You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  We’ll go with his ability to pay.

  “We don’t have to go to Subway, Hope,” Dylan said. “We could go to Popeyes or Yummy Taco . . .” He withdrew a stack of mini-menus from the front pouch of his hoodie. “I think I have a six-square-block area covered.” He smiled, spreading the menus on the counter. “Let’s see, how about Buffalo Boss?”

  Hope blinked. He carries around menus.

  “Junior’s?” Dylan said.

  Hope shrugged. He carries menus like tourists carry brochures.

  “Smashburger? What a name.”

  Hope shook her head. He carries menus like lost visitors carry bus and subway schedules.

  “Rosa Delia?”

  Who? I cannot believe he walks around with menus in his pouch. He is one kangourou étrange. Maybe he’s Australian instead of Irish. Hope stared at the menus. I have printed out most of these! I’m looking at my own work! Her stomach chose this moment to rumble audibly. She tried to smile but only winced.

  Dylan didn’t seem to notice.

  Now I am suddenly hungry. It sounds as if a cat is trying to claw its way out of my stomach. Am I really that hungry? Hope leaned closer to the menus and heard another howl from her stomach. They shouldn’t put pictures of the food on those menus. I know my stomach can see them.

  “Flying Saucer?” Dylan paused and held up a menu. “What’s a Paddington Bear sandwich? I’ve never been here, have you? This might be fun.”

  I don’t want fun. I want food to still the cat meowing in my stomach. At least it’s not hissing. That would be embarrassing.

  “How about Johnny’s Deli?” Dylan asked. “Luv N Oven? China Star?”

  The Islands is a long way from here, a few doors down from my apartment. Dylan and I have just met, and this is not an official date. This is just lunch, though I could really go for some curry goat.

  Hope’s stomach continued to mewl and complain. No curry goat. The cat in my stomach would tear it to shreds. One angry animal in my stomach at a time.

  Justin burst through the office door behind her, and even Dylan jumped a little. “Um . . .”

  Hope spun around. “Hope.”

  “Yeah, um, Hope,” Justin said. “Can you work through lunch? I need to, um, go out for an, um, hour or so.”

  Not when I’m suddenly this hungry!

  “I wouldn’t ask,” Justin said, “but this is an emergency.”

  Hope sighed and nodded. As if I had a choice.

  “Um, thanks, Hope,” Justin said, and he tore around the counter and out the front door carrying his trusty camera bag.

  Dylan squinted at the door. “Was that your boss?”

  Hope nodded. He occasionally makes appearances. Oh, he doesn’t really work here. He just sits in the office and looks at porn. He has a managerial degree from NYU, which qualifies him to look at porn nine hours a day.

  Dylan turned to the counter. “How long has he been working here?”

  Hope shrugged. “A few months.”

  Dylan laughed. “I have never seen the man.” He smiled. “You do all the work around here anyway.”

  Yes, I do. Oh! The cat in my stomach is chasing something now! Stay still!

  “You could probably run this place all by yourself,” Dylan said.

  I already do.

  Hope’s stomach chose this moment to bark.

  Woof? My stomach says “Woof”? Wow! Dylan had to hear that.

  Dylan drummed the counter. “You know, I could go out and get us something to eat, Hope. I could bring it back here for us.”

  Yes. Food without the awkward silences. Lunch without the waiting. Sustenance without paying. Three good reasons to accept this man’s offer. Hope nodded and sifted through the menus.

  “Having trouble deciding?” Dylan asked.

  Hope nodded.

  Dylan gathered up the menus and fanned them out like playing cards. “Pick a menu, any menu.”

  Who chooses food at random? Who does anything random in life? Okay, I almost joined the U.S. Army once. Hope looked at her hand reaching across the counter. I guess I’m feeling random today.

  “Close your eyes,” Dylan said. “No peeking.”

  Hope closed her eyes, reached out, and plucked a menu. She opened her eyes. Buffalo Boss. Hmm. I can smell the gas already.

  “I’ve never eaten there, have you?” Dylan asked.

  Hope shook her head.

