I'm Your Girl

by J. J. Murray

  I blink. “I work here, remember? I listen to crazy all day.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He steps close enough for me to notice how stiff his pants are. His teenaged wife must have discovered starch and couldn’t find the “off” button. “I’m researching a character for my next novel.”

  Next novel? I’m in the presence of a novelist. He doesn’t look like a novelist. But what’s a novelist supposed to look like? I mean, Stephen King looks perfectly ghastly as a horror writer, but some of the others—

  “And…um,” he looks into my eyes, “you’re it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m researching a character, and you’re it.”

  I have trouble catching my breath after that one. “I’m…it?” As in, “tag, you’re it”? What kind of thing to say is that? And who gave you permission to use me in your book?

  He looks at his hands. “I told you it was crazy.”

  At least he’s honest. Rude, but honest. “I don’t know. It’s not that crazy.” It’s actually kind of flattering, except…the man’s been stalking me. And where exactly is his freaking ring? “What’s your next book about?”

  He shoves both hands into his pockets and sighs. “Well, I’ve only written three chapters of it so far, so I’m…I’m not really sure. I can tell you that it’s a romance, though.”

  This might be a scam. This might be some sneaky way white men lure women to…to what? I decide to play along. “And I’m a character in this…romance?”

  He nods. “You have a lot to offer.”

  What did he say? I have a lot to offer? What am I offering? And to whom? One day he’s shaggy, the next day clean as a whistle. I can’t help but widen the heck out of my eyes. I hope he didn’t see—

  “I meant, you have a lot to offer as a character in any book.”

  He saw my eyes. “Oh.”

  “I mean, for one, you have a job everyone can relate to. Who hasn’t made contact with a librarian?”

  Contact? My hands are starting to sweat. “True.”

  “And, two, you’re, um, African American.” He holds up the magazine. “The reason, um, I’ve been reading this.”

  I nod, though every fiber in my being wants to ask him one simple question: “Why are you writing about African American women, especially since you thought there was an African American fiction section in the library?” Okay, two simple questions: “Why are you reading Essence when you could be talking directly to me?” I know I’m not representative of an entire race, but I’m more of an average African American than any sister in that magazine.

  “And, um, three, well, you’re, I don’t know how to say this, but, um, you’re very attrac—”

  “Is your other novel here in the library?” I interrupt. Lord, why did I do that? I had no right to interrupt a compliment; I mean, I get so few. It’s just that…I’m afraid where the rest of number three might be leading. I felt a compliment coming on, and I don’t do compliments from strange white men who are shaggy and wearing a wedding ring one day and clean shaven, shorthaired, and ringless the next.

  “Oh, it’s not due out until April.”

  I grab a pad of Post-its. “What is your novel’s title?”

  He squints.

  “Oh,” I say, “I just want to know the title so the library can preorder it. You’re a local author, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I poise the pencil over the Post-it. “So, what’s the title?”

  “It’s called Wishful Thinking.”

  No…way.

  This kind of thing doesn’t happen.

  I break the tip of the pencil and get another. I must have heard wrong. “What’s it called again?”

  “Wishful Thinking.”

  No. This is happening. This is D. J. Browning. This is the writer I trashed the other day. This isn’t someone else. My hand shakes as I write down the title. “And, oh, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Jack Browning.”

  I don’t look up. Whew. Wrong name. Blue Eyes here didn’t look like a “D.J.” He looks like a “Jack,” which makes no sense, I know. So, his book is titled the same as the other one, which is kind of strange, and they’re both bound to come out at about the same time, but there aren’t trademarks on titles—

  “The publisher is using only my initials.”

  Is Jack Browning D. J. Browning? I have to know more. “Is, um, do you have a middle name?”

  He squints. “Actually, Jack is my middle name. My first name is David. Why do you want to know?”

  David Jack Browning. D. J. Browning. Oh, they really went all out disguising him. “Oh, just curious.” Talk fast. “Why’d they want you to use your initials?”

