by J. J. Murray
And speaking of movies, why is it that librarians are stereotyped so damn much on the big screen? We’re all supposed to be elderly with our hair in a bun and our glasses on tight, mean, intelligent, single, quiet, neurotic keepers of the holy Dewey Decimal System with a “hush” ready to fly out of our mouths at a moment’s notice. And we’re all supposed to be lonely, too. I am not lonely, because I am not looking for a man.
Just look at It’s a Wonderful Life. Jimmy Stewart gets the gift of never existing, and what happens to his sweetheart, Mary? She turns into a shy spinster with a bun who works at a library! And don’t get me started on Marian the Librarian from Music Man! Who stamps books and sings while she does it? And not all librarians are intelligent at all. Take Sleeping with the Enemy and that Julia Roberts, as if anyone like her would ever work in the stacks. She intelligently fakes her own death except for that ring in the toilet, but when she takes on her new identity, she goes back to working in a library, making it easy for her psychopathic husband to find her!
And what’s up with these movies that have scenes in libraries with no library staff visible? The main characters find the information they need the very first time without any help! Amazing! I wish every kid were like Harry Potter. He never needs any help when he’s in a library.
And why am I stressing over this so much? I know, it does no good to fuss over what Hollyweird puts out. I know that I’m not a prim and introverted librarian, and that’s all that matters. And I’m not all “anticensorship,” like some of those movie librarians. I believe some things are meant for anyone to read. That’s why I review books before they get out to offend and muddy the minds of the reading public.
Which is why I’ve just about had it with Wishful Thinking. It was “wishful thinking” on D. J. Browning’s part to think anyone would buy this book. Hmm. That sounds like either the first or last sentence of my review. I had better read some more, you know, to get more fuel for the flames I’ll be writing later:
“To repeat…” I press three to erase the message. “Next message, today, nine-thirty P.M…. Hey, baby, give me a call when you get in.” Click. It’s just like him. “Give me a call,” he says. Put this all on me. After pressing three, I grab the cordless phone and dial Kevin’s phone number. Charles can wait.
“Hey Kevin, it’s Ty,” I say, as I walk downstairs to set the dead bolt and place the chain on the door.
“Hey little sister, what’s up? I was just about to call you.”
“Kendra called me asking when I can take her shopping. Do you all have plans this weekend?”
“No, as a matter of fact, we don’t. Her mother called to say she won’t be able to get her this weekend.”
Figures. “Is Kim all right?”
“Yeah, she just has a business meeting out of town this weekend.”
As usual. She’s probably spending the weekend shacked up with some guy. “Okay, I’ll pick her up around nine on Saturday.”
“That’s cool. I’ll let her know. I also need you to do me a favor. I have a conference scheduled for tomorrow at six-fifteen with Kendra’s teacher. I was just told today that I have a mandatory sales meeting tomorrow when I get off and…”
“So you need me to go to the conference for you tomorrow.”
Uh-huh. What a coincidence.
“If you would.”
“Okay, I’ll do that, but you owe me one. Bye, Kevin.”
Ah, man, I really don’t feel like talking to Charles tonight. I’m tired, and I just want to go to bed. I have to work tomorrow. But I know if I don’t call, he’ll give me nothing but attitude when we finally do speak. Shit, shit, shit. Hey, I know—I’ll just leave him a T-mail, so I dial my voice-mail number and skip through the prompts.
“Hi, Charles, it’s me.” And he’d better know who “me” is. “I just want to let you know I got your message”—even though it was short and a tad rude—“and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I don’t want to disturb your sleep. Bye.” Whew. That’s done. After snatching my Crips do-rag from the dresser, I start the water running in the tub, adding some Bath & Body cucumber-melon-scented bubble bath. After lighting the honeydew melon candles, I turn the radio to WQMG’s Quiet Storm.
