I'm Your Girl

by J. J. Murray

  “Sorry,” he says.

  It’s the white man, and he’s still reading Essence? It must be the year-end issue. Either that, or he’s a slow reader.

  I smile and keep on. I’m hungry.

  20

  Jack

  You need to be more careful.

  At least she saw me.

  She didn’t recognize you.

  No, she didn’t.

  Must be your new do.

  I sit in the reference section about three tables from where Diane sits, well, was sitting when I first saw her again.

  She’ll probably recognize you if you sit here.

  She might not.

  Is that a good thing?

  I don’t know.

  I look back at the magazine. I’m only to page forty-five, and I’ve taken so many notes. I have several lists going, mostly for hair products:

  Megahertz Hi-Frequency Styling, Optimum Multi-Mineral Relaxer System, HiRez High Resolution Haircolor, Feria Multi-Faceted Shimmering Haircolour, Mizani Beyond Conditioning Crème Haircolor, Aveda Scalp Benefits Balancing Shampoo, Luster’s Earth Secrets Organic Eucalyptus & Ginseng Root Scalp & Hair Treatment, Motions Shine Enhancing Pomade, Doo Gro Medicated Hair Vitalizer (Mega-Thick, Triple Strength, Anti-Itch Formula, Extra Light Original Formula, Crème Complex)

  And what does this tell us?

  Di’s hair is going to be important to her.

  She can’t possibly use all those products at once, can she?

  I don’t know. Maybe. But how do I know what the texture of her hair is like? I thought hair was hair.

  It obviously isn’t.

  I mean, if her hair is coarse, what products would she use?

  Is it that important?

  It will be to her. Her hair has to shine, right? Does coarse hair shine on its own, or do you have to add something to it?

  Diane’s hair was shiny. Did you see how she looked at you?

  Yeah. She smiled, didn’t she?

  Actually, it was more of a grimace. You nearly ran her down.

  She was smiling. I like the color of her lipstick.

  She wasn’t wearing lipstick.

  Then I like her lips.

  Oh, put that in a novel and see how many people call you a racist.

  They’re…pretty. Kind of pouty and well defined. An off-brown.

  You’ll need to get out Stevie’s crayons. “Off-brown” sounds redundant.

  They make her teeth seem whiter.

  Gee, um, maybe she just has white teeth.

  No, no, it’s the contrast that makes them seem whiter. I like her nose, too.

  What about her eyebrows?

  Yeah, how does she get them to be perfect half circles like that? Almost as if she…shaved them?

  Ouch.

  Yeah.

  You saw the button, right?

  What button?

  You—we—saw it. You were looking at her legs.

  I was not!

  Yeah, you were. You’re always looking down. She has some nice legs, all smooth and silky.

  You’re determined to get me to write a sex scene.

  I’m just saying…

  She wore sensible shoes. Some kind of walking sneakers.

  I knew you were looking.

  She must walk a couple miles a day, kind of like I used to. No wonder her legs are so…toned.

  Now you’re talking. What about the rest of her?

  Pretty hands, pretty smile, pretty calves, pretty lips. She’s pretty.

  What about her eyes?

  I haven’t made eye contact yet.

  You saw her eyebrows!

  But they were close to her forehead. It’s how I know about her hair.

  Make eye contact then. How can you write a romance without a visual in your mind of her eyes?

  Or her ears.

  To nibble on.

  Or…her, um…

  Go on.

  What do I call it without sounding nasty?

  Her booty, her back, her backside, her ass, her bumpers, her boom-boom—

  Stop. I like her form, the way she stands up straight, the way she holds her shoulders, the set of her jaw, the—

  Way her booty talks when she walks.

  Now wait a minute, I didn’t stare—

  Yes, you did. Right after you tried to tackle her, you took a long look, and it’s given you some ideas.

  Right. It has. For my book.

  Uh-huh. Noël didn’t have anything like that back there.

  Don’t bring her…that into this.

  Why not?

  Because I miss her…that.

  It was so small.

  It fit her. Just like Diane’s…that…fits her.

  Call it a booty, Jack.

  I can’t call it—

  You know you want to. Diane’s got a nice, round booty. Say it.

  That’s something Dan would say, not me.

  There’s a little Dan in you, Jack. And if you’re smart, you’ll let him come out to stretch his legs.

  My editor made me give him three legs. I’m not like that.

  You used to be. Back before Noël.

  That was so long ago. I don’t even know how—

  Yes, you do. It’s just like riding a bike.

  I’m not talking about…that. I’m talking about not knowing even how to approach her.

  Well, sitting thirty feet away from her reading Essence is an excellent first step. She’ll be all over you.

  Shut up.

  Not until you say, “Diane’s got a nice booty.”

  Diane’s…got a nice…

  Whoa. There she is.

  And when I see her return to her stool, I feel my lips forming the words, “Diane’s got a nice booty.”

  I feel so…

  Horny?

  No. I feel…honest.

  Honest?

  Diane does have a nice booty.

  Now get ready to check out her eyes.

