by J. J. Murray
Gee, they’re numbered right there on the screen, Justin. The last order has a little number twelve next to it. That means there are twelve overnight orders. Isn’t counting fun?
Hope shook her head.
“Well, uh, good,” Justin said.
Though tedious, the orders aren’t that complex. A couple of restaurants, a few hospitals, one from Brooklyn Borough. Maybe an hour’s work here, Justin. Nothing I can’t handle by hitting the commands you still don’t know like ON, FORMAT, and SEND. Luckily, these orders are all black and white on plain white paper.
Justin started shuffling toward the back. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”
I won’t need you. Come to think of it, no one will need you, Justin. Isn’t that why you’re working here? I’d call him an imbecile, but that would be a compliment.
After filling the DocuTech to capacity with eight reams of white paper, Hope configured, ordered, and sent all twelve jobs to print. As they finished, she pulled them from the exit tray, shoved them into plain white plastic bags, attached work orders, and stacked the bags under the counter.
And now, to watch the front.
It never seems to move.
It just sits there all white, gray, and smudged.
That ficus plant on the counter is growing out of control, probably from all the “nutrients” like snot, spit, dirt, sweat, and food crumbs our customers leave behind on the counter. Kiki wipes up that daily concoction and whisks it into the dirt under the ficus.
Bored after an hour of watching nothing happen and seeing no customers, Hope counted red and yellow floor tiles. It’s the same number every time.
She watched no one stopping to buy used DVDs and blue jeans from Mr. Al-Hamsi, a vendor on the sidewalk across the street in front of a Chase bank branch. Really, Mr. Al-Hamsi? DVDs and jeans was the can’t-miss idea to make you rich this morning? You know, whenever I buy a new previously watched and scratched DVD, I always feel the need to wear a pair of almost-new, gently stained blue jeans. She sighed. I’ll bet he’s selling Christmas DVDs already, too. What a waste. Doesn’t he know there are people who hate Christmas? I know he doesn’t mean to be cruel. He’s just trying to make a dollar or two like everyone else.
Hope missed seeing Dario selling oranges, apples, and bananas at his cart under his red-and-white umbrella. Dario was colorful, despite all the fruit flies and, oh, his arrest for selling more than nectarines. No wonder his prices were as high as his regular customers were.
The front door opened precisely at eleven, and Dylan Healy, Mr. Odd Duck himself, entered.
Hope located and picked up Mr. Healy’s order, placing the bag on the counter and ringing him up.
“Hi,” Mr. Healy said.
Hope nodded. I do not say “hi,” “hey,” “bonjour,” or “how you doin’?” In fact, I don’t intend to speak to anyone today. Kiki told me there’s a National Day of Silence in April. I am declaring National Shut Your Mouth Day today, and I intend to keep it holy. I don’t need any unnecessary noise today. It’s hard enough maintaining a good, healthy depression in silence. Conversation spoils a high-quality depression nearly every time.
Hope pointed at Mr. Healy’s balance on the register’s screen.
“This is my busiest time of year,” Mr. Healy said, withdrawing his wallet.
Hope blinked. It’s October, and these aren’t Halloween cards, though they’re scary enough. Who would ever buy these? Maybe he sells them to blind people. Oh, excuse me. Sight-challenged people. What American political correctness foolishness. Without my glasses, I’m not sight-challenged; I’m blind, and the world is a fuzzy haze of shadows.
“I’m getting all sorts of orders for Christmas cards these days,” Mr. Healy said. “That’s why I’m so busy.”
My least-favorite holiday lasts for three full months now. As soon as the back-to-school sales end, here comes Santa. Joy to the brutal world and merry brutal Christmas for ninety brutal days on the radio, too. How festively, brutally miserable.
Mr. Healy handed Hope the money. “Keep the change.”
Twenty-seven cents? Is he kidding? I can’t take his twenty-seven cents. It might break him. He may need twenty-seven cents one day. Hope made and handed him his change.
Mr. Healy shook the change in his hand. “You need a tip jar or something. You deserve a tip for your excellent service.”
This isn’t a bar, mainly because we have no happy hours. I suppose I could put out a “Hope’s Future Beach House” jar. Justin would never notice.
Mr. Healy pocketed his change, his bag untouched.