  Dylan slipped the other menus back into his hoodie pouch, and then he opened up and flattened the Buffalo Boss menu on the counter. “Truth be told, I haven’t eaten at any of these places.” He looked into Hope’s glasses. “I’ve been hoping to eat at all of them, but I haven’t found anyone to eat at them with me.” Dylan returned his eyes to the menu. “What looks good to you?”

  Hope scanned the menu, sliding her finger down until it stopped on the twenty-four-piece hot wings sampler.

  All of Brooklyn might smell the gas, Hope thought. “It says we get four sauces.” She spun the menu around to Dylan. “I don’t have a preference.”

  “Okay,” Dylan said, “how about . . . teriyaki, honey mustard, OMG, and F.I.T.H.”

  Hope turned the menu slightly. “OMG” stood for “Oh My God” and “F.I.T.H.” stood for “Fire In The Hole.” She shrugged. Those wings are going to be incendiary. We may cause a midafternoon fog and ground some flights at JFK and LaGuardia.

  “And I’ll get an order of chili cheese fries, too,” Dylan said.

  Hope blinked.

  “I like hot food,” Dylan said. “I was blessed with a cast-iron stomach.” He took out a cell phone and called in the order. Then he covered the mouthpiece. “What do you want to drink, Hope?”

  “Ice water,” Hope said.

  Dylan completed the order. “They said it’d be ready in twenty minutes.” He slid the menu across to Hope. “A souvenir.”

  Hope tried not to smile, but a tiny one escaped before she could catch it, scold it, beat it down, and send it back into her face. “But we’re not even going there together.”

  “Maybe one day we will,” Dylan said.

  Hope slipped the menu into the back pocket of her jeans. That was kind of sweet, and it was smooth, too. He actually asked me out to eat again, even before we’ve not gone out to eat today, and now I have proof that we would have eaten together if I wasn’t stuck here running the store alone.

  Or something like that.

  Dylan rapped the counter with his knuckles. “I’ll be right back, Hope.” Then he stood unmoving, his eyes sweeping the shop.

  Oh. Right. I’m supposed to say something. “Okay. See you soon.”

  Dylan smiled. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Hope watched him go. He has a flat derriere, too. We have something else in common. Hope smiled. He has long hair, and I have long hair. He likes to eat, and I like to eat. He seems desperate, and . . . I’m not desperate. I’m about to get a free lunch. Hmm. Gas, too, but it’s nice to know I can still attract a man, and I wasn’t even flirting. I can’t even remember how to flirt. Hope smiled again. I have secured a meal. I didn’t eat last night, and I didn’t eat this morning. Now a man is about to feed me.

  Hope sighed. He couldn’t even see much of me. I stood behind the counter the entire time, and yet he weighed me in his mind. Well. That means he . . . Hope’s hands tingled. That means he looked at all of me, and he didn’t grimace or gag. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? When I really think about it, he was the one flirting with me, right?

  Hope temporarily lost feeling in her hands.

  Oh, wow. He was flirting with me, for whatever strange reason. She almost smiled yet again. Imagine that. A man was flirting with me, right here at the counter of Thrifty Digital Printing on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn on a Wednesday.

  The cat in Hope’s stomach continued to howl.

  Chapter 4

  After Dylan and his flat derriere left Thrifty Digital Printing, Hope straightened up the stacks of unpaid orders under the counter, aligning t
hem perfectly with the edges of the shelves.

  I never straighten up this place. Why am I working here at work? I really should clean off this counter. It’s about to be our lunch table, right?

  Hope went into the storeroom and found a bottle of all-purpose cleaner and a thin roll of paper towels. She took the bottle to the front and sprayed the counter, wiping it down in wide arcs.

  When is the last time a man brought me lunch? Eight years ago.

  Hope sprayed and wiped the counter again.

  Odell brought us Chinese. Sesame chicken and noodles from Hunan Delight. He had the Sha Cha beef. That’s all he’d ever get. I could never get him to expand his gastronomic horizons. I could never finish my entrée, but he would finish his and then mine and say, “Man, I’m still hungry. That’s the problem with Chinese food.” I would tell him he should have ordered some egg rolls or some shrimp dumplings, then he’d call me his little dumpling, and then we’d save our fortune cookies to open later in bed, and then—

  And then he left, and I started to hate Christmas.

