Authors: J. J. Murray
I'm Your Girl (4 page)
I know, I’m just jealous.
“Are you listening to me, Robert?”
Oops. “Call me ‘Rob,’ Jeanetta, and I know that can’t be true.”
Jeanetta, a fix-up date from Tony, a real estate buddy of mine, is bustin’ out all over in a beige dress with buttons that go all the way from her breasts to her thighs. The girl is thicker than thick, but she’s one of those sisters with an agenda, you know, like she has to save every man from himself or something. Too much make-up anyway, though I haven’t exactly been looking at her face. She must have triple Ds up in there
.
Mr
. Johnson—at least I assume that a
man
wrote this—is obviously writing
with
his Johnson. Why is it the big women in men’s books (and some women’s books, too) have to have attitudes and agendas? Jeanetta sounds blessed, not cursed, and just to have some triple Ds for a couple hours might be nice to balance me out so I wouldn’t have to lean forward so much when I walk.
“I bet it’s true,” Jeanetta says
.
“Just add it up,” I say, sipping my Coke. “That means men think about sex eight times a minute, right? That’s almost five hundred times an hour, over ten thousand times a day, close to four million times a year.” I was, after all, an accounting major before I went into real estate. “How would anything ever get done?”
“Like anything ever gets done anyway,” Jeanetta says
.
Amen to that! Maybe nothing gets done
because
men are thinking about sex so much. So, whenever Congress has trouble passing a bill…I don’t want to think about that.
The woman beside Jeanetta is quiet. I like that. She’s kind of like me, just taking life in, watching and thinking. Maybe she’s waiting on someone. Lucky guy
.
I’ll bet Cute Woman is a ho, and a pro ho at that, and Rob is about to hook up with her.
“Okay,” I say, “let’s say a group of fellas are playing a pickup game of basketball. Don’t tell me all they’re thinking about is some booty while they’re ballin’.”
Jeanetta blinks at me. “You just said ‘ballin’,’ right?”
Jeanetta is obviously not a proper lady of color. Such language!
The woman beside Jeanetta bites her lip and looks away. Cute. Definitely cute, and she’s eavesdropping on us. I had better not sound like a complete fool then
.
“I meant,” I say, “they don’t have time to be thinking about sex when they’re shooting hoops.” They’d better not be, especially if they’re playing tight defense on me.”
“Yeah?” Jeanetta says. “Isn’t the object in basketball to put it in the hoop more than the other guy?” She takes a longer sip of her Mai Tai. “Sounds like they’re thinking about sex to me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“And what about football? ” Jeanetta says. “You take a ball from between some sweaty fat man’s legs, and if you hit the hole just right, you might score.”
Damn. I never thought of it that way before.
Neither have I. Yuck. I will not be watching any of the bowl games this year, not that I make time to look at TV. About all I do is dust off my TV.
“And in baseball, you try to keep your balls in play so you can hit a home run and get to home plate.” Jeanetta nudges the woman next to her with her elbow. “All the sports men play are all about sex, right?”
The woman turns to us. “Maybe,” she says in a cute voice. Everything about her is cute. “Sports can’t be all about sex.”
What sport isn’t sexual? What sport puts most folks to sleep on a Sunday afternoon? I got it. “Golf isn’t that sexual,” I say.
“Long skinny clubs, drivers, ball in the hole,” Jeanetta says.
Hmm. Okay, what’s more boring than golf? “Chess, then,” I say.
Jeanetta smirks. “A bunch of men trying to gang up on the queen.”
Damn. Jeanetta is sharp as a tack. Smart and thick. I know this will be our only date
.
“Okay, enough with the sports analogies. I just know that I don’t think about sex that much.” I don’t know why I’m admitting that to them. I have to talk fast. “It isn’t because I don’t enjoy it.” Whenever there’s a blue moon. When was the last time? Was Clinton or a Bush president? Damn
.
I know this is false. Any man who’s this hard up has to remember his last time in glorious, graphic detail.
All
two
minutes of it.
And as for me…hmm. I don’t have a last time to remember, though that one time with Petie Whatshisname in the tenth grade…No.
We
didn’t.