I smile. I do the same thing sometimes. And here I was all fired up to torch this book. Okay, just a little more:
I tie my hair up and slide underneath the bubbles, closing my eyes to shut out everything and everybody. But, unfortunately, the next day’s events slowly creep into my mind. After relaxing for half an hour, I get out, put on my black satin and chiffon baby doll, and head to the bedroom. On the way, I stop to check my contacts, making sure they are taking back their original shape, and they are, thank goodness. Colored contacts are not cheap. I gently yank the corner of the plum comforter back, sending the three accent pillows flying through the air. I tug slightly on the crisp lilac sheets and fall into the bed. I close my eyes and imagine how I would look with blue eyes.
I fall asleep with the image of Dan’s beautiful blues imprinted on my brain.
Riiiiiight. This is all so wrong! Why would she be thinking about Dan at all? She has Charles. She said she had a thing for blue eyes, but is a “thing” enough to keep her dreaming at night about Dan?
Trifling.
I throw a look at The Quiet Game, P&Q, and Thicker Than Blood, but I shake my head. Three stinkers and a maybe. Thicker Than Blood has kept my interest best, but it’s still trifling at times. When am I going to get to write another five-star review and have my name travel the world? I might as well keep going with Wishful Thinking. I have nothing better to do.
I flip through about twenty pages until I see:
I have just enough time to vote at Breckinridge Middle School, so I roll into the parking lot, park next to a Verizon van, pop my umbrella, walk past a black man in a hard hat carrying a roll of phone wire, and enter the gym.
It’s not very crowded, and after showing ID, I stand in the voting booth wondering which cookie-cutter politician to vote for. Decisions, decisions. Warner? Who are the other two? Okay, Warner. And this guy’s running unopposed? Why put him on the ballot, then? Just give him the job. On to the bond issues…Blah blah blah court system. Okay, I’ll vote yes. Anything to clean up that mess. Blah-ditty-blah blah parks. Cool. Blah blah education blah-ditty-blah $900 million! I wish I could vote yes twice! Blah blah blah-ditty-blah blah—Is this written in English? What is this bond issue asking me? I vote “no” just because it’s poorly written. Now what have I just done? Gee, I’ve put Virginia into even greater debt. After flushing my votes, I get my “I Voted” sticker and rush out the gym doors, nearly colliding with the Verizon technician who is carrying even more phone wire.
“Sorry,” I say, and I check out his face.
Only it’s not a him. It’s a her.
Hello, Cat Eyes.
They literally bump into each other?
They literally bump into each other.
I shake my head. What kind of foolishness is this?
“Uh, let me get that door for you,” I say, and I leap toward the door, pulling it back with force.
“Thanks,” she says, walking by me sideways, her back to me. I catch a whiff of some perfume or another and wonder how all her hair fit up under that helmet.
She’s inside now. Say something before she gets away, Dan! “Uh, you here to put in new phone lines?”
That was so lame.
Yes, it was. Sic him, Ty, sic him.
8: Ty
Oh, he’s as smooth as those wrinkled clothes he’s wearing. Here to put in new phone lines? No, I always wear a tool belt and walk around carrying twenty pounds of phone wire. Here’s your “Stupid” sign. What do you think I’m carrying all this line in for?
“No. Actually, I’m just redoing the lines in the office today.”
“Oh,” he says. “All by yourself?”
What, you think a woman can’t do this shit?
“Wow.”
Wow? I do not respond to white men s
aying “wow,” especially if they don’t have the decency to iron their clothes.
“Uh, makes sense, being kind of a day off for teachers and everything, huh?”
I don’t normally respond to “huh” either, but he did hold the door for me. “Not for me.”
He looks at the line wrapped around my shoulder. “Oh, yeah, right. I, uh, had heard they were changing the lines in the schools. I’m over at Monterey.”
Monterey Elementary? As what? I’ll bet he’s a gym teacher for the slow kids on the short bus. “You teach there?”
He smiles. What’s wrong with that tooth? Looks almost vampire-like. Get that fang capped!
“Yeah, I teach fourth-grade social studies.”