You have your change, you have your order, and it’s time for you to leave now, Mr. Healy. Now be a good American and run along as if you actually have something interesting to do on a Wednesday morning while the rest of us work. Bye. See you. Au revoir. Have a nice day. Adieu. Shoo.
Mr. Healy smiled. “I don’t sell as many cards as I used to,” he said. “Christmas cards, that is.”
Hope nodded. Go away. Now. Or I’ll throw ficus dirt on you.
“People send e-mails and those e-cards instead these days,” Mr. Healy said. “Or they post Facebook messages. They don’t send anything with permanence, you know, something that will last, something the recipient can actually feel and touch.”
You’re still not going away, Hope thought. Maybe if I just nod one more time, cut my eyes to the killer ficus, raise my eyebrows in warning, turn, and go back to the—
Mr. Healy leaned heavily on the counter, the laminate strip crackling under his elbows.
Get off my counter.
“With a real live Christmas card, you get something to hold on to, to cherish, to show off,” he said. “Look what I got, you know? Look who took the time to think about me during the holidays.”
I don’t waste my time looking. I barely think about myself at any time, much less the holidays.
“Some people prop them up and display them on fireplace mantels and bookcases,” he said. “Want to know where I put them?”
No. I want you to leave. It’s October, and you’re talking about my least-favorite holiday. Maybe if I widen my eyes he’ll get the hint, but he’s not even looking at me. He’s talking to the walls and the ceiling. Maybe if I dragged the old paper cutter up here and slammed it down a few times on a pencil—
“I tape every Christmas card I get onto the back of my door in the shape of a Christmas tree,” he said. “It usually goes all the way to the floor. I put up so many cards. If I have any leftovers, I try to make snowflakes.”
Let’s see, if I kept all the Christmas cards I have ever gotten since moving to the States, I could make a triangle.
“Do you hang up Christmas cards like that?” Mr. Healy asked.
I don’t even hang up stockings. They tend to be empty anyway. Hope blinked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m such an idiot sometimes. You must celebrate Kwanzaa instead, right?”
Hope shook her head. Right. Because I’m black, I celebrate Kwanzaa. What, maybe two percent of all African-Americans celebrate Kwanzaa? Do I look as if I’m in the top two percent of anything? Please leave. Now. You have your order. You have paid. You have stressed out the counter. You have graciously left hoodie lint for me to scoop up to feed the ficus later. Shoo. Some of us have to work and be depressed.
“That gives me an idea,” Mr. Healy said, squinting now at the ceiling. “Maybe I should do Kwanzaa cards this year, too. I could probably have them ready by next Friday.”
Hope sighed softly because it seemed to work for Kiki. I will get to see those Kwanzaa cards if you foolishly make them, won’t I? I’ll have no choice. You’ll be in here with a few Kwanzaa cards for me not to laugh at, and they’ll all be brutal, and since you’re a white American, they’ll probably be racist. She sighed softly again. I do not want to speak to this odd duck of Odd Duck Limited Greeting Cards! Go away now!
“Do you have a cold?” Mr. Healy asked.
He thinks I’m sick because
I refuse to speak. How presumptuous of him. He’s correct, though. I am sick. I am sick of hearing his voice. Hope shook her head.
“Really? I thought you might have a touch of the laryngitis.” He smiled. “You are by far the quietest person I think I’ve ever met in my entire life.”
Because it’s National Shut Your Mouth Day. I should have made a quick “National Shut Your Mouth Day” poster and taped it to the counter. All I’d need would be an open-mouthed smiley face with a big X through it for the graphic. Come on, Mr. Healy. Let me fade away and get back to work doing nothing.
“Hanukkah’s tricky, but I try.” He smiled and shrugged. “Not many takers, but you have to try, you know? Something for everybody, right?”
Go. Away. Now. Please. Shoo.
Mr. Healy leaned over the counter and looked Hope up and down. “One . . . twenty-five,” he said.
Hope squinted.
“Maybe one twenty-seven,” he said.
Hope continued to squint.
“Your weight,” he said.
Which is twice your IQ! Weighing me with his eyes! What kind of man does that? Is that an Irish thing, an American thing, or an Irish-American thing? How can he tell what I weigh? I’m wearing a baggy smock and baggier jeans!
