" he always cheered as I slunk away. (This reminded me of my college secretary at Oxford, who on occasion asked me to sign and return documents to her; every time I did so, she'd beam, "Great job, Daniel!" ...Not that I object to positive feedback.)

I like happy people. Several of my friends are positive joyboys. Wink, though, made me uncomfortable -- and I wasn't alone: "I knew you were cool the second you walked in!" he once assured a timid Filipino woman while she and I awaited our delightful blended treats.

"Wow," she murmured to me. "That's pretty out there."

I snorted. "Tell me about it. You're totally lame."

As weeks passed, I found myself actively dreading my encounters with Wink, who evidently never left the shop; twelve noon, two o'clock, four-thirty -- there he was, eyes acid-bright, accepting orders from customers and asking, per store policy, for their first names. I began inventing aliases. "Alex," I might say, or "Charlie." Or, when feeling more exotic, "Ebony." It got to the point where I filled out a patron-response card: "Wink terrifies me," I wrote, in the shaky penmanship of the deeply afraid. "No more Wink, please." I stopped short of submitting this, of course, but I did keep it on my person in case Wink should ever attack me and leave me for dead.

And then -- O glorious day! -- the providential news: Jamba Juice had set up shop just down the block. "Hooray!" I sang. "No more Winking!" I rushed to the new store and ordered a power-sized Coldbuster. Wink had once prepared this same drink for me; "Little something for your sniffles!" he laughed, and I wanted to cough up blood.

The months since have passed in a creamy, frosty haze, during which time I've diversified my repertoire, sampling everything from Razz-ma-Tazz (sweet and fruity) to Açaí Blast (hippies only) to Mangos! Mangos! Mangos! (a mistake, as I am allergic to mangos). I have also tried all available nutritional supplements, including Protein, Immunity Boost, and Femme. "What about Homme?" I asked my barrista, who was blessed with the non-onomatopoeic name of Sarah.

"What?"

"Never mind. Fill 'er up!"

Yes, it's been a good spell. This Jamba Juice has begun to feel like home, or graduate school: No one knows my name, and they're principally interested in shunting me out the door.

And then, yesterday, I walked in around one-fifteen, approached the counter, shook my headphones from my misaligned ears, and opened my mouth to speak.

"Hey there, superstar! Welcome to Jamba Juice!"

Not my words. No: There, standing before me, day-glo eyes trained on mine, was Wink.

"It can't be," I whispered.

"Beat that heat with a frozen treat?" he suggested, as though I were there for the conversation.

"No..." I gasped. "No..."

"Hey, howja like to try our new Grape Escape? All-fruit, all-delish!"

"You're dead," I told him. "I killed you."

"And it's seedless!" Wink promised.

Part of me withered inside; I shed a bit of my soul. Yet somehow I made it through; somehow I agreed to a Grape Escape; somehow I mumbled "Fernando" when asked for my name; and, styrofoam cup in hand, I somehow staggered to the door.

"Vitamin C-ya-later!" Wink called.

"Eat bleach and die," I somehow did not answer.

So did the other Jamba Juice shutter up? Does Wink rotate through the various franchises, spreading good cheer and shitting rainbows where'er he wanders? And why does he excite such venom in me? Many customers, I've noticed, seem to enjoy his Ned Flanders vocabulary and musical-theater diction. Many customers also seem to enjoy a certain toxic radish-and-onion beverage that looks like clotted dwarf blood.

I don't know what to do. I need my Jamba Juice, of course, but I'd rather not have to roam another half-mile for a fix. I wonder whether I can ask the manager for Wink's schedule.