  21

  Diane

  To whom is he talking? Or does he have to move his lips to read? And why is he staring so hard at me? Do I have a patch of mustard on my lips?

  I pull out a Kleenex and dab my lower lip. Nothing. I swivel away from his gaze anyway. How rude!

  He had pretty eyes, though. Hmm. I look at him sideways, and he’s back into his magazine. Figures. He has the attention span of a gnat.

  Hairy-knuckled hands rap the counter, and I look up into the face of the oldest black man currently breathing on planet Earth. And he wears a nice dark suit and tie that fits him nicely.

  “Where’s your gynecology department?” he asks.

  This is the tenth time this has happened since I’ve worked here. “You mean, the genealogy—”

  The old man winks. “I know the correct name there, lady. I was just teasing.” He leans an elbow on the counter. “So, how have you been?”

  Nuh-uh. No way this old man is stepping to me. “Uh, fine.”

  “Care to help an old man find his kin?” he asks.

  “Um, sir, there are—”

  “Charlie,” he says. “Call me Charlie Brown.”

  Oh…my. “Um, Charlie, there are some folks up in the genealogy department who can help you better than I can. They’re experts at it, and I—”

  Charlie scowls. “Oh, they’re just a couple white women who don’t know how to find black folks.”

  Which may be true, but…“Listen, Charlie,” I say more softly, as I lean across the counter, “you wouldn’t just be hitting on me, would you?”

  Charlie’s eyebrows rise and fall, his lips twitching. “Maybe.”

  I touch the back of his hand. “You’re sweet, but you’re also old enough to be my great-grandfather.”

  He steps back and adjusts his lapels. “Not interested, huh?”

  “No.”

  Charlie winks. “Then I guess I’ll go hit on those two white biddies upstairs again. Do I look all right?”

  “You look charming, Charlie.”

 
“Do I look…virile?”

  I nod.

  He smiles. “I’m not, but they don’t know that. Want to know a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “I already know who all my kin are.”

  “You don’t say.”

  He winks once more and leaves the desk, whistling something bluesy.

  And as soon as he’s gone, I’m instantly depressed. The only man in a suit to hit on me in twelve months is a man named Charlie Brown who dresses up to impress two ancient white women in the genealogy department.

  22

  Jack

  That’s how it’s done. That’s how you approach her. She turned him down.

  He was old!

  And black.

  So maybe…you know…she likes white men.

  Or she has a boyfriend.

  No rings.

  I still have mine.

  And hopefully she hasn’t seen it yet. Put it in your pocket.

  No.

  Still determined to be happily widowed, huh?

  Shh. Here comes somebody.

  I watch an older woman carrying an ancient text of some kind approach Diane’s counter. “Do you work here?” she asks.

  “Yes,” Diane says.

  What a stupid question!

  Shh.

  “Can you appraise this book’s value for me?”

  You’ve got to be kidding!

  Shh!

  “I need to know its value. I want to sell it.”

  Diane looks at the book but doesn’t touch it. “I don’t do that sort of thing.”

  The woman looks around her. “Does anyone here do appraisals?”

  “You might try a used-book store over on the Market. I’ve heard they sometimes appraise books.”

  She’s so helpful.

  I like her voice.

  You mean, you hear voices.

  I’m just listening to myself; now be quiet so I can hear Diane.

  The old woman turns toward me then turns back, slamming the book back on Diane’s counter and upsetting a cup of pencils. “Oh, pardon me, I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right,” Diane says, collecting the pencils. “Is there something else you need?”

  “Well, while I’m here, my grandson needs a book on raising chickens and fish.”

  At the same time?

  Shh.

  “Let me check.” Diane does a rapid series of keystrokes. “Ma’am, I have two books, one on raising fish, one on raising chickens.”

  “Oh, they aren’t all in one volume?”

  She’s loony.

  Shh.

  “No ma’am.” Diane writes out what I assume are the call letters and numbers, and the old woman leaves, forgetting her book. “Ma’am? Your book.”

  The woman smiles. “Could you watch that for me, dear? I’ll only be a second.”

  That was rude.

  Did you see how Diane bristled when she called her “dear”?

  I watch Diane slide the book to the side as a short, pudgy man approaches. “Does your Wall Street Journal have a business section?”

  I turn away to laugh.

  They heard you!

  That was a stupid question!

  I know, but…we didn’t get to hear what she said.

  I’m sure she said, “Yes, sir.” And if I wrote down everything I’ve overheard today in a novel, no one would believe it.

  Two young girls no older than twelve approach Diane. “Do you have a book about a famous person written by a famous author?”

  No way!

  I need to go back to teaching.

  “We have plenty of those,” Diane says. “Do you have a famous person in mind?”

  “Well,” the shorter one says, “I kinda want to know more about Elvis.”

  “Yeah,” the taller one says, “we’ve been looking, and we can’t find him anywhere.”

  Because he’s dead.

  Shh.

  After Diane sends the girls to search for Elvis, I see her eyes traveling to the ceiling. Yeah, I’d be talking to God, too, if I had this job.

  But you don’t talk to God anymore.

  Right.