  Hope sprayed and wiped the counter again.

  What did I see in Odell? I don’t remember. Maybe I don’t want to remember. I wish I didn’t have to remember the last time I saw him. He was carrying a large Di Fara pizza and holding the hand of another woman . . . who was holding the hand of a little girl who had Odell’s eyes.

  Hope hunched down and squinted at the surface of the counter. It’s still smudged, but it’ll have to do. She returned the bottle and the roll of paper towels to the storeroom and stopped in front of the DocuTech to run a systems diagnostics check.

  She was the most beautiful little girl I had ever seen. And though I smiled at them, and though I spoke to him as “an old friend,” and though I wished them both well, I secretly wished that child was my very own.

  A tear dropped to a red tile. Come back here. I didn’t give you permission to leave my eye. We’ve already cried for this man.

  She started a diagnostic test on the Ryobi 3404.

  Was there ever a moment with Odell that didn’t involve food? Odell liked to eat. I liked to eat. Once. I fell for Odell with my stomach. I didn’t think with my head. If I had thought with my head, I would never have fallen for Odell. I almost fell in love with the man through food. And what did I have left after he left me? Nothing. No. He did leave me with a refrigerator full of leftovers, and I didn’t eat any of them because . . . I was saving them in case he came back.

  And then I stopped eating, lost what few curves I once had, and became anorexic.

  I am an anorexic.

  The last time I was at the doctor, I looked at that height/weight chart. I am at least thirty pounds from having a healthy body. I tell myself I’m slim and trim, that’s all, and any weight I put on comes off because I walk five miles a day. Some women would kill to have a body like mine. I can wear whatever I want. I have no trouble finding my size.

  But...

  My bras don’t fit anymore. It’s almost a waste to wear them at all. My ribs stare at me in my skinny mirror every morning, and I don’t wear bracelets anymore, and not just because Odell gave them to me. They don’t stay on my wrists. I have hair where I did not have hair before, and I’m always cold.

  And . . .

  And I haven’t had a period in months. It isn’t so bad. Not having my “friend” arrive saves me from having to get tampons, doesn’t it?

  But...

  I wouldn’t be able to be with a man anyway. I have had sexual anorexia for many years. I have all the worst symptoms of menopause, yet I’m only thirty-three. I am starving in more ways than one. I’m obviously getting enough nourishment to get to and from work, though. I eat, and I still have desires. Sometimes. I just don’t eat as much or lust as much as I used to. My libido isn’t dead. It’s only dormant and hibernating like a—

  “Excuse me.”

  Hope looked up at a grizzly bear of a man waving a piece of paper in front of her face. I wonder how long he’s been standing there. I hope not long. “Yes?”

  “I need to make fifty copies of this as soon as possible,” he said. “Do you think you can handle it?”

  Hope blinked at the middle-aged black man, who wore a navy-blue suit that blocked out the front windows, his matching tie loosened from a starched white collar squeezing a thick dark neck, not a single hair out of place on his head.

  He could play American football, Hope thought. He could play every position at once! He is a scary man. Where’d the sun go? He could probably snap me in two.

  “Hello?” the man said. “Is anybody home?” He checked his watch. “I have to be somewhere, so let’s get this done.”

  Hope watched her thin hand take the piece of paper, turning it around and bringing it up to her face. Marshall Word, investment manager, seeks similar position, formerly of Universal Investment House, address in Bedford-Stuyvesant, graduate of NYU School of Business. Didn’t Universal Investment go bankrupt recently? She squinted as she scanned the page. This résumé is brutal. What’s this? Eight-point type? Too many underlined words. Oh, look. He misspelled “manager” as “manger” twice.

  He’s trying to make a manger scene!

  That was bad. Funny, but bad.

  Should I point out these errors to him? I don’t want to embarrass him. Even a former executive is still an executive in his mind. If he weren’t in such a hurry, I could make this résumé sing.

  “Can you make fifty copies for me now, please?” Mr. Word asked.

  Hope nodded.

  “And can you hurry it up?” Mr. Word asked. “I didn’t have change for the meter. I can’t afford to get a ticket today.”

  Hope nodded. “Would you like me to put this on résumé paper?”

