Can't Get Enough of Your Love

by J. J. Murray

  God is a jerk because he’s a man.

  I open the window and shout, “You jerk!”

  Hmm. It’s not wise to challenge God by calling him a jerk.

  I lean out and look up into the sky. “Sorry.”

  I close the window.

  “But you’re still a jerk,” I whisper.

  Who else can I blame for this mess?

  Who else can’t I blame for this mess?

  Hmm. I can blame society for being such a prude. Yeah. It’s society’s fault. A woman is allowed to be happy, a woman is allowed to feel pleasure, but society says, “No way, sister, you just lie there, take it, and be miserable.” Society sucks. Society can kiss my black ass.

  What’s left of my black ass. I’m losing weight? Oh yeah, I haven’t eaten in a while.

  Now what was I saying? Oh yeah. Society. Society says a woman is to go through school quietly, not take math and science seriously, not play sports but be girly, not do anything but stand by her man and make babies. Society says a woman must look gorgeous at all times, yet as soon as we do something “man-like,” like Martha Stewart, they use our gender and our beauty against us. A woman, dressing as provocatively as all those ads scream for us to dress, gets raped, and all the damn lawyers can say is that “she was dressed provocatively, and she was asking for it.” We’re damned if we do, and we’re damned if we don’t. A man screws two thousand women, and we put him in the Basketball Hall of Fame. A woman screws two thousand men, and society calls her a “ho.”

  Who else, who else …

  Oh yeah. Number 39, the bitch. You can kiss my black ass, too. If you hadn’t tackled me with your big, fat head inside that helmet, Roger wouldn’t have even been here taking care of me. We would have had some fun after the game, but he would not have spent the night, instead leaving long before Karl came over. I would have been better rested, I wouldn’t have let Karl go see his trucker, and I wouldn’t have weeded out Juan Carlos at all.

  Damn, that ankle’s misshapen. And I can’t afford getting an X-ray! Why did I tell Mama to take me off her health plan?

  Shit.

  Ooh, I am going to hurt number 39 next year, you wait and see. She’s going to have a torn knee ligament from me—for both her knees. The only thing she’ll be able to do is crawl. Yeah. I’ll use her to wipe off my cleats. I’ll use her as a footstool. I’ll make sure she never says anything about anybody’s mama again!

  Juan Carlos, why did you hang up on me? Why didn’t you let me finish breaking up with you? You didn’t have to come all the way out here. It wouldn’t have come out any differently in person. If you hadn’t run your Mexican ass out in your mama’s broken-ass car, I could have saved the day. I could have gotten Roger out of the house by saying “my half brother Karl” doesn’t like white people. I would have told Karl that “Mr. Wilson” was fixing my sink or something. I could have played it all off! I know I could have pulled that off. But no, Juan Carlos, you had to come up in my yard cussing in Spanish and fussing about the damn alternator in your mama’s broken-ass car.

  And Roger, why the hell did you take the day off? People get buried on Mondays, don’t they? I’m sure several dead people didn’t get planted because you were here. I was managing my affairs just fine. I have lived twenty-five years without you. Why would I suddenly need you just a few hours after you left me swimming in my own juices after that erotic phone call?

  And Karl, why do you suddenly reappear at the wrong damn time? Who or what told you to come back from New York City to ruin not just my life, but four lives. Four lives, Karl! Four lives you ruined because you wanted to come home and get a leg up.

  I could also blame Mama, for not fighting to keep me at her house. If I had stayed home, none of this would have happened.

  No, moving out here was all my idea. And she did try to stop me. I just wasn’t listening.

  I could even blame Daddy, for teaching me how to play football. If I hadn’t been playing in a football game, I wouldn’t have been injured, Roger wouldn’t have been here, and …

  No, I can’t blame Daddy. Teaching me football was one of the only gifts he ever gave me. I wouldn’t be who I am without football in my life.

  I’m still pissed.

  I need to break some shit.

  After taking a full twenty minutes to get out of bed, down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the house, I collect rocks, stacking them on the dock. Then, I go frog hunting, whizzing rocks into the reeds, throwing them high and watching them splash, choosing ones with sharp edges to cut the heads off cattails.