  A girl, maybe seventeen or eighteen, rushes by me, fluttering my magazine. “Hi, I, um…” She leans closer to Diane, and all I can catch is one phrase: “vaginal spermicide.”

  No way!

  Unbelievable. I watch as Diane walks the young girl, who looks younger the more I look at her jean jacket all covered in patches, her hair done up with little pink bows, away from us to the stairs. Diane seems to be giving directions.

  To the hospital?

  I don’t know. Maybe the free clinic.

  Diane returns to her stool—

  You’re looking at her booty again.

  I am not. I’m still trying to see her eyes.

  Right.

  A little boy…about Stevie’s age…goes up to the counter. “You got cramps?” he asks.

  I watch Diane’s eyes dance, and I feel…sad that I know what the boy is asking for. Crayons. He wants crayons. Stevie used to say it the same way.

  “What?” Diane says.

  “You got cramps?” the boy asks again.

  Diane’s mouth opens and shuts several times. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You know, cramps. You color with them.”

  Diane smiles, and it beams out onto the boy. “Oh, crayons.”

  “That’s what I said. Cramps.”

  Diane reaches under her counter and pulls out a box of crayons. “You be sure to bring these back when you’re done.”

  The boy takes the crayons. “Okay.”

  That’s your cue.

  My cue?

  Your cue to talk to her.

  No, it isn’t.

  A little boy saying “cramps” just like Stevie?

  Lots of little boys and girls say cramps when they mean “crayons.”

  But just now…here…while you’re staring hard at Diane’s booty when you say you are trying to see her eyes?

  It’s…it’s just a coincidence. That’s all it is.

  Go on.

  Go on and do what?

  Ask her a reference question. It’s her job, isn’t it? I don’t know what to ask.

  Sure you do. But before you do, take off your ring. To ask a question?

  Just for a little while. A few minutes at most. It won’t kill you.

  I spin the ring once and slide it into my pocket. Now, what do I ask?

  23

  Diane

  “Cramps”! I never would have guessed, though the kid was right about something. My back is killing me, and that usually means my time of the month is a few days away.

  What a strange day! I mean, I usually get a couple strange questions, but nothing like this. I have barely had enough time to catch my—

  The white man with the nice eyes is coming this way with his magazine and steno pad.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hello,” I say. I am a professional librarian. I do not say, “Hi” to anyone.

  “I was wondering…”

  That voice. I’ve heard that voice before. I look at his hand. No ring. No, it couldn’t be…I glance up at his face. Same face. I think. He had a beard then, but…those eyes. They’re…he’s…and I didn’t—

  It’s Mr. Shaggy White Man without the Shaggy.

  What, has he been stalking me? And where’s his wedding ring? What was his name…? Think! I’m so stupid. He reads all those African American authors, and then he walks around with Essence likes it’s his security blanket or something, and now…What is he saying?

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I must be tired. Could you repeat your question?”

  “Oh,” he says, with a breathless little laugh, “I didn’t ask a question. I was just saying that I was wondering if every day was like this for you. I couldn’t help overhearing some of the questions people were asking you.”

  Is every day…like this, with another person asking me “normal” questi
ons? “I guess.” He has such an old face for such young, blue eyes. “Um, it’s actually been pretty normal.”

  “This was a normal day?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you keep a straight face.” He drops his eyes. “I’m sure you heard me laughing at the guy who wanted to know if the Wall Street Journal had a business section.”

  “I did.” Dag, is this a shy man or what? But he is talking to me. That’s not a shy thing to do. And where’s his wedding ring?

  He touches the counter with his fingers, his nails neatly trimmed. “Anyway, I, uh, I admire your patience. You would make a great teacher.”

  Where is this going? Is this a come-on? “I would?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I teach…well, I used to teach fifth-graders.”

  “Used to teach” sounds…bad. “You no longer teach?”

  “I’m on kind of a permanent sabbatical.”

  He was fired.

  “By my own choosing,” he adds.

  He quit.

  “They keep calling me in, but…”

  Wait a minute. They…want him back? He only retired? How old is he? Young eyes plus old face equals…stress. Fifth-graders must take their toll on a teacher. He can’t be a day over thirty-five.

  He pulls his hand back from the counter. “I’m sure you have work to do. I didn’t mean to bother you.” He turns to go.

  “What are you writing?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  He turns. “Hmm?”

  “You were taking notes.”

  He steps closer but not as close as before. “Just…researching.”

  I look at the magazine. “Using Essence?”

  “Well, sort of, I mean, yeah.”

  I know he’s hiding something, so I wait for him to explain.

  He doesn’t explain.

  “Well, I guess I’d better be—”

  “What are you researching?”

  Why can’t I let this man just…leave? Maybe it’s because I’ve been answering so many questions today that I have to interrogate someone, I don’t know. Or maybe it’s because he’s hiding something. And he has been stalking me. Who stalks librarians? Or maybe it’s the fact that he says “he’d better be” going, which I wouldn’t let him say for some reason, only he doesn’t move. When most people say, “I’m out,” they go. Not this guy.

  He smiles that nice smile of his. “You’ll probably think it’s crazy.”