I'm Your Girl

by J. J. Murray

  I look at the stack of books that need to be reshelved and count thirty. No sweat. At any rate, I’ll be glad when I get back to the reference desk. The circulation desk gets so mind numbing sometimes.

  And as I walk, I can’t help but look for duck shit on the carpet.

  I read way too much for my own good.

  14

  Jack

  “A normal man—we’ll call him Arthur—and a normal woman named Di meet at a…”

  I’m telling a story in Stevie’s—my (I keep forgetting)—room to Mr. Bear. Mr. Bear isn’t blinking an eye, but I can sense his disapproval. Something about the way that eye just…dangles there.

  “Well, anyway, they meet somewhere, uh, normal, and at first, they don’t really like each other—which is normal—because they don’t know each other very well. We human beings are paranoid that way. We don’t like what or whom we don’t know.”

  And this human being is a little drunk. That’s why I’m not talking to myself tonight. I don’t want any competition when I’m drunk. And besides, Mr. Bear isn’t nearly as judgmental as I am. I mean, as judgmental as the voice in my head is. Or something like that.

  And even if I were sober, I couldn’t possibly make that last bit make any sense.

  I had gone to Food Lion to buy some fingernail clippers and some more Kleenex, and it had a whole refrigerator section dedicated to Kris Kringle Eggnog, twelve-proof and half off, limit of four, be sure to use your MVP card.

  I took four, and three are already…somewhere.

  “So these exceptionally normal people are wary of each other at first, you know, checking each other out, maybe occasionally catching the other’s eyes.” I take a swig. Too sweet! “Or, in your case, Mr. Bear, catching each other’s eye. You really ought to see a bear optometrist.”

  Mr. Bear seems to grin. I blink. Wait a minute. He always seems to grin. He’s frozen that way. It’s why I don’t trust him. He smiles too much.

  “Oh, ha-ha, Mr. Bear. I didn’t mean you ought to see a bear naked optometrist. I meant that you needed to see—”

  A phone rings somewhere in the house. I wonder where I put it. Probably next to the Kris Kringle Eggnog bottles.

  The phone stops ringing by the time I get to the kitchen. Figures. I turn to go back to Mr. Bear, and it rings again.

  I snap up the phone, but I don’t speak. Sometimes you can catch people off guard that way.

  “Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice, one unfamiliar to me. I keep silent. “Is anyone there?” she asks.

  I can’t resist. “I’ll check.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you burp?”

  “I must have the wrong number. I was calling about a Mustang.”

  The damn car. “You have the right number, and no, I haven’t sold the car yet, and yes, it has a lot of mileage on it, and no, it’s never been in a wreck, and yes, the back windows leak.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  It’s one of those long “okay”s, like o-kaaaaaaay. It’s a cute “o-kaaaaaaay,” though. It’s even kind of sassy.

  “Is there a place where I can drive by and see it?”

  A unique choice of words. “You want to do a drive-by?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Then come by twenty-eight Frances Avenue anytime. It’s sitting in the driveway, and it’s yellow. You can’t miss it.”

  “Okay.”

  Another long “o-kaaaaaaay,” even cuter and sassier than before.

  “When is it convenient for you?”

  I blink. “When is what convenient for me?”

  “For, uh, for me to come by to see the car?”

  For a minute there, I thought she meant something else, something full of dramatic, guilty pleasures. “Oh, anytime is convenient. Just not now.” I’m in the middle of a long story with Mr. Bear, my story critic, and we can’t be interrupted.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly come by this evening. How about tomorrow, say, around ten?”

  Tomorrow is…Sunday. I should be going to church. I’ve been saying, “I should be going to church,” for the last six months. I wonder if they miss me at First Baptist…or if they even know I’m not there. Oh, I’m sure they do. We were members, and Stevie was in the children’s choir—

  “Hello?”

  “Okay.” I say it short like “okay” is supposed to be said.

  “And if I like what I see, can I take a test-drive?”

  “Sure.” Now go away.

  “See you tomorrow. Bye.”

  Click.

  I return to Mr. Bear and stare him down.

  He wins. Note to self: never have a staring match with a stuffed animal.