  And all this reminds me of Roger. Damn. This reminds me of Frankenstein and the little girl who the monster made wet.

  Owww!

  Damn, my lower leg is the same size as my upper leg. That’s not supposed to happen. I had better go to the emergency room.

  I drive to the emergency room at Roanoke Memorial, talking and cussing all the way. Drivers around me must think I’m crazy, but I don’t care. I’m just working it out, y’all, that’s all.

  In the emergency room, the intake nurse, or whatever they call her, can’t believe I waited five days to come in.

  “I’ve had plenty of ankle injuries before,” I say, “and most of them were just sprains. I’ve been icing it, and the swelling just didn’t go down this time.”

  “You could have a blood clot,” she says.

  Oh, I feel so much better. “Look, I, uh, I don’t have health insurance.”

  She frowns. “You’re not under your mother’s policy with Aetna anymore? Our records show that you are.”

  Yes! Thank you, Mama! “I meant, I don’t have”—think fast—”I don’t have the fifteen-dollar co-payment.”

  “That’s okay, dear,” she says. “We’ll just add it to the bill.”

  Which will arrive at Mama’s house at the end of the month. Shit. She’ll find out, she’ll worry, she’ll start calling again—

  Damn you, number 39!

  Two hours and some nifty black-and-white pictures later, I find out that I have fractured my ankle.

  Fractured.

  Yep, that about sums up the last few days.

  They put me in a plaster walking cast, load me up with prescriptions for painkillers, and roll me to my car in a wheelchair.

  How in the hell am I supposed to drive? I’m not leftfooted! I have to do a split to put my right leg on the passenger seat, and I’m not wearing clean drawers.

  Luckily, the nearest pharmacy has a drive-through, and even more luckily, I have to pay only a buck forty-nine for three bags of generic painkillers, and luckiest, I don’t get a perverted person helping me while I’m spread-eagled in my own car.

  I’m glad Mama didn’t drop me from her coverage. I’m glad she doesn’t listen to me.

  But when I get home, I get the urge to break shit again. They still haven’t called me, those assholes! I open a few kitchen cabinets and look long and hard at Jenny’s many china plates. I pick one up. This is a hefty thing. Nice balance. I could throw it like a discus against the trees outside. But then I notice little chips on the edges and lots of skinny lines etched into the china. Hmm. Lots of forks have hit these plates. There’s a lot of history in my hands. I’ll spare them.

  For now.

  I wish I had some pictures to burn, but I have no pictures to speak of. None. They don’t have any pictures of me, and I didn’t dare have any pictures of them around the house. I have nothing but memories, nothing but memories that are fading fast because of these painkillers. I have nothing, and I’m feeling nothing.

  All I have is a pair of boxers and some bling to remember them by.

  Oh, and the nasty sheets in the closet. I still have them.

  I could burn them, and the colors would be so pretty….

  Chapter 21

  It’s Wednesday. I’ve already missed two days of work.

  Why not make it three? These painkillers are kicking my ass, and at least I can call in with the truth this time.

  “I
won’t be coming in today….” Hmm. “Or tomorrow,” I add.

  “Why?”

  All secretaries are nosy by nature, I guess. “I broke my ankle.”

  “You poor dear!”

  All secretaries are also sympathetic by nature. “Yeah.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Saturday, at my game.”

  Silence.

  “I thought it was just a bad sprain, but it turns out I fractured it.”

  “You could have had a blood clot.”

  What’s up with all this blood-clot nonsense? “Well, it’s in a cast, and I’m heavily medicated, so …”

  “So you’ll be out tomorrow, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Friday?”

  What about it? Damn. Get all in my business. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Hope you feel better.”

  “Thanks.”

  What to do, what to do …

  There’s not much you can do in a bed with your leg encased in plaster. The damn thing made it nearly impossible to turn over last night. I have never had a fractured or broken anything before—besides my heart, that is. And this cast is supposed to help it heal? How? How is not moving something going to help it heal? I should be in physical therapy or something, icing it or something … something …

  Damn. I have to stop taking so many painkillers. What time is it? Two o’clock? I need to wake the hell up.