He
did, but I didn’t. The boy didn’t even get his pants off. I thought he was having a seizure!
And now I’ve depressed myself.
“Don’t get me wrong. I just don’t have the time because of my family.”
“Amen to that,” I say aloud this time. Yeah, I talk back to books. They don’t argue back—much.
Jeanetta arches two perfectly shaped eyebrows. I bet she gets them waxed. “Tony told me that you weren’t married.”
“I’m not. I’m talking about my
family
family, the family that raised me.”
“Oh.” She sucks down more of her Mai Tai. The girl thinks and drinks too much. “Well, you know what they say: blood is thicker than water.”
Blood is thick, but what is thicker than blood? Is it supposed to be love? That’s not something I’ve ever thought about. Love is thicker than blood. Hmm. I guess it makes sense.
I know they—whoever the hell “they” are—say that. But “they” have never met my family.
“You got to stand by your family no matter what, through thick and thin,” Jeanetta says. “Your family has to come first.”
I finish my Coke. The woman beside Jeanetta looks bored. Shit. I better liven up the conversation. “But what if your family is completely out of its damn mind?” The other woman turns to me, her eyes focused on my face. We have this little moment, you know, like we recognize something in each other. Maybe her family’s messed up, too.
Either that or Cute Woman is upset you said “damn.” Or she’s the hoochie I know she is. I’m beginning to like him, but the women? They’re ridiculous.
“Are you saying that your family’s dysfunctional?” Jeanetta asks.
“Dysfunctional?” I say. “That’s a word for white folks and talk shows.”
True. Though sometimes I think my mama…No, I’m not going to say she’s dysfunctional. Blood
is
thicker than water. Mama’s just…eccentric.
The other woman smiles. Nice. We’re connecting. Cool.
“My family is crazy,” I say. “My family is damaged. My family is…completely out its damn mind. Trust me. Your IQ will shoot up thirty points just being in the same state as them.”
Jeanetta clears her throat and takes her purse from the bar. “No one’s that crazy,” Jeanetta says, turning to the woman beside her. “Come on, Chloe. Let’s go.”
Chloe? Geez, Cute Hoochie Woman is a perfume. Rob is getting played.
What the hell?
Jeanetta turns to me with a bland, no-this-hasn’t-been-fun look on her face. “It was nice meeting you, Robert.”
“It’s Rob, and who—”
“Uh-huh.” Jeanetta slides off the stool, but Chloe stays put. “Come on, girl. Happy hour’s almost over. You don’t have to chaperone me anymore.” Jeanetta turns to me, dipping those triple Ds into my face. “No offense, Robert. I have to be careful. You understand.”
“Uh, yeah.” I smile at Chloe. “It was nice meeting you, too, Chloe.” I think
.
Chloe slides off her stool, letting just the tip of her tongue flick over her lower lip. “It was nice meeting you, too, Rob.”
And she got my name right.
“And I’d like to meet your family someday,” Chloe says directly to me.
Cute
and
daring? “What?”
Chloe hops up on Jeanetta’s seat. “I’d like to meet your family.”
Daa-em. “Um, I’m going to see my grandpa Joe-Joe and my daddy this evening. You…want to come?”
Grandpa “Joe-Joe”? Where do authors get these funky names? One author came to the library to do a reading last fall, and he said he used a phone book for all of his names. “I prefer the randomness of it all,” he said. I doubt there’s a listing for “Grandpa Joe-Joe” in the phone book.
“Sure.”
Riiiiight. Just like that. Chance meeting, a “date” to see Grandpa Joe-Joe, then lots of sex where Rob will analyze Chloe’s tattoo. Only in books. Or in Las Vegas.
Or so I’ve heard.
Yes! “Cool.”
Jeanetta sighs and shakes her head. “How are you going to get home, Chloe?”
Chloe smiles. “Rob can take me.”
Rob. That’s my name. I like this girl.
“Whatever,” Jeanetta says, and she walks out of Bensons.
I don’t watch Jeanetta leave, though every “man” cell in my body wants me to, and I focus on Chloe’s hands. Short nails, no nail polish. I’ll bet her hands are soft. “Are you sure you want to meet my family?”
Chloe nods
.