Not a gym teacher? He has sense and a real degree? “You know Kendra Clarke?”
He blinks. “Yes. I teach her.”
I blink. So this is the amazing Mr. Pace I’ve heard so much about. Dan Pace. I thought he was black the way Kendra carried on about him, but I have a lot to teach that child. You can’t have a crush on a man who wears corduroys! “Oh” is all I can think to say.
“Are you coming for a conference today, Mrs. Clarke?”
He thinks I’m Kendra’s mama. Which, I guess, I kind of am, since Kendra’s mama is no good, but for him to assume that I’m anybody’s mama is wrong. But maybe he’s being tricky, trying to get my name by being wrong. I’ll keep him wondering. “I hadn’t planned on it, Mr. Pace.” Just establishing my distance, Mr. Dan. “But it depends on if I can finish this job in time or not.” Hint. Get to pacing, Mr. Pace. I’ve got work to do.
“Oh, yeah, right.” He nods again. I’m not nodding back. “Well, I hope to see you there.”
“I’ll try,” is all I say, knowing good and well I will be there. I have to see what Kendra is so hyped up about. I mean every time I ask her about school, it’s Mr. Pace said this or Mr. Pace did that. I can definitely see why she has a crush on him. He is nice to look at. But I also want to make sure he isn’t some kind of perv, leading little girls on.
He is a perv, Ty! Open your damn cat’s eyes!
After completing the job at the school, I take a short lunch break to go vote and have a quick sandwich. I finish up my workday with two jobs in northeast Roanoke. At four-thirty, I am in my Beamer and on my way home to get ready for the conference.
Do I want to turn the page and find out about this conference? Would anyone? I check my African monkey clock on the wall. It’s almost midnight, and my eyes are tired. I flip a few more pages past some more nonsense to:
Before Nancy can curse me again, I see a slender, brown hand knocking on my door. A moment later, Mrs. “Cat Eyes” Clarke walks into the room as a lady should, her front preceding her back—which goes on and on and on. And she is dressed so sharp I’m afraid I’ll be cut. She shows off that ass of hers with some form-fitting black slacks, and her breasts are popping out at me from behind a low-cut, V-neck, charcoal gray sweater. Most women seem to wear sweaters to hide something, but she definitely wants me to see her flat stomach. My hands start to sweat.
“Am I interrupting something?” she says.
10: Ty
That is the ugliest white woman I’ve ever seen. What the hell is that on her neck? Thing looks like an overgrown booger. And Dan is still wearing corduroys for a formal parent-teacher conference?
I may have to back up a bit. It’s not every day you get to read about ugly white women with “overgrown boogers” on their necks in books. Maybe later.
“Hello, Mrs. Clarke,” Dan says, motioning to a chair in front of his exceptionally clean desk. He has the ability to be neat? I’m almost impressed. “Won’t you be seated?”
I will as soon as that chicken head leaves, and chicken head stomps out of the room. I check the seat for chicken feathers before I sit down.
“You must be very proud of your daughter, Mrs. Clarke. I think Kendra will one day be a lawyer.”
Really? “What makes you say that, Mr. Pace?”
“Um, she has a sharp mind, and she’s great with facts.”
Don’t give me that shit! If she were good with facts, she’d be acing all her classes. “Why is it that she’s making As only in your class?”
He blinks. “I thought she was doing well in all of her classes.”
“She’s doing okay, but she’s making As only in your class. Do you have an explanation for that?”
“Uh, no. Maybe she likes social studies. That’s why I said she’d be a good lawyer. Most lawyers are history majors before going on to law school. Um, what was your major?”
Oh no he didn’t just try to reverse the conversation. If I let him get started, he might be asking me for my sign or something. “I majored in business administration, but this isn’t about me. I’m here for Kendra.”
“As you should be.” He opens a grade book and runs a finger across the page. “Kendra has turned in all her work on time, and her lowest grade is a B on any assignment.” He looks up. “She’s the most consistent student whom I have in any class.” He smiles. “Does she take after you or your husband?”
