by J. J. Murray
And I still have the ring I gave her that she threw back in my face.
Which means that Jewel will be back in Dan’s life. That’s how these books work. He’s hard up and hurt from a past relationship, and as soon as he finds true love with Ty (though I still don’t see how), Jewel will be back with a vengeance. Such a soap opera. I’m so glad real life isn’t this way.
I look at the mess in front of me: seven beer bottles’ worth of labels, two plates of chicken bones, and a pile of sticky napkins. Leftovers from a five-date relationship with…a lesbian who is going home to wait on my waitress, to serve my server, who is going to get the tip of Beth’s tongue.
Damn. I hope the Sam Adams and all those hot wings give Beth some really bad gas. Or loose stools. Yeah, that would be perfect. Just an evening of Darcy and diarrhea. An evening of sucking down Pepto-Bismol instead of sucking face. An evening of starts and farts, fits and shits.
HAAAAA! That’s a good one. Nasty, but good. Funny, but I don’t mind it so much when a man of any race curses. That’s how most men communicate when they can’t think of anything intelligent to say, right? But educated sisters—no, they can’t be cursing up a storm and get my approval.
I reach down to pick up a stray fleck of a label and turn my head just enough to see the delicious, sexy, toned brown legs of the black woman with cat’s eyes in the booth across from me. Beautiful is the wrong word. Stunning. No, dazzling. Classy, definitely elegant. Cute toes, too. She must work out. So smooth, flexed just right, so well-proportioned, so—
So busted.
She saw me.
I raise my head too quickly, bump it hard on the bottom of the table, and see a few stars. When I finally am able to sit up, I steal a glance her way—and she’s smiling at me. Perfect teeth gleaming like that gum commercial. Fabulous.
Or is she laughing? She has her hand over her mouth and—
Yeah, she’s laughing. Private Sidney, a hot black woman from Alabama whom I hung out with in Saudi, used to laugh at me the same way whenever I tried to dance, covering her face with both hands. Yeah, I’m that bad of a dancer. I wasn’t bad at dancing horizontally, though. Yeah, I wonder what Cyd’s up to these days? We used to go at it—
Dan is a freak! Do I want him messing with Ty? What on earth could she ever see in him? Do all white men in their thirties behave this way? This is getting beyond ridiculous. A Californian former-Marine freak of an elementary school teacher is going to hook up with a trailblazing, cultured sister? Against my better judgment, I’m going to give it a few more pages, but it had better get moving, and it had better start getting real.
Geez, I need to get hold of myself. I’m too old to be reliving old relationships and flirting, yet that’s what I’m doing, and who am I flirting with? A black woman sitting next to a guy twice my size just minutes after my lesbian girlfriend has left me to go play field hockey—or should I say tonsil hockey?—with one of Hooters’s finest.
Yeah, life can suck in oh so many special ways.
I toss two twenties and a ten on top of the check. I know that will give Darcy more than a 20 percent tip, but who knows? Things have a way of working out. Maybe things won’t work out between Beth and Darcy, and Darcy will see me in a new light because of my generosity, realize the errors of her ways, and give me a chance.
And then again, maybe Darcy will use her tip to buy Beth a new leopard-skin thong, and then they’ll—
I down a full glass of lukewarm ice water, and as I set down the glass, I look once more at Cat Eyes. Such ripe, red lips, such devastating eyes.
And thighs. Don’t forget the thighs. They are smokin’.
At least he’s not a chest or booty man. Eyes and thighs. I have two pairs of those. They aren’t “smokin’,” but they can smolder when I want them to.
I nod once at her, and she nods back. I put on my coat and nod again. She nods again.
We’ve just had a nodding moment.
I don’t have many of these moments. What do I do next? If I had any guts, I’d go over and speak to her. But what would I say? “Hi, I’m the guy who’s been scoping out your fine, sculpted legs like a drooling teenager, and I was wondering if I could have your phone number, maybe give you a call sometime?” But if the big guy is her boyfriend, I might be leaving with a busted nose to go with my bruised ego.