  Mr. Word glared at her. “Yes, of course. Put my résumé on résumé paper.” He shook his head and spun away from the counter, whipping out a cell phone. “Yeah, Barney? I’m stuck in some copy shop on Flatbush, no telling when I’ll get there because this airhead Jamaican copy girl doesn’t understand English.”

  I’m not Jamaican, and since you’re ruining my day, I’m going to ruin yours. Hope waved her hand in the air until Mr. Word looked at her.

  “Hold on a second.” Mr. Word covered his phone. “What?”

  “Sir,” Hope said, “I’d recommend using crushed cream smooth twenty-four weight instead of standard thirty-two-pound résumé paper. It’s just dark enough to stand out and not too dark to—”

  “You trying to up-sell me when I’m obviously in a hurry?” Mr. Word interrupted.

  Hope shook her head. “Actually, using the crushed cream smooth twenty-four weight will save you—”

  Mr. Word sighed deeply and glared at Hope again. “Let’s keep it simple, okay? I want you to use that parchment stuff, you know, the kinda heavy paper that has the nice feel to it. Feels like cotton. You know what I’m talking about. Feels like cotton. That’s what I need.”

  You also need manners and cologne that won’t wilt the ficus.

  Hope nodded, turned, and went into the storeroom, returning with a box of Southworth Company linen résumé paper. At forty dollars for two hundred sheets, the paper alone will cost him ten dollars.

  She displayed the box to Mr. Word. “Is this satisfactory, sir?”

  Mr. Word sighed, his eyes blinking. “Yes, and can you move any faster? I have an interview with ABD Securities in Battery Park in less than an hour, and I can’t be late. So step it up, girl.”

  You know, Mr. Word, I can step it up, but I have just decided to move more slowly than I’ve ever moved before because I am not a girl. Thank you so much for thinking you are better than me, but guess what? I have a job. You are unemployed. I hope you do get a parking ticket, and you do need someone to teach you some manners, though that’s not my job and it’s obvious you wouldn’t learn any manners from anyone anyway. It’s not my fault you didn’t have the foresight to proofread and have your résumé ready for your interview today. I do hope someone hires you as a m
anger. You’re big enough to hold a hundred baby Jesuses.

  That was bad, too. Sorry, God.

  “Mr. Word,” Hope said, “fifty sheets will cost you ten dollars for the paper alone.”

  “Ten bucks for paper?” he asked, widening his dark eyes.

  “It’s fine linen paper,” Hope said. “It’s the best we sell.”

  “Whatever,” Mr. Word said, twirling his index finger. “Just hurry it up.”

  Can’t. “But there’s a problem with your résumé, Mr. Word.” She slid the résumé across the counter. “You misspelled the word ‘manager’ twice. I can fix that for you.”

  Mr. Word snatched at the paper and held it up to his face. “Where?”

  “Third and ninth lines down,” Hope said.

  Mr. Word sighed, tossing the sheet back across the counter. “Sure. Get some of that Wite-Out stuff and fix it. What’ll that cost me? Another quarter?” He walked to the front door to look outside at his car, a long blue Lexus.

  Actually, it’s another ten dollars. “Mr. Word?”

  “What is it now?” Mr. Word asked, still standing at the front door.

  I am going to gouge the merde out of you now. “I’ll have to scan it first using OCR, or optical character recognition,” Hope said louder, “and only then can I make the corrections. It will be an additional ten dollars for the markup and preproduction fee.”

  “Ten bucks for two little letters?” Mr. Word yelled.

  You misspelled what you want your future position to be, not me, but I expect you to be upset since you’re too cheap to put some change in the parking meter. “I could use correction fluid, Mr. Word, and I have neat handwriting, but it won’t look nearly as professional to ABD Securities if I do.”

  Mr. Word’s body shook. “Look, do what you gotta do, all right? Just move it.”

  What would have cost him ten cents a copy on plain paper at the machine to his right will now cost him so much more. I hope Universal Investment gave him a nice severance package.

  Hope scanned in the résumé using OCR, corrected the misspellings, loaded the DocuTech with the linen paper, and ran fifty copies. She wrote up Mr. Word’s work order and handed it and his copies to him as Dylan banged through the door with lunch.