“I did a little street boxing once upon a time,” he said. “I used to wrestle, too.”
I used to think people had intelligence and tact! Oh, right. I’m in the States, more specifically, Brooklyn. Who goes around guessing the weight of complete strangers and continues to smile? It’s not a bad smile, as smiles go. It almost makes that little fingernail of a scar on his chin disappear. He has quite a few little scars on his knuckles, too. A street boxer, huh? I’ll bet the street won. But really! I have to be closer to forty-eight kilograms—I mean, one hundred and five pounds—these days. The metric system is so much nicer when it comes to weight.
Hope took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. How can I make the evil man with the nice smile go away? He obviously is an insensitive fool who prefers the taste of his own feet in his mouth.
“What are you, five-seven, five-eight?” Mr. Healy asked. “It’s hard to tell with all your pretty hair. I’m adjusting for the height of your hair.”
What is his problem? Are vital statistics that important to him, and what does he mean by “all your pretty hair”?
“I used to wrestle at one twenty-five, if you can believe it, and I was about your height at the time. I was an early bloomer.”
An air-lee bloomer. Now I can believe anything! And I am one hundred and seventy-five centimeters tall, about five-nine, thank you.
“Thanks for making such good copies for me, Hope,” Mr. Healy said. “Oh, I’m Dylan, if you didn’t already know. I’ve been coming here for about five years now. You make the best cards in Brooklyn. I mean, you copy the best cards in Brooklyn. No, that’s not right. You are the best copyist in Brooklyn. There.”
Because we have excellent machines, Dylan. I can’t call him Mr. Healy now. He just complimented me, the first compliment I have ever gotten here, but how does he know my name? I accidentally on purpose threw my name tag away years ago in a fit of boredom. Oh yeah. Kiki said my name just last night.
“I’ve been selling my Odd Duck cards for five years now,” Dylan said, “and I think you’ve done just about all of them, Hope.” He looked at the ceiling. “No, I’m pretty sure you’ve done all of them. You do fantastic work.”
I only push some buttons, and if you’ll stop pushing mine, I can go back to work. She turned to glance behind her and swallowed. “I have a lot to do, Mr. Healy,” she said softly, “so if you don’t mind . . .”
Dylan smiled and cocked his head to the side. “Please call me Dylan,” he said. “Mr. Healy is a name fit for an old man on a TV sitcom.”
“Okay, Dylan,” Hope said, “I really have a lot of work to do.”
Dylan smiled. “I didn’t know you were Canadian.”
Hope blinked. How does he know this? I have no accent now! I’m not Canadian in any way these days, and I’m Bahamian and Trini in DNA only. I am an American.
“Where are you from exactly, Hope?” Dylan asked.
Hope turned slowly to face the counter. “Brooklyn,” Hope said.
Dylan squinted. “I meant before you came to Brooklyn.”
Do I confuse him and say Deadmonton or Edmonchuck? Or do I really confuse him and say I come from the land of Medicine Hat, Wood Buffalo, and Red Deer? Or do I seriously confuse him and tell him I’m the emigrant Canadian daughter of emigrant Bahamian parents whose parents were emigrants from Trinidad? No. I’d need a map to explain it.
Hope decided to be civil. “Edmonton.”
“Cool,” Dylan said. “Cold, too, huh?”
Hope nodded.
“A lot colder than Brooklyn, huh?” Dylan said.
You’d be surprised. Weather sometimes isn’t the only thing that’s cold about a city. There are city men like Odell who break up with women on Christmas Eve.
“You hungry?” Dylan asked.
Hope narrowed her eyes. Do I look hungry? I must. Just because I’m five-nine, thank you very much, and only weigh one hundred and maybe . . . four or five pounds, that doesn’t mean I’m hungry!
Dylan tapped an old Mickey Mouse watch on his wrist, the black leather watchband grayed, fraying, and held together by gray duct tape. “It’s about lunchtime, you know.”
Hope looked at the watch. It’s a watch that only tells the time. How rare and old-fashioned is that? A grown man who flirts with obvious lesbians is wearing a Mickey Mouse watch and walking shoes. Dylan is so generic, aside from his long hair. Is this the kind of man I attract?