“She takes after me.”
“I can see that.”
Is he flirting with me? His blue eyes haven’t left mine. He’s flirting. Time to burst his bubble. “So, Mr. Pace, tell me about this crush Kendra has on you.”
He turns red. “What crush?”
“You haven’t noticed?”
He sits back in his chair. “No. Has she said something to you?”
“No, but all I hear about is Mr. Pace. I was a schoolgirl once. I had a few crushes when I was her age, so I know all the signs.” And this man hasn’t noticed any of them. “I’m just letting you know.”
“I’ll, uh, try to be more attentive.” He frowns. “So you think that she’s getting such high marks because she has a crush on me?”
“No, I know Kendra’s intelligent. I just wanted you to be aware of this.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
Now what? “I can’t say that I blame her for the crush.” I lick my lips. “But you’re one of the few male teachers she’s ever had.”
What the—She’s actually going to say—And then she’s going to—She licks her lips? I…have…just…about…had it with this book!
Did he just shake his head? And why did he just pull his hands off his desk? “Um, I was expecting Mr. Clarke this evening since he, uh, since he filled out the form.”
“Well, he had to work late, and he asked if I would come instead.”
He nods his head. “Um, do you or Mr. Clarke have any concerns about anything?”
“I don’t, but I’m sure if he does, he’ll contact you.” I stand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pace.”
He stands and extends his hand. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I shake it, and, ooh, it’s sweaty. What’s he nervous about?
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Clarke.”
It was all right. “You, too, Mr. Pace.”
He walks me to the door—such a gentleman—then stands in the doorway as I twist and sashay down the hall. I look back when I get to the end of the hallway. Yeah, he’s still staring, and he isn’t trying to hide it either. I like a bold man. I smile at him and give one more shake before I turn the corner, then head for home.
You little hoochie! And I had such respect for you earlier! I turn the page, though my fingers don’t really want to.
11: Dan
Oh…damn.
I hope no other parents show up. My hands are dripping, my heart is pounding, and all it took was a long look at some serious ass shaking in the hallway.
So, Kendra has a crush on me. Right. I don’t believe that for a second. It’s Mrs. Clarke who has the crush. Otherwise, why would she walk down the hall that way knowing I was hard staring? And she smiled at me before she left.
I check the clock. If I didn’t have to stay another two hours, I’d be running out to her car right now to see if she’d be willing to share that perfect
smile of hers with me tonight all night….
Pitiful, just pitiful. And this is supposed to pass for literature? I scan ahead because I am obviously a glutton for punishment and see that a storm knocks out Dan’s power and phone service, and it just so happens that Ty is the one who comes to fix everything before they…yep, they’re bumping uglies on the king-sized bed right here on page one hundred. Do I dare skip to the last page?
“I’ll bet you never expected this,” Dan says, snuggling closer.
“Not in a million years,” I say. “Not in a million-trillion years.”
I shut the book. What a waste of paper and ink! The publishing company should be ashamed of itself! And I’m ashamed of myself for giving this book so much of my attention!
But when I wake up tomorrow morning, I’m going to make D. J. Browning ashamed he or she ever even thought of writing this book.
After I attend church, of course.
I might, after all, bump into a man there.
16
Jack
I woke up with a splitting headache and found four empty bottles of Kris Kringle Eggnog on the floor of Stevie’s room.
Your room.
Right.
Mr. Bear couldn’t even look at me, but I don’t blame him. I’ll bet he doesn’t talk to me all day.
I go to the office; boot up the laptop; and, using my mother’s copious genealogical records, I delve into the abyss—Arthur Stephens Jefferson’s ancestry. I know I can’t start my novel with this, but I have to write something I know something about. If I want Arthur to be like me, he must come from somewhere familiar to me. I type in a chapter title:
The Genealogy of the Sponge
Why am I calling him the Sponge? I guess it kind of goes with the whole melting-pot idea.
You could use a few.
What?
Sponges.
What for?