  I’m sure one of my men will return to me today, maybe all three of them. I have to be conscious in case that happens. And when they take a long (and hopefully hard) look at me, they’ll get much more than they bargained for. They’ll see me in my pain, feel even worse for leaving me, and beg for my forgiveness.

  Speaking of forgiveness …

  Hey, God, um, sorry for calling you a jerk yesterday, but, well, I was pretty pissed at you. You understand, right? I’m sure you have lots of people pissed off at you, and I’m willing to bet that more women are pissed at you than men are. It’s just a guess, God. I mean, when you’ve been coming in second as long as we have, you just have to channel your aggression, pain, and suffering somewhere.

  Anyway, I’m here all alone with this broken ankle, and, well, could you maybe kick one of my guys in the ass and get him out here? Just one would do, that’s all. Just one of them, and I really don’t care which one right now. Just give me one, God, and I promise I’ll be faithful to him. That’s right. I promise to get on the straight and narrow, shape up, and fly right. I’ll get married and stop being such a hoochie.

  I even promise to go to Izzie’s church (although it doesn’t seem to be doing her any good). And when my ankle gets better, I’ll go witnessing with her.

  Just one, now, God. That’s all I need. Just one man out of the billions of men on this earth. Just, you know, whisper in his ear, something like, “Lana needs you.” Oh, you’ll have to whisper, “Peanut needs you” to Karl and “Lahhh-na” to Juan Carlos. Otherwise, they may not understand.

  And I, um, I promise to let Mama come visit me. She wants to visit so badly. It would be a shame to keep her away any longer. I’ll call her right up just as soon as one of my men comes back to me. And as I said, it doesn’t matter which one. Really.

  Okay, I like Roger’s bedside manner best and at least he can cook a little. I am kind of hungry. Though Juan Carlos has the warmest hands. I’m, uh, I’m feeling kind of cold these days, you know. Kind of lonely, too. And if you should send Karl, so be it. I sure could use Karl to give me one more night of pleasure—

  Hmm. I might be asking for a bit too much here.

  And four hours later, I have to put another bug in God’s ear.

  Listen up there, God. I know I was asking a bit much from the original inventor of abstinence, but what’s it to you? What does my sex life have to do with the grand scheme of things? Don’t you have a quota of good deeds you have to do every day? Well, get with the program. I mean, you invented sex, right? You invented it so it feels good, and it feels so good that we humans miss it when we aren’t having it, you know? You don’t know. That’s right. Damn. How could you invent something you didn’t ever try out first? Well, you sort of had a fling with Mary, but I’ll never understand that one. I’ll bet she didn’t fully understand it, either. “Honestly, Joseph,” she probably said, “I went to sleep and woke up with child.”

  Look, I’ll settle for just one kiss, just one more kiss, and it doesn’t have to be with tongue. You know all about kisses, right? They’re sweet, they’re innocent, and they’re really a sign of friendship.

  Oh yeah. Your son was betrayed by a kiss. Well, he wasn’t kissed by the right person, okay? Judas wasn’t his friend, but then again, you knew that, right? Why didn’t you stop it all?

  Okay, okay, I’ll settle for a kiss on the cheek, then, damn. I just need to know there’s some love out there, you know? One kiss on the cheek won’t break you. One little peck, and I’ll be fine. And I won’t complain if his lips are chapped. Honest.

  Okay, okay, okay, a visit. He doesn’t even have to get out of his car. I can just talk to him from the window or the front door. Yeah, we can talk through the door. I don’t have to touch him. We can just talk, okay? And all those promises I made, I promise to keep them. I am promising to keep my promises.

  All right already! One stinking phone call. Is that asking too much? Just a one-minute “How ya doin’?” Come on, God, you know I don’t normally make promises, so you know this is a great sacrifice! Hell, I’d even be glad to get a hang-up. At least I’d know someone thought enough of me to dial my number.