No, Dan, you might be leaving with his phone number.
Instead, I weave my way through the tables to the door, where I pause to look back at Cat Eyes and only see Darcy at her booth, serving their drinks. What’s Cat Eyes drinking? A…strawberry daiquiri. Hmm. Kind of matches her lips. She takes a sip, those cat’s eyes wide and painfully sexy.
I almost have an epiphany—something about cats’ eyes, strawberries, and leopard-skin thongs—but the epiphany vanishes when stinging rain pelts my face outside the door. Rushing to my Subaru, parked away from the neon orange glow of the Hooters sign, I jump in, start the engine, and pop in my favorite cassette.
Eric B. and Rakim to the rescue once again.
At least he has okay taste in music. So, Dan’s “old school.” I just wish he wasn’t such a freak. Now let’s see Ty’s reaction, and she’d better react. I wouldn’t shrug off a man staring that hard at me for anything—not that it happens that often to me. Let’s see, the last time a man really gritted on me was…I sigh. It was during my first year at Purdue. He was a fifth-year senior football player named…Kentrick? Kendrick? He had looked me up and down and up and even circled me once, like an African lion stalking his prey. I felt so…exposed. He never actually approached me. He just…looked.
And I graduated before he did, four years later.
4: Ty
A white guy nodded at me, and I nodded back. Twice. Either we just had us a moment—in his mind, anyway—or that boy has Tourette’s. And what a perv! Checking me out like that, hard staring at my legs, like maybe he thinks he can get between them. That will be the day.
“Preach on, my sister!” I shout. But then I sigh. I bet they will be getting busy by page fifty, which is about all I’ll probably want to read of this book. That’s one of my rules. I’ll give any book fifty pages, and if I’m not fully grabbed, embraced, and fondled by then, it’s over for me.
Though I do have some fine legs. At least he has some taste. And he does have sandy blond hair and blue eyes. For whatever reason, I’ve always had a thing for blond hair and blue eyes on a guy, not that any of the brothers I’ve ever dated have gone that route.
So, she has never been in an interracial relationship. And Dan the vodka-drinking elementary school teacher/freak, who can’t tell if a woman is a lesbian or a man is gay, is the one for her? What would Mike Tyson say about this? Oh, yeah. This is getting ludicrous.
But why did he tip Darcy? There isn’t even forty dollars’ worth of food on that table. He is obviously a generous fool when it comes to women.
With a “Stupid” sign around his neck.
I turn to watch Mike stirring his Sex on the Beach, still going on and on about Precious Paul. “Paul is somebody I can have fun with, but I don’t see us together five or ten years from now. He’s just not settle-down material.”
Pat slurps her daiquiri. Girl has absolutely no manners. “Speaking of settling down, Ty, are you and Mr. Tickler in it for the long haul, or are you going to get Charles to make an honest woman out of you?”
Oh…snap. Ty has a Mr. Tickler, too! I feel a rush of blood to my face. I know, I’m weird, but I’m feeling embarrassed by something that’s happening to a woman in a novel.
I wonder if Ty has the newest model….
Before I can answer—and I really don’t want to answer—Darcy returns with our appetizers, which gives me a wicked thought: good service means that the server is getting some later. Would Darcy be this busy with our order if she weren’t getting busy after work?
“Here are your drinks, hot wings, and spinach dip. I also brought some extra plates for y’all. Are y’all ready to order your main courses?�
�
I shake my head. “I think this will be enough for me, thank you. Are you guys ordering anything?”
Mike pats his stomach. “No, I had a late lunch so I’m not that hungry. This will be plenty.”
“This is fine,” Pat says. “If I get hungry later, I’ll attack some of the leftovers in the fridge.”
Darcy winces. No big tip for you at this booth, wench. “Great, I’ll bring your check in a few minutes. How should I divide it?”
Pat rolls her eyes. “Just bring one check, please. Whose turn is it to pay anyway?”
