I'm Your Girl

by J. J. Murray

  I look back at the turnips, listening to the boy. They roll by behind me, and I look again.

  Right into her eyes.

  You’re not very sneaky.

  She smiles, her eyes soften, and she moves on, looking back once or twice.

  Flirting with a married woman in the frozen-food section of Kroger?

  I wasn’t flirting. I was looking.

  Looking at a ready-made family.

  No, I was just being the sponge that I am.

  Too skinny anyway.

  And too mean to her child.

  Instead of having a cashier overanalyze my purchases—at least I’ve heard they do that to customers—I try out the U-Scan for the first time.

  “Welcome to Kroger. Press the touch screen to begin.”

  I press the “start” button.

  “Do you have a Kroger-Plus card?”

  I press “yes.”

  “Scan your Kroger-Plus card now.”

  Why does she have to be so loud?

  I don’t know. I scan my card and hear a beep.

  “Welcome, Kroger-Plus-card member. Scan your first item, and place it in the bag.”

  I scan one of the Lunchables, hear a beep, and put it in the bag. It comes up as $3.29.

  I thought it was three for seven bucks.

  So did I. Maybe it will recalculate at the end.

  I scan the other two Lunchables and the rest of my purchases. But when I get to the onion, I’m stumped.

  You can’t scan an onion.

  I know.

  I press the “produce” button.

  “Key in the number on your produce item.”

  There’s no number.

  Why couldn’t I just type in “onion”?

  The world is number driven.

  Don’t I know it.

  I look up at a plastic roller filled with numbers for asparagus, carrots, green peppers, lettuce, onions…but “sweet Vidalia” isn’t listed.

  “Key in the number on your produce item.”

  I look at the attendant, a sweet-faced teenaged girl. “I’m having trouble finding Vidalia on here.”

  She steps over, picks up my onion, puts it down, then goes to her computer. In a few moments, I hear, “Place your item in the bag.”

  You filled only one bag.

  Hey, that’s three lunches and at least three dinners right there.

  What about breakfast?

  There’s cereal in the pantry.

  There’s some really old cereal in the pantry.

  Cereal never decays.

  I press “finish” and hear, “Do you have any coupons?”

  “No.”

  Press the button, Jack.

  I press “no.”

  So now you’re talking to computers.

  She…it…whatever asked me a question.

  A new screen with payment buttons appears. “Select your method of payment.”

  Geez, there are eight different ways to pay.

  What, no “give blood” button? Your total seems high.

  Yeah, it does.

  I press “debit.”

  “Do you want any cash back?”

  I press “no.”

  “Insert your card into the card reader, and follow the instructions.”

  I slide my debit through, punch in my password, and wait for the total to change.

  It doesn’t.

  “Take your receipt, collect your bags, and thank you for shopping at Kroger.”

  I pick up my bag and analyze the receipt. The “3 for $7” didn’t take effect for some reason. I approach the attendant. “Something’s not right here.”

  I hand her the receipt.

  “The sign back there says three for seven dollars,” I say, “and I don’t see it reflected on the receipt.”

  She smiles. “There’s nothing I can do here. You’ll have to go to customer service.” She points to a counter at the front of the store.

  I take my receipt. “Thanks.”

  I walk to the counter, only there’s no one behind the counter. After a four-minute wait, a woman with short hair and a tattoo on her neck shows up. I hand her the receipt and explain what happened.

  She grabs a phone, hits a few numbers, and says, “I need a price check on ham and cheese Lunchables.” She hangs up. “It will only take a moment.”

  Several moments pass. Then several more moments pass.

  Moments shouldn’t take this long.

  Shh. I’m about to save three dollars.

  Finally, the oldest living Kroger worker, a woman wearing a plastic cap on her head, sidles up to me at barely a stumble. “Those aren’t on sale,” she heaves. “Those are full price.”

  “But every sign back there under every Lunchable says three for seven.”

  She shakes her head. “Not under those.”

  “But I saw the sign.”