  All right then, a letter. Get one of them to write me a damn letter. It should get here in a couple days, and I’ll use my crutches to go out to the mailbox and get it. I’ll get off my ass and accomplish something. One letter.

  The sun is setting outside.

  Anything! A shout-out on the radio! A howl! A wrong number! A scratching at the door! Hell, even a Peeping Tom will do the trick!

  The sun has set.

  Thanks a lot, God. All I have is a stank foot, crusty toes I can’t reach, and a body that will smell like feet for six weeks.

  Thanks for more nothing.

  Jerk.

  Chapter 22

  And now, I’m sick.

  I didn’t sleep a wink, keeping my eye on the cell phone on the nightstand. Damn green light kept me up all night, and now I have a sore throat.

  “Hello,” I say to Jenny’s yellow walls. I sound like Barry White. “Hey, baby.” Okay, maybe like Barry White when he was going through puberty. It’s actually … kind of sexy, husky and musky.

  No, that’s just my body. I have to get in the shower somehow today. The doctor said to use a garbage bag on my cast, sealing it with duct tape, as if I have some handy.

  Wait. If I sound like Barry White on the phone, the first man to call will think another man is here! I have to take some cough medicine or something, or—

  They aren’t calling.

  No one will call.

  They can’t call.

  They just found out they were part of a love square.

  They won’t come running back.

  Speaking of running …

  My nose isn’t. And that’s kind of good. I can’t smell the extent of my funk. Ooh, my chest is tight. I need some cough drops or something. No, cough drops make me cough. I must have an ironic body or something.

  And why am I thinking “or something” all the time? Whoa, the bed is tilting, and what’s that? Sweat? Shit. I bet I have a fever. Is there any vitamin C in the house? Why take that shit? All it does is turn your pee bright yellow. Uh-oh—

  Damn, I’m sweating so much I can barely stay on the toilet seat. I had food poisoning once and nearly threw out a hip thanks to the diarrhea. Ooh, this is stinky stank. Where are the matches? Shit, they’re downstairs. Oh … damn! My body’s letting go and flushing itself. I’ve already flushed four times, and—

  My goodness. A flock of ducks just left the pond
when I flushed. My shit isn’t flowing into the pond, is it?

  I will never eat a fish out of that pond.

  I stagger out of the bathroom carrying what’s left of a partial roll of toilet paper just in case, flopping onto the bed. I have a pounding in my brain, two hammers clocking my temples, and two little birds pecking behind my eyes. I wipe some crusty green goo from my eyelids. I am so colorful. I unravel some of the toilet paper and blow bleu cheese dressing out of my nose. Definitely chunky. Then I cough, and it’s as if I’m hocking up a lung, a sour, metallic taste in my mouth.

  Hey, God, thanks for letting me know I’m alive. This is just great!

  I call the secretary at PH. “Joanie, I’m really sick. I think I have the flu or something.” There I go again with “or something.”

  “What’s your temperature?”

  I don’t have a thermometer in the house. “One-oh-two,” I say, though it might be higher than that.

  “It might be your medication. Is it a sulfur-based drug?”

  Secretaries know just about everything. “I don’t think so. It’s just some …” I pick up the painkiller bottle and shake it. I barely hear anything rattling around in there. I open it. Just one left?

  “Lana, are you there?”

  “Yeah, um, I’m just taking some painkillers.” I read the label to myself: “May be habit forming.” Wonderful. But I’m not worried. I was sort of addicted to men, and now look at me. I can quit them any time I want.

  “Well, you take care of yourself, and you better stay home again tomorrow, just to be safe.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up and realize that I can’t take care of myself at all.

  While breezes crisscross through Jenny’s bedroom, drying my sweaty face, I feel so numb. I guess I’m being punished. Yep, that’s it. I’m being punished. God is punishing me for having too much happiness.

  Jerk.

  King Solomon had a thousand wives, and I can’t have even one man come check up on me. Jezebel was worse than I ever could be. Bathsheba was at least twice as bad as I am. Salome was a million times worse, dancing for her stepdaddy and getting the head of John the Baptist for a present. Whatever happened to her? Did she break her ankle and have three men dump her for her punishment?