Mike pulls out his Visa and hands it to Darcy. “Mine.”
After Darcy leaves, I see Pat staring at me. I know she wants me to answer her question, most likely because she wants yet another of my leftover boyfriends. The girl really likes her leftovers. I dump ’em, and she pumps ’em. She says they taste better the second time you cook with them.
And Pat’s the librarian-looking one? Trifling, just trifling.
I decide to change the subject. “That wench didn’t even ask if we wanted dessert. I guess she needs to hurry up and get ready for her date with home girl later.”
“At least she has a date, and stop trying to change the subject,” Pat says. “So what’s up with you and your love life, Ty? You haven’t been on a date with Charles in God knows how long. I know you’ve been dating that battery-powered Mr. Tickler, and if Mr. Tickler is that good, girl, I may have to invest in one.”
I can’t believe she’s busting out with my business like that! Though I know Mike could care less, I’m embarrassed as hell.
And now I’m embarrassed all over again. In addition to giving librarian-looking people a bad name, Pat is just plain rude. What’s the word? Uncouth. Yep, Pat is uncouth in the booth.
Though I plan to get some from Mr. Tickler tonight if Charles doesn’t come through.
It sounds to me as if Ty has her priorities in order. I’ll bet she has quite a collection of C batteries in her nightstand. She may even have rechargeable batteries warming up in one of those little rechargers right now. I should probably get a recharger, too.
It’s good for the environment, you know.
“I’m just glad you got over Jason,” Mike says. “He was a dawg with a capital D.”
I’m so tired of where this conversation always seems to go. “Why is it we talk about the same damn thing every time we go out?” I ask. “I don’t want to talk about the man I’m with or the men who dogged me out. I don’t want to talk about Charles, and I sure as hell don’t want to talk about Jason. I came out tonight to talk to two of my friends about normal shit, like working, or the last movie you saw, Pat, or the last book you read, Mike. This is depressing.”
Neither Mike nor Pat speaks for a few moments.
“I, uh, I fixed that problem in accounting today,” Pat says.
“’Bout time, too,” Mike says, and in no time, they sit and fuss about working for Wachovia, where Mike is a supervisor and Pat is a systems analyst. I don’t understand a word they’re saying most of the time, because they speak that computer-tech language, but at least they aren’t grilling me anymore.
Darcy gives us exactly two minutes to start on our wings and spinach dip before bouncing up to the table and handing the credit card slip to Mike. “Here you are, sir. Thank you, and y’all have a good night.” Then Darcy bounces away, and I know that isn’t the ass she was born with. It doesn’t fit her white body at all. I’ll bet she got a real good deal on the sale of her singlewide at the trailer park and bought herself a booty. I’m sure her mama’s real proud of her.
Ain’t that the truth! All these no-ass-at-all white girls are trying to get cabooses. They could rid me of mine anytime!
But wait—how are Ty and Dan going to hook up when it’s starting to sound as if Ty doesn’t even like white people? There are far too many opposites in this book. Too much nonsense. This kind of thing would never happen, especially in Roanoke, Virginia.
Mike signs the slip. “She doesn’t deserve a tip at all, but I’ll give her fifteen instead of my normal twenty percent. Everybody has off nights. Are you all ready to go?”
When we get outside, the rain is coming down in heavy sheets. Mike and Pat share an umbrella to his Maxima, while I pop my umbrella and start for my baby, my brand-new BMW 525i, a car I may actually get to own outright in about ten years once the lease runs out. As I’m passing under the Hooters sign, I hear some thumping bass sounding like some old school rap from when I was little—and it’s coming from the old Subaru parked next to me? How dare that little car sit next to mine! I park my car in the boondocks to keep hoopdies like that away from my baby. There will be no scratches, dents, or scars on my baby!