  He shrugs. “I guess they were afraid or something. I mean, it’s not every day a white man writes, um, multicultural fiction.”

  No, it isn’t. Jesus, help me!

  “I originally wrote Mr. Pace and Ms. Clarke—that was my working title—and it was about two dysfunctional white people.”

  That explains a lot.

  “My agent and editor, though, they thought it could be…transformed—that was the word they used—transformed into a multicultural romantic comedy.”

  They transformed it into something, all right.

  “Anyway, they want me to write another, and, well, I’d like to model my main character after you.”

  That’s so sweet, but—

  “You were so helpful that day I came in looking so…bushy.” He laughs. “I normally look this way.” He looks down. “Not like Grizzly Adams.”

  Oh, God, I wish he were a jerk or something. He’s nice! And I’ve written so many reviews, but I’ve never come face-to-face with any author I’ve criticized, and here he is—in all his skinny white flesh—and I have a review trashing his book—

  Which won’t post for another three days.

  Maybe I can stop it. Maybe I can get Amazon.com not to post it. That’s what I’ll try to do. And then I’ll read the entire book, cover to cover. Maybe I was a little too judgmental in my assessment—

  But then again…the book wasn’t that good, the parts I read of it anyway. And now that I know it was meant to have two white people getting together…No, I can’t let on in my review that I know that. Oh, geez, he’s still talking, and I haven’t been listening.

  “…six months without a haircut. I won’t let that happen again.”

  This is crazy! Calm down, girl, calm down. Everything will be okay. And anyway, here’s a man who is hiding his wedding ring. He’s a dog. He’s no good, even if he does have some fine blue eyes. I look up. “I’ll bet your wife is proud of you.”

  His eyes fall.

  Aha! Gotcha!

  “She was.”

  Past tense. Was. She was. Separated? Divorced? What?

  “She isn’t proud now?” I can’t believe I’m prying.

  He turns away. “I don’t know. She’s…I have to be going.” He takes a few steps away. “Um, it was nice meeting you, Diane.”

  “It was nice meeting you, too, Jack.” Or should I say “D.J.”? No. I can’t let him know I know what he doesn’t know. Did that make sense? No! This is all so confusing! “Uh, Jack, could you give me your phone number?”

  “My what?”

  I’m asking for this possibly divorced/separated okay/so-so novelist’s phone number. What am I thinking? “Um, your phone number. So that…the library can contact you, say, for a reading or even a book signing.”

  He looks at his feet. Nice shoes. They look comfortable. “I don’t think I’ll be doing any readings or signings. I’m, um, supposed to be anonymous.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Think! “Well, then, why not just…” What am I doing? I’m about to ask him for his phone number. But why? “Why not just give me your number?”

  He doesn’t move.

  “I mean, um…” I can’t think! “So I can call you…”

  He moves closer. “So you can call me?”

  “Uh, yeah, you know, so yo
u can give me…” What? Give me what? Whew. Thank God I’m a librarian. “So you can give me the ISBN number and the Library of Congress control number for the book. It makes it so much easier for us to preorder your book.”

  He moves to the counter. “You could get the ISBN number from Amazon.com.”

  I should have thought of that. “But not the LOC number.” And now I’m speaking in abbreviations.

  “Okay.”

  He gives me his number, I write it down, and this time my hand doesn’t shake. It vibrates. It literally hums. “Thank you, Mr. Browning.”

  “You’re welcome, and please call me Jack.”

  “Okay, Jack.” And I don’t know Jack, do I?

  “Bye.” He walks away.

  Say something! “Um, say hello to your little boy for me.”

  Jack’s shoulders slump as he nods and continues toward the stairs.

  That was strange. Maybe his wife has the kid and he won’t see him for a while. That’s so sad! I should have kept my big mouth shut.