  “Now where was I? Oh yeah. Let’s say that Arthur is a man like me.”

  Mr. Bear doesn’t look too sure. He’s such a skeptic sometimes.

  “I’m normal. Most of the time. I think. But what really is normal anyway?”

  Mr. Bear looks bored.

  “Okay, okay, no philosophy tonight, I promise.” I go to the window and see what’s left of the snowman. The sun, that yellow sun, is so cruel sometimes. My snowman has become a watery gray amoeba with brick feet. “Mr. Bear, you’re being very tight-lipped tonight. You need to learn to communicate better. So, tell me, how are we going to get these two together? How are they going to meet?”

  He could be selling her a car.

  I squint at Mr. Bear. How’d he do that without his lips moving? Or do bears even have lips? They have jowls, don’t they?

  “Okay, he could be selling her a car.” I pause to collect what few thoughts I can catch. They’re running away so fast tonight. “But it’s not just any car, oh no. It’s his dead wife’s car, and…he tells her that right up front. He says, ‘Before you go any further there, Di, there’s something you should know. This is my dead wife’s car.’”

  Mr. Bear seems to look away. I can’t blame him. This is all so painful for him.

  “‘That’s right,’ I’ll tell her, ‘this is my dead wife’s car, and as you can see, it’s a car to die for, Di.’”

  You don’t want to sell that car.

  “No, I don’t, Mr. Bear, but I have to. It’s far too yellow for this neighborhood.”

  I flop onto the bed, my head clearing some. Sadness will do that, you know. “Okay, uh, seriously now, we’re going to take a sad, divorced man…Yes, a sad divorced man who really didn’t want to be divorced at all, a man who still loves his wife and son dearly, and they’re still alive, and…and we’ll hook him up with an equally sad and lonely woman named Di at…a church?”

  Mr. Bear seems to shrug.

  “No, that’s been done before. How about a restaurant?”

  Mr. Bear seems to roll his one good eye.

  “You’re right. That’s been done before, too.” I turn to Mr. Bear. “Well, you’ve been far too quiet all this time. I want to know what you think. Where can we have them meet?”

  Mr. Bear only looks out the window.

  “Outside? You want them to meet outside? In this weather?” I laugh. “You bears are all alike. Humans are fur challenged—I keep telling you that!”

  Mr. Bear still stares out the window.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I follow his line of sight out the window and see two trees. “You want them to meet in some trees? Like Tarzan and Jane?”

  Mr. Bear doesn’t laugh. He has no sense of humor. It’s probably why they had him stuffed.

  “Okay, you’re being stubborn, but I can see by your eye that you’re on to something. Okay, trees, trees, trees…are used to make paper.” I turn to Mr. Bear. “A-ha! You want them to meet at a newspaper stand!”

  Mr. Bear doesn’t bat his eye.

  “She might not have the correct change—those stands don’t give any change, you know—and he might have an extra quarter and a dime…”

  Did Mr. Bear just blink?

  “I’m warmer, though. I can feel it from the softening of your eye. Let’s see…” I pace the roo
m. “Paper, paper, paper…is used to make…toilet paper. You want them to meet in the bathroom?”

  Mr. Bear doesn’t seem amused.

  “My editor would find that dramatic. She’d say it was kinky-cool-chic or some other screwy New York phrase.” I lie back on a pillow. “She’d probably even like this conversation we’re having. A drunk man having a conversation with a stuffed animal. It would be très chic.” I open my eyes, and the room spins to the left. “Just think of all the cameras they’d need to film this little scene, all those angles. You’d get all the close-ups, Mr. Bear.”

  The phone rings, and it’s ringing somewhere close by. Did I bring it in here? I see it behind Mr. Bear on the dresser. I reach for it, but it doesn’t fly through the air to me. It always works in those Star Wars movies. I get up, stumble once, and take the phone.

  “Jack’s Party Mart, Jack speaking.”

  “Mr. Jack…Browner?”

  Close enough. This man has a strange accent. Is he even American? “Yes.”

  “Mees-ter Browner, I eem call-ing from Ci-ti-corp in Sout Da-ko-tuh. How are you today?”

  I look at the Caller ID. It’s an 866 number. Is this how they talk in South Dakota?