I leave a ten on the bar. “Well, okay.” I look down at her feet and see sandals. This could be a problem. “Just watch your step when we get to Grandpa Joe-Joe’s house. You never know what might be hiding in Grandpa Joe-Joe’s jungle….”
Not bad. Not great. Adequate. It reminds me of some book I read a few years ago, what was it? Some book about a dysfunctional white family that made most of the top ten best book lists. Maybe this is the darker version of that. Yet another rip-off.
I toy with turning the page. I haven’t quite been grabbed yet, though I have a feeling these two—Chloe and Rob—will be bumping uglies by page thirty. So predictable.
I need a challenge!
Jack
T
his isn’t easy at all.
But it has to be done.
I know.
I’m sorting Stevie’s toys into two big boxes: toys from kids’ meals, which still smell like French fries, and toys fit to be taken to the Salvation Army. He took good care of his toys, not that we showered him with that many. The xylophone still rolls and plays a tune. Now where is the…hammer? What do you call it?
Call it the “banger.”
Here it is. He used to bang all day on this thing, and some days he’d fixate on a single note and play that one note wherever he went.
Good ol’Stevie “One Note.”
I hit a note several times.
Put it in the box, Jack.
I know, I know.
After half an hour, I realize something: fast-food restaurants give away a
lot
of toys. We ate out a lot, even though Noël could cook like a master chef, and we have all the Magic Chef accessories to prove it. But we liked going to places with indoor playgrounds so Stevie could work off his chicken nuggets and fries while we nursed sweet teas and…talked.
I miss that. I miss watching him sliding and climbing. I miss hearing him say, “Daddy, look!” I miss talking about nothing with Noël. So much of our “romance,” if you could call it that, was a long series of nothing moments held together by a frolicking little boy.
You’re almost done. Don’t stop now.
The boxes almost filled, I hold Stevie’s teddy bear, Mr. Bear, the one I bought at the hospital gift shop the day Stevie was born. While Stevie called him Mr. Bear, I used to call him “Chuck,” because Stevie regularly threw him around his room.
Mr. Bear has seen better days.
The seams under each arm are ripped, one glass eyeball almost dangles, and his fur is fuzzed out in all the wrong places.
I’m keeping Mr. Bear.
No one’s stopping you.
I set Mr. Bear on top of Stevie’s dresser and take the French fry-smelling toys to the big garbage can outside. While every other garbage can on this street will be full of wrapping paper, bows, and boxes, mine will be full of fast-food toys. There’s something…sad about that.
You need to start over.
Yeah, but it’s still sad.
I look at the space in the driveway where Noël’s Ford Mustang, her “baby,” used to sit. It was too yellow for my taste, but it fit her and her sunny personality. She was always sunny, even on cold and overcast days like this. I hadn’t touched the car except to put a blaze orange “FOR SALE” sign in the rear window. I hadn’t expected anyone to notice, but a nice man, a World War II veteran who was wounded at Anzio, like my Grandpa Jeff, had bought it and my memories of Noël in that car…three days ago?
Close. Four days ago.
Really?
And you haven’t been to the bank to deposit his check yet. When are you going to do that?
If she had taken the Mustang instead of that tin can of a van, maybe she’d still be alive.
Don’t think about it.
It’s hard not to.
I return to the house to get the “good” box of toys, loading it into the Isuzu Rodeo I bought using some of the insurance settlement money. It sits parked on the street with only a minor dent in a door. Epoxy glue and duct tape hold one of the outdoor mirrors to the driver’s side door, a victim of an errant garbage can a few weeks ago.
You weren’t paying attention.
Yeah, I pushed the garbage can into the mirror. I should have called the insurance company about it, but I’m sure the people there are tired of hearing from me.
When I go back into the house, I hear the phone ringing, and at first, I’m not sure what I’m hearing. So few people have called these last few months.
Except for telemarketers hawking phone service, mortgages, and something about a fire safety house for kids. You donated to that one.
Anything for the kids.
The phone is still ringing.
I know it’s not Noël’s family—or mine. I’ve asked them to leave me alone for a while until I can…function, and they’ve respected my wishes for the most part, Noël’s family especially. I’m sure deep down they still blame me for everything and wish that I had died instead of their only child and grandchild.