  As soon as Jack’s bobbing blond head disappears down the stairs, I put up my sign and leave the counter. I have to find an open computer in the Internet Room—

  Damn. Sorry, Lord! They’re all taken! These…people without computers in their homes should be shot, and I mean it.

  Okay, I don’t really mean it, but, well, today—now, this second—I do. I have to undo my review until I’ve read the entire book, Lord. I wasn’t fair in my review. And I know that I still might hate it even if I read the entire thing, but…

  Somebody finish! Click-clickety-click your way out of here! These computer hoggers are just as bad as those cheap people who come into the library to make copies from cookbooks. They’re just as bad as people who return books with toilet tissue or used Band-Aids or condom wrappers for bookmarks. They’re just as bad as those snot-nosed children in the big chairs downstairs coughing up phlegm on every book their grimy, disease-infested hands touch. They’re just as bad as anyone who comes into the library only to take a dump!

  “Excuse me!”

  I see a computer hogger waving his stank hand at me. I’m not on duty here! No one is on duty in here since we don’t have enough funding! I walk over anyway. “Yes?”

  “I’m having trouble getting on Yahoo!.”

  I look at the address line. He has typed “Youwho.com.” I smile. Fool. “There must be something wrong with this computer, sir.” I switch it off without properly shutting it down. Kim would have a cow. “We’ve been having lots of trouble with this computer, for some reason.”

  “Oh,” he says. “It was running real slow, too.”

  Yes, now run along like a good dog.

  “But all the other computers are taken.”

  Then go buy one, you cheapskate! They’re on sale at Best Buy!

  “I need to check my e-mail.”

  In my best teacher’s voice, I say, “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  He stands and grabs his coat from the back of his chair. “I’m out of here.”

  “Do come back tomorrow, sir. I’m sure this one will be fixed.”

  “Whatever.”

  I had to do some damage control. “We don’t want any patron leaving in a huff,” Kim is forever saying. Though Jack left in one, didn’t he? I’ll have to call him, you know, just to get that LOC number…tonight…and to find out if I’m still a character in his book after being so nosy.

  And as soon as the computer hogger’s greasy, dark-haired head bobs down the stairs, I boot up the computer, and, like he said, it is slow. Someone needs to clean out the cache file. I would do it, but I’m in a rush.

  Once I’m finally on Amazon.com, I type in “Wishful Thinking” in the search box. Ten seconds later, the page finally loads. “Hi, Ty,” I say to the screen. “You miss me?”

  And then…I see Wishful Thinking by D. J. Browning.

  “Do you work here?”

  I look behind me at a well-dressed white man with silver hair carrying a briefcase, an overcoat, and an umbrella. “Yes, sir.”

  “There’s a problem with the copy machine.”

  Do I look like I care about the damn (sorry, Lord) copy machine? “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “It won’t copy.”

  “Did you put in exact change? Sometimes it runs out of change.”

  He blinks. “You mean I have to pay?”

  No, well-dressed white man. Only you have to pay. “Yes, sir. Fifteen cents a copy.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I shake my head.

  “But this is a public library!”

  We have to pay for toner and a service contract just like anybody else. “I’m sorry, sir. If you need to make change, go to—”

  He waves his hand at me. “Never mind.”

  Normally, I’d be mad at someone like this man, who has been waiting all day to be rude to someone, and I just happened to be the lucky woman.

  But today I’m too confused.

  24

  Jack

  I’m sitting in space #38 in the All-Rite Parking lot having yet another conversation with myself.

  I have no life.

  Why did you leave?

  You heard what she was saying about Noël and Stevie. It was too much for me.

  She was just starting to get interested, and you just…left. What kind of a man are you?

  Look, I know you’re the part of me who wants to start a new life—

  And you’re the part of us who wants to live in the past. You’re taking this “divided man” idea too far. She asked for your phone number, Jack! Diane, a woman you just met, asked you for your phone number.