  “Did you read the numbers under the sign?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am. I just assumed that what was above the sign meant that the Lunchables above the sign were three for seven dollars.”

  She leans on the counter. “Every other one is three for seven, just not the ham and cheese.”

  You know how to pick them.

  Shh. I’m getting my Irish on.

  “Then there shouldn’t be a sign under the ham and cheese proclaiming that they are three for seven when they aren’t three for seven. It’s deceptive.”

  “They weren’t under the ham and cheese.”

  She’s calling you a liar.

  “But they were!”

  “No, they weren’t.” She looks at the customer service woman. “Long day, huh?” She looks back at me. “Want me to go back and show you?”

  She may even be calling you a blind liar.

  “So, you’re saying that the customer is wrong.”

  The customer service woman steps closer. “We can give you a refund, sir.”

  “I don’t want a refund” I say. “I’m hungry. Perhaps you can fix your signs so you don’t have to tell another Kroger-Plus-card member he or she is wrong.”

  The old woman rolls her eyes. “The signs aren’t wrong. You are. Those signs are clearly marked.”

  “So clearly marked that they confused a valued customer?”

  “You must not have been reading closely enough,” she says, with a smile.

  I hate it when they smile.

  Especially when they don’t mean it.

  “You want your money back?” the customer service woman asks.

  I look from the old woman in the smashing plastic cap to the bored customer service woman. “No.” I put my Kroger-Plus card on the counter. “I won’t be needing this anymore.”

  “But, sir—”

  I stare hard at the old woman. “I paid the wrong price.”

  “Oh,” she says, “listen to him.”

  I stare harder at the old woman. “You know I paid the wrong price. I’ll bet you didn’t even check the prices.”

  Ask her if she went to school with the original Mr. Kroger.

  This isn’t about age. This is about justice.

  She’s old enough.

  Shh.

  “I checked the price.” She flutters a withered hand in my face. “You just can’t read.”

  I step around her, saying loudly, “I know, I know, the customer is always wrong. Thank you for shopping at Kroger.” I stop and turn. “I paid the wrong price.”

  And as I leave Kroger, I realize that I’ve been paying the wrong price for a long time.

  25

  Diane

  I had no luck retrieving my review on my own, so I wrote e-mails to Amazon’s customer service and technical support for help before clocking out and going home. I should know within twenty-four hours how to fix everything, but I wish—

  I wish I hadn’t been so hasty to judge that book. And the things I said about D. J. Browning—who is really David Jack Browning, blue-eyed, somewhat handsome blond man—were harsh! I did everything but call him
a racist, and now that I know him a little better, I know in my heart that he isn’t a racist. He’s a little misguided, maybe. I mean, he’s using Essence as his handbook for the modern black woman. Though Essence tries, it cannot possibly cover every aspect of the modern black woman.

  And he wants to put me in the book! Me, of all people! I’m not in Essence. My body type is not in Essence. The clothes I wear are not featured in Essence. The hair products I use…Okay, they’re in Essence, but that’s not the point. Jack needs a real, live, actual sister to be his technical advisor, not some made-up, done-up, skinny models with their curves in all the right places. He needs someone like me to help him write a decent book.

  He needs me.

  A man needs me. This is…odd. But does he know he needs me? I mean, does he know that he needs my help? Maybe my original review will prove to him that he does. Maybe I don’t need to take back what I wrote. Maybe my review is the kick in the pants that he needs to write a real book.

  And maybe it will shatter his ego. I’ve heard of authors pitching a fit over Amazon reviews they thought were unfair, and I’ve heard of some reviews simply disappearing because an author—

  That’s an idea. I’ll convince Jack that “Nisi’s” review was unfair. Then, he can get it removed, and I don’t have to do a thing. Yes, that’s the way to do it. I’m sure his publisher will do something to protect him.

  No, no. It was my mistake, and I’ll have to fix it.

  But what if the review can’t be taken back, and Jack finds out that I wrote it? That’s silly. How would he ever find out…unless I told him? I can never tell him that I wrote it. Never. It would break his heart.