You’re not thinking those thoughts again, are you?
No.
Good. I like talking to you.
You’re the only one who does.
I check the Caller ID as it rings on. It’s not long distance and can’t be the school. Who else would be calling on Christmas Day?
“Hello?”
“Is this Jack Browning?” The man has a voice full of gravel.
“Yes.”
“This is Bill Williams. Hope I’m not disturbing your Christmas.”
It’s too late for that. But who is—oh. It’s the man who bought Noël’s car. “You’re not disturbing me, Mr. Williams. How’s the car running?”
“I’m bringing it back.”
“Why?”
“It’s got a shimmy.”
“A shimmy?”
“A shimmy. It was wobbling all over the place.”
“When?”
“When I was taking it home.”
“But that was…four days ago.”
“Yep. Just haven’t had the time to bring her back until today.”
Oh, geez. He had to say “her.”
Come on, Jack. He’s a Marine. Anything that carries him somewhere is female.
I grip the phone tightly. “I don’t understand, Mr. Williams. You said that you were taking the car to your own mechanic to get it checked out, and I told you I’d hold on to the check until you had done that. Has your mechanic checked it out yet?”
“Uh, no.”
“He hasn’t?”
“No, but I don’t want to purchase the vehicle anymore because of that shimmy.”
That car doesn’t shimmy. That car is rock solid. “Well, look, Mr. Williams, it hadn’t been driven in a long time. Perhaps one of the tires is lower on air pressure than the others. Did you check the tires?”
“I know a shimmy when I feel one, young man.”
Think! “Well, you know those are after-market wheels on that vehicle, and my wife was always saying that they weren’t as perfectly balanced as the original, so—”
“Will you be home today? It’s the only day I can get another driver.”
But I only want memories visiting me today! “Were you driving it, Mr. Williams?”
“No, my grandson was.”
“Your grandson was?” During the test-drive, the grandson proved that he couldn’t drive a five-speed.
He couldn’t even find reverse.
“Perhaps your grandson was in the wrong gear going up or down a hill.”
“He wasn’t. I was sitting right there next to him telling him when to shift. Now will you be home today? I want to come get my check.”
But of course! The check! It’s all about the money.
It’s not that I need the money. It’s the principle of the thing. A man should keep his word. “I’ll be…I’ll be home all day, but please reconsider. My wife babied that car. You know how clean it is inside, and she had the oil changed religiously every three thousand miles.”
“I’m concerned about the shimmy.”
This man is fixated on the word “shimmy.” Maybe it’s a World War II thing.
“I understand your concern, I really do, but that car is
safe
. I wouldn’t have sold it to you otherwise. And anyway, you said you were taking it to your—”
“I know what I said, and now I’m saying that I’m bringing it back today.”
I can’t have that car back here, all sunny and yellow and full of Noël! Not today! “Look, it’s been sitting in the driveway for two months, I haven’t been driving it, so it’s possible—”
“And the back windows leak.”
And now it’s about the windows! “I
told
you about the back windows, and you didn’t seem concerned
then
. All you were concerned with was getting the car to your home because you knew you were getting a good deal.”
“And now I’m bringing it back. Will you be there, say, around three?”
This can’t be happening! “I know you want a safe car for your grandson. I understand that. What I don’t understand is how you’re not being a man of your word. I told you I would hold on to the check until your mechanic checked it out.
I’m
doing
my
part—”
“I got the law on my side, young man.”
The law? What law? “The lemon law?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mr. Williams, that law doesn’t apply to this situation at all. That’s only for car dealerships.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Geez! “Can you do me a favor, Mr. Williams? Can you take the car to your mechanic first and have him check it out like you
said
you would, and if your mechanic, whom you obviously trust, finds major problems, then we’ll—”
“My grandson says he doesn’t feel safe in it, and neither do I. We’ll see you at three.”
“Sir, you’re taking the word of an eighteen-year-old driver who had difficulty finding the reverse gear during the test-drive.”
“He was just nervous.”
“I know he was nervous, but he was giving us all whiplash. And legally, you have the title, signed by both parties—”
“You know that isn’t really a legal document, Mr. Browning. You had to forge your own wife’s signature!”