  So she could get the ISBN and LOC numbers to make it easier—

  You don’t believe that, do you? You saw her hand shaking. You know she was excited.

  Only because I told her I was basing a character on her.

  Come on, Jack. She kept trying to keep the conversation going, and most of it wasn’t about the book. She wouldn’t let you go.

  Maybe she wanted some intelligent, adult conversation.

  She was trying to get to know you, Jack. Why didn’t you just spill it all?

  I didn’t want to depress her.

  No, you didn’t want to depress yourself. Get over it. It’s been six months. Life shouldn’t end because two lives ended. They wouldn’t want that.

  They were part of me. They made me…me!

  I don’t know what to do with you, Jack.

  I don’t know what to do with me either.

  My mind is quiet for a while, which is strange. Of course, it’s strange to see a man sitting in a car arguing with himself, too.

  Her eyes light up, don’t they?

  Yeah.

  And you know she’s going to call you, maybe even tonight.

  I doubt it.

  You won’t know if you don’t get home.

  I have to get some groceries.

  And more Kleenex, right?

  Not this time.

  Really? You’re thinking with your stomach for a change?

  I want my clothes to fit right.

  To give Diane something to hold on to.

  I don’t answer myself right away.

  Maybe.

  I don’t normally shop at this Kroger, but I know I have a Kroger-Plus card on my key chain. Noël collected those things. I even have one for Harris-Teeter, though I don’t even know where one is in Roanoke. All I know is that I’m going to save money.

  You paid twenty dollars to park for five hours.

  Time well spent.

  I pick up a basket inside Kroger, then cruise the aisle shopping a la carte without a cart.

  You should have been a poet.

  No money in that. Yet, people respect poets more, because they’re better able to distill life into a few words and phrases.

  As I pass the Lunchables—Stevie’s favorite lunch—an old poem creeps into my head, something about my best work is under the snow. Something like that
. Robert Lowell? I think so. Yeah, Stevie was my best poem, my best work.

  The signs read “3 for $7,” so I take three ham and cheese Lunchables with Spiderman on the front. He would have liked these. He went as Spiderman at Halloween last year. He didn’t scare anyone, but at every house—

  “Ah, he’s so cute,” they said.

  Yeah.

  You didn’t give out candy this year.

  I will next year.

  I walk a few more aisles until I decide to make Noël’s famous Crock-Pot chicken.

  You don’t even know the recipe.

  Ah, but I know what’s in it. I buy a pound and a half of skinless chicken breasts, the largest Vidalia onion in the bin, a package of dry onion soup mix, and a can of mushroom soup. Is that all?

  What are you going to put it on?

  Oh yeah. Rice. I know we have a few boxes in the pantry.

  Don’t forget the spices.

  The pantry is full of those.

  Oh yeah. Noël was always experimenting with different spices. Remember the time she asked you for the paprika, and you handed her the cayenne pepper instead?

  It was the same color.

  What a disaster that would have been.

  So, her egg salad would have had a little more kick.

  You liked her egg salad.

  She made it look so easy.

  A woman pushing a small boy in a cart catches my eye in the frozen-food section. She has dusty blonde hair—

  Another brunette having an affair with bleach.

  Shh.

  I sidle closer to her and the boy, acting as if I’m looking at…frozen turnips?

  They freeze everything these days.

  And then, I listen…. He wants to ride in the cart. She says, “Not now.” He wants to ride on the side, hanging on like a fireman. She says, “No.” He wants to push the cart. She says, “Sit still.”

  He wishes he were older.

  Yeah. He wants to help. He wants to be a big boy.

  Just like Stevie.

  Noël and I indulged Stevie’s every wish on our infrequent shopping trips together. We made him an active part of our shopping experience.

  Saying “yes” more than saying “no.”

  As it should be.

  If it had Spiderman on it, it went into the cart.

  Yeah.

  She’s looking this way. Check out the rock on her finger.