“It’ll be my treat, Hope,” Dylan said. “Is Subway okay?”
“My treat.” I do like the way that sounds. His treat. Subway’s okay. I like their Italian B.M.T., and he’s paying, and Subway is only a few doors down next to that hair-braiding place, but they look at me funny whenever I walk by. I bet they’d like to have some of my hair. I wonder how much my hair is worth. It would be so strange to see my hair walk by me on some other woman’s head. It would also be so nice to have someone buy me lunch for a change so I can save some of my change. If only I felt hungry, I’d take him up on his nice offer. But I don’t, and anyway, this man has been flirting unashamedly with another Island woman right in front of me for the last month. Hope nodded slightly and set her jaw. Dylan just last night asked freaky Kiki to go out to eat with him. The potential two-timer!
“What about Kiki?” Hope asked.
Dylan blinked. “Kiki isn’t . . . She’s not here today.”
Obviously. “So you just ask whoever’s in front of you to go out to eat with you.” That may be the longest sentence I’ve spoken within these crumbling walls in the past eight years. I need to rest. I feel light-headed.
Dylan shook his head. “I don’t ask just anyone.”
“But I heard you ask Kiki every day for weeks,” Hope said. “What were you trying to do, wear her down like water on a rock?” Or in Dylan’s case, like milk on onyx.
“I don’t like eating alone.” Dylan looked at the counter. “I figured one day Kiki would get tired of me asking her and go with me.” He shook his head slightly. “I guess I was wrong, huh?”
So, if I weren’t here at this counter today, Dylan would have asked someone else, maybe even Justin, and here I was about to feel special.
“Do you like to eat alone, Hope?” Dylan asked.
No, but I’m used to eating alone. Hope shrugged.
“Does anyone really like to eat alone?” Dylan asked.
I’m sure it happens.
“Listen, Hope, I know very well that Kiki has a girlfriend, so I hope you don’t think I was asking Kiki out on a date,” Dylan said. “I was asking her out to eat. That’s all. Two people eating together. I wasn’t asking Kiki to procreate.”
I don’t even have a thought comeback for that one! “Procreate”? It almost sounds dirtier than “screw,” “bang
,” or “get busy,” some of the nicer American idioms for having sex. But to just say it like that! I like how . . . direct he is. He doesn’t waste words. Let’s hear what else he has to say.
“I prefer to have conversations with someone other than myself whenever I eat.” Dylan smiled. “Right now, our conversation is a little one-sided, huh?”
Hope shrugged.
“But that’s because,” Dylan said, drawing in a long breath, “you’re obviously shy, aren’t you, Hope?”
Shy? Me? I’m closed-off, not shy. There’s a difference. I’m a closed person. I have shut my doors. I am a guarded person. I only talk to my whack cat, Whack. I do not talk to men who will talk to any woman who happens to be standing in front of them at a copy shop. So I don’t speak out loud. You should hear how much conversation is going on inside my head, Dylan, and it’s bilingual sometimes. You’d need subtitles.
“Are you interested? It’s just lunch, Hope. No strings attached.” Dylan laughed. “No ribbons either.” He frowned. “ ‘No ribbons attached’ sounds strange.” He shrugged. “Well, it’s almost the holiday season, isn’t it?”
The holiday season. Right. There’s nothing holy about these days, but let’s take stock of this situation. I am hungry, and yes, I’m not exactly rolling in the money, and yes, it wouldn’t be so bad to listen to Dylan talk to himself for half an hour, and yes, “no ribbons attached” sounds completely stupide, but . . .
I hate being the second choice of a man who has asked a rasta lesbian co-worker to eat with him at least twenty times and listened to him ask her every time!
Hope squinted. “I don’t know, Dylan.” Why did I ever call this man Mr. Healy? Dylan isn’t old. What is he, thirty-five, thirty-six?
“I promise not to talk as much,” Dylan said. “I tend to . . . ramble sometimes.”
Make that all the time. Why am I not just saying no? I am obviously ambivalent about this. I want to go back to the boring machines, I really do. I miss how gloriously monotonous the rhythm is back there, but there’s just something about all this that intrigues me. Is it his accent? His smile? His long hair? His ability to pay for my meal? His, well, ability to get me to talk? What?