I can’t catch my breath. “Because she’s…dead that’s why, and I told you why that day, and you said you understood.”
“I don’t want any trouble, Mr. Browning, and this car has trouble written all over it.”
I sigh. Noël would have already said “Cool, Mr. Williams, bring it back. We understand.” And Noël wouldn’t want me to sell her “baby” to anyone like Mr. Williams or his gear-stripping grandson. “Okay, Mr. Williams, bring the car back, and don’t forget to bring the title. I’ll be here waiting.”
I turn off the phone, tossing it onto the sofa. “Unbelievable. I should have deposited that check the second I had it.”
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away—and on Christmas Day.
Maybe you’ll need that car, and this is God’s way of saying—
Don’t bring God into this.
Oops. Sorry. I forgot. You and God aren’t speaking.
I have never had any luck with any vehicle. I broke the grille of my mother’s AMC Spirit, pushing it out of a snowdrift two months after getting my license. A few months later, I backed my father’s Buick Regal into another car in a parking lot. The first car technically “mine” was an Oldsmobile something-or-other.
It was an Omega. They don’t make those anymore.
That’s why I blocked out the memory.
The Omega died outside Dayton, Ohio, on a sunny, below-zero day. Fixed, it lasted only a few months more, finally coughing up oil in Marietta, Ohio. My next car, a Toyota Corona, purchased from a mechanic in Charleston, West Virginia, was a bucket of rust, yet it served me well, despite losing the muffler on some train tracks in Indiana and having only an AM radio and a pretzel-shaped antenna that, for some reason, would only bring in stations that had nonstop farm reports.
“Wheat futures are looking good….”
I still don’t know what a wheat future is.
After selling that rust bucket to a man who planned to race it—
He was spooky. He actually thought he could get a 350 engine in there.
—I bought my first “brand-new” vehicle, a Nissan Sentra. It was a beautiful car until two fifth-grade boys decided to wrestle on it in the parking lot. There were a hundred other cars to choose from, and they chose mine. Two months later, I “won” a game of chicken with a pregnant deer outside of Elliott’s Creek, Virginia, denting the brand-new hood.
She shouldn’t have hesitated.
Two months after that during an ice storm in Boones Mill, Virginia, an ancient tree branch decided to fall on the roof of the Sentra—and the second hood—destroying forever its once aerodynamic design. I barely got a thousand for it on the trade-in for the van.
We’re not thinking about the van today, remember?
Right.
A few minutes before three, Mr. Williams shows up with the Mustang, the grandson driving, Noël’s Mustang bucking like, well, a mustang. I dig the “FOR SALE” sign from the kitchen trash can, smoothing out the strips of masking tape, then go outside.
And Mrs. Williams is with them again in…a Buick Regal? My luck.
Life has a way of making circles.
More like spinning wheels.
You’re so negative.
I’m just full of positive negativity these days.
That made no sense.
I walk by Mr. Williams, who rests beside the Mustang and leans heavily on a metal cane, to Mrs. Williams in the Buick. I open my wallet and take out the check, handing it to her.
“Dry run,” she says.
“Yeah. I guess so.” I turn to Mr. Williams. “You have the title?”
Mr. Williams fishes in his pocket for the title, and then holds it out to me. I take the title, rolling it into a little scroll.
Now you’ll have to go to the DMV to get that fixed.
I can’t wait.
You’ll have to get Noël’s name taken off it
.
I know. I’ll have to find the death certificate.
If you sit in a DMV long enough, everyone you have ever known will eventually show up
.
Yeah, the DMV is one of the only true melting pots left in this country.
I can’t blame Mr. Williams for losing his nerve, but what did he think he was buying? It’s a used car with close to 100,000 miles on it! I was practically giving it away!
If he really wanted a safe car for his grandson, he would have bought him a Volvo or something.
“I filled up the tank,” Mr. Williams says.
Oh, that makes everything better.
I nod. “Are all the records in the car?”
“Yeah,” the grandson says.
I don’t look at the can’t-drive-a-stick grandson. I open the back driver’s side door and press the “FOR SALE” sign into the window, using my fingernails to smooth out the strips of tape.