I look through the front windshield, you know, just to be nosy, and see…Dan? He hasn’t left yet? What’s up with him? Is he having car trouble? No, exhaust smoke fills the air just fine. Is he—I hope he isn’t waiting for me. Just because I nodded to him does not mean—
He’s waving. Do I wave back at the man who was feeling up my legs with his eyes? You’re asking a lot, Mr. Dan. First nodding, and now waving. I know you’ve had a rough night, and though I don’t know exactly how you feel—no man ever dumped me for another man—I feel you, Mr. Dan. I squeeze out a wincing smile but don’t wave, get in my car, start it up, and pull out of the Hooters parking lot. I check the rearview mirror to see if he follows—you can never tell with white men these days—then head for home, humming along to that old school beat.
I close Wishful Thinking. The concept is different, but it’s too far-fetched. Ty seems as if she has her life together—a strong sister with a job and a plan. Dan, though, has too much baggage and droolage. Is “droolage” a word? I know I’d probably trash this one, even though I usually give interracial romances the benefit of the doubt, since there are so few of them. I might pick this one up again one day when I’m bored out of my skull.
Good thing I stocked up on C batteries. The checkout girl at Wal-Mart didn’t even blink as she scanned the Duracell megapack, the ones parents buy for all the electronic Christmas toys. Little did she know…
Or, what if she did know?
I’ve embarrassed myself again.
Three times in one night, two from a book, and one from a memory.
I must be crazy.
10
Jack
There’s hardly anyone in the main downtown library today. No wonder I found a parking spot so close to the building.
It’s the day after the day after Christmas. No one’s reading today. The batteries are still good.
True.
I stop at the circulation desk, where a tan woman—check that—a light-skinned black woman is reading a trade paperback. I slide the books onto the counter, and she looks up briefly before scanning the bar codes on the books and looking at a computer screen.
“These books are very late, sir.”
“I just found them today in my son’s room.” I look at her name tag: Diane. “He was, um, hiding them from me.”
She squints at the screen. “The fine on these will be…sixteen-fifty.”
“Ouch,” I say, and I dig into my wallet for a twenty.
“For ten dollars more, you could buy all three,” she says, reaching over and taking the twenty.
“I could? Here.”
Diane finally looks at me, blinking her brown eyes once. “Oh, no. I meant you could buy these at a store for ten more than your fine.” She gives me my change, her fingers lightly brushing my palm.
“Thank you,” I say, as my palm tingles. “Um, where is your, um, African American section?”
She looks up, again briefly, before looking at the books on the counter. “The nonfiction section is—”
“I need fiction.”
She blinks once, and was that a sigh?
It was a sigh.
“In the fiction section, sir,” she says softly.
Oh, yeah. How stupid of me.
You said it.
&n
bsp; “Right.”
I walk away toward the fiction section, feeling foolish. Where will my book be?
In the fiction section.
I messed up. I hope I didn’t hurt Diane’s feelings.
I’m sure you did.
I’ll bet she gets stupid questions like that a lot.
And she’s just hung a “Stupid” sign on you.
She has to have a lot of patience to deal with stupid people like me all day.
I’m sure you made her day.
I look back. Her eyes are buried in that trade paperback again. Here I am, a writer of African American fiction, and I ask a stupid question like that.
Then I realize…that librarian…Diane…touched me. Her fingers grazed my palm, when she was giving back my change.
Don’t read anything into it.
She’s the first person to touch me since the funeral.
But she thinks you’re stupid.
And she thinks I’m stupid.
11
Diane
What a fool!
The library isn’t segregated, except when it comes to nonfiction, yet there he was assuming that we had a special African American fiction section. White folks think in little boxes sometimes.
Wait. The last bookstore I went into had African American fiction in its own section. Segregation isn’t over. Maybe he doesn’t come to the library that often. I mean, those books were six months overdue. And he’s just finding them? What kind of parent is that? Either he’s absentminded and unobservant or that child is good at hiding things. I look closely at the books I will have to reshelve later. They’re picture books, meaning he has a child age four at the most. What four-year-old can hide books from his or her parents?