  “Mees-ter Browner?”

  “Yes?”

  “We would like to offer you a spee-ci-ul plan in case you are ever dis-ah-bulled and cannot pay your bill.”

  Dis-ah-bulled? “Are you really calling from South Dakota?”

  “No, I eem call-ing from Sout Da-ko-tuh.”

  “It’s South Da-ko-ta.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  I roll my eyes at Mr. Bear. He understands. “No, you said Sout Da-ko-tuh.”

  A slight pause. “Dis plan gives you peace of mind should you ever become dis-ah-bulled, and it only costs twenty-nine ninety-nine a mont.”

  “A mont!” I repeat, with a giggle. He got the money amount just fine. “I eem not inter-est-ed. I eem already dis-ah-bulled, and I don’t have a balance on my Visa anyway.” I don’t even know where my Visa is. Probably hiding out with the fingernail clippers I couldn’t find earlier today.

  I hear a few pages turning. I know he’s reading from a script.

  “Dis plan—”

  “I know, I know, it gives me peace of mind. Like I said, I eem not inter-est-ed, so please don’t call me again. Good-bye.”

  I turn off the phone and the ringer.

  “Now, where were we?” I stand in front of Mr. Bear. “We’re going to have Arthur and Di meet…in…a…bookstore and that’s final.”

  Mr. Bear’s eye seems to brighten.

  I sit on the edge of the bunk bed. “Yes. They…both like to read, so they meet in a bookstore, but not one of those new megabookstores with a billion books, because their workers don’t know where any of their books are! No, it has to be a small bookstore, a dusty bookstore, an intimate bookstore where the owners give recommendations of books they’ve actually read and know where every single book is.”

  Mr. Bear is unmoved.

  “You’re right, you’re right. If Arthur gets the recommendation from the bookstore owner, Di can’t—Wait a minute. Di either owns or works at the bookstore.” I jump up and shake Mr. Bear’s paw. “You’re brilliant!” I pace the room again. “Okay, so Arthur asks Di to recommend a book, just like Diane did today, and Arthur follows her to the right shelf. He can comment on her beauty here, of course, you know, watching her walk, filling his head with all sorts of nasty thoughts, the perfect place for a guilty pleasure or two. You know, ‘nice ass,’ or something like that. And when she hands him that special book, their eyes will meet, and she won’t be able to let go of the book right away, which Arthur will take as a sign that she’s interested in him, only it’s really because he has a green booger dangling from his left nostril.” I smile at Mr. Bear. “But, of course, Arthur doesn’t know what to do because he hasn’t dated anyone but his wife in what seems like forever, and he still loves his wife, and it’s awkward for both of them, and—”

  Is Mr. Bear asleep? Maybe he’s just holding his breath. He’s good at that.

  I shake my head. “You’re right, you’re right. It’s too much like that movie with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.” I sit again. “The bookstore is out.” I look at the bottom of the top bunk. “But…maybe…the library…is in.”

  Where’s my steno pad? I run to the kitchen, can’t find a steno pad, and end up writing on the back of today’s Food Lion receipt:

  D. works in library; A. goes to library to return overdue books; likes what he sees; decides to research her for his next novel; tells her he’s researching

  Researching what? Black history? No. Too obvious. His own history? A white Roots? Too…bizarre. Maybe he’s just researching a book on local history for now. Maybe Di is a longtime resident who knows everything about Roanoke.

  Tells her he’s researching local history. D. a longtime resident who…

  Who what? She has to be black, and I know so few black women. I am so out of touch with black women. Should I interview Diane? No, that would be pushy. I can just observe her, see what she does, talk to her every now and then, maybe use some of the conversations we have in the novel. But, is there anything romantic about a library? So many walls of books, so many dark corners, so many places where no one ever looks at books. But, it can be quiet with lots of lights, yet…it’s also an anal place with too much organization. And if Arthur is flaky like me, she has to have a button-down mind. But they both have to be normal, average people—no “beautiful people” this time—who are simple, down-to-earth, pragmatic, honest, and sincere.

  But who would believe that scenario?

  I look down at my notes and lamely finish with:

  …who helps him

  It’s a start anyway.

  Where have you been?

  Your buzz wore off.

  Oh.

  And it is a good start.

  Maybe that’s all I need.

  True, but what does Di help Arthur do?

  Start over.

  And find love again.

  Yeah. That would be nice.

  15

  Diane

  After making myself a strong cup of coffee, I relax on the sofa and pick up Wishful Thinking. Maybe it will get better, most likely it won’t, but at least I’ll have what’s left of my Saturday evening to give it and all the others fifty pages of my time.

  3: Dan

  Why did I wave? What possible reason could I have had to wave at a complete stranger? I never quite know what to do with my hands. Private Sidney didn’t seem to mind, but that was over ten years ago when I was in my sexual prime. Cat Eyes didn’t wave back, and I can’t blame her. It must have been hard for her to wave and hold onto her umbrella at the same time, and besides, she doesn’t know me from Adam. I hope she doesn’t think I’m stalking her.

  And she drives a Beamer? That girl must be paid. Classy, paid, and smoking hot.

  And out of my league completely.

  You got that right. If you can’t see the two of you getting together and I can’t see the two of you getting together, no one can.

  But at least she smiled. I think. More of a squinty smirk than a smile. Maybe she doesn’t like Eric B. and Rakim. Maybe she has issues with Subarus. Maybe—

  Maybe she thinks I’m stalking her.

  She thinks you’re stalking her, Dan. First off, you’re white. That’s an obvious clue. Second, you’re being rude and are gritting on her.

  I ought to be going. I guess it’s off to my favorite restaurant, the Williamson Road Pancake House, a retro diner complete with Formica counter and taped-up stools that still spin. I need to drown my sorrows in a slice of apple pie covered with cheddar cheese. I can always get the “Norm” treatment there. Gladys will greet me at the door by name, seat me in my favorite booth looking out on the taillights and headlights of Williamson Road, and bring me hot tea with lemon. Gladys will ask, “Where’s your girl, Danny?” I’ll say something like, “You’re my girl, Glady
s.” She’ll say, “Oh, go on,” then I’ll finish with, “I wish you were sixty years younger, Gladys.” Then I’ll pretend to read the menu, pretend to agonize over my decision, eat my pie, flirt with Gladys, and leave a two-dollar tip for a two-dollar check.

  So, Dan has a nice streak with old ladies. I like that. As long as it doesn’t progress into something kinky with Gladys.

  On second thought, I don’t want to hit on an octogenarian tonight. It doesn’t seem fitting somehow.

  And I don’t have four dollars to my name.

  So, I go home to my gray squat apartment building (also known as “the Cube”), right across the street from the pancake house, and park next to the big, green Dumpster. Tonight it’s filled to overflowing, and because of Election Day tomorrow, the city won’t get to it until Wednesday. That will give Cat Stevens, my cat, more time to eat garbage.

  Cat Stevens really isn’t my cat. She’s just a huge black and white tabby with Groucho Marx eyebrows who just happens to live in the alley outside my windows. When I first moved in, I threw some frozen leftovers into the alley and heard a nasty cat snarl. That’s how Cat Stevens and I met. All it took was a frozen chunk of potato salad. I still don’t know why I put the potato salad in the freezer. I found my car keys in an ice cube tray once, even found my driver’s license in the crisper. Yeah, that Kelvinator is a vacuum, a black hole for all the things I can’t find.

  Okay, you’re overdoing the clueless part, D. J. Browning. Let’s speed this up.

  But getting back to Cat Stevens. The best thing about her is that she’s not picky. She loves my cooking.

  I have, however, stopped freezing the leftovers.

  I leave the Subaru and head up the sidewalk to the lower entrance of the Cube as the rain subsides. I used to hang out on the porch in front of the entrance with the old super, Mr. Reardon. The man drank whiskey, smoked unfiltered Camels all day long, and still kept his wits about him as he sat on an overturned milk crate. He never said anything worth remembering, but it was always nice to have someone to speak to at the end of a long day taming nine- and ten-year-olds. A shame he died, and it wasn’t even lung or liver cancer. A city bus hit him while he was on his way to get some smokes. His milk crate now holds some of my old records, my little TV on top—my shrine to Mr. Reardon.