  And mine, too.

  I have to call him. Our conversation didn’t end as I wanted it to end. Actually, I didn’t want it to end. He was so easy to talk to, despite all his “ums” and “uhs.” Wait. I was “uming” and “uhing,” too. I probably sounded so desperate.

  But, what if his wife answers? If she’s even there. And why wouldn’t she be proud anymore? If she’s white—and she has to be to dress Jack that way—maybe she’s not proud of him writing about Ty. Maybe she thinks he’s writing about his fantasies with a black woman. I’ll bet that’s it. She’s jealous of Ty, and maybe his original white woman was based on his wife, and she’s not happy about the changes. I know it would piss me off if my man wrote about someone like Ty. “Where’d you meet her?” I would ask. “How do you know so much about her?”

  Jealousy may be overworked in fiction for a very good reason: it’s everywhere in real life.

  Yeah, that would be hard to explain. I mean, he could say, “Honey, they’re only fantasies. They’re not real. This is fiction. I made her up out of my head.”

  Hmm. I wouldn’t buy it for a second.

  I look at the phone. I should call him anyway, at least to get the LOC number, like I said I would. But…it’s late. Strange black women calling late at night could confirm his wife’s fears. But how would she know I was black? I speak clear, “white” English as well as if not better than most white people in Roanoke. Oh, but then she’d ask, “Who was that, honey?”

  I know I would.

  Shoot. Whom can I talk to about any of this? Mama? Not a chance. As soon as I say “blue eyes,” she’ll be clutching her chest. Reesie? No way. She’d say something like, “I knew you were adopted.” Daddy? Hmm. Daddy might understand. I’m his “baby.” He always listens to me…and reports everything I say directly to Mama.

  I look at the ceiling. God? I know You don’t share my business with the world, and I’m kind of confused right now. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should get my review back or not. I don’t know if I should call Jack or not. I don’t know if I should even care so much for a man I just met who might be married!

  Help a sister out.

  Amen.

  26

  Jack

  I’m cutting fat off the chicken breasts while the Crock-Pot warms up, and though it’s a mindless task, I can’t stop thinking.

  You really told her off.

  No, I didn’t.

  I was impressed. The old Jack wouldn’t have even gone to the customer service counter. He would have folded up his receipt, stuffed it in his pocket, and gone home.

  I still don’t like conflict.

  But didn’t it make you feel good to speak your mind?

  Yeah. A little.

  You asserted yourself with plastic bag head, just as you asserted yourself with Diane.

  We only talked a little bit.

  It was the most you’ve talked to anyone except me in months!

  I was babbling, wasn’t I?

  No. Not really. You might have given her too much information about the book. You’re not the book, Jack.

  I know that.

  You should have told Diane about Noël and Stevie.

  Diane was—and is—still a stranger to me. I can’t dump all that on her.

  You left her with too many questions about you.

  So, I’m a man of mystery.

  You should have asked her out.

  Huh?

  You should have said something like, “I know this is kind of sudden, but would you like to have lunch with me sometime?”

  I couldn’t say that.

  You make your characters say things like that all the time. Just…write yourself something to say.

  Not a bad idea. I always think better on paper. But why lunch?

  So she’ll know it’s not serious. Lunch is friendly. Dinner, though, that means serious.

  Why?

  Because…because it’s dark outside usually, and darkness was made for love.

  Quit quoting from Wishful Thinking. I’m trying to put that book behind me.

  It was a good line.

  It could be considered a racist line, too.

  You think too much.

  But obviously not enough. I should have asked her out, right?

  You still can. Go back to the library tomorrow and ask her.

  Tomorrow?

  You have any plans?

  No.

  And, if she accepts—

  If?

  Okay, when she accepts, that could lead to a New Year’s Eve date.

  She’s working on New Year’s Eve.

  Right. Until nine. The celebrations don’t start until midnight…when it’s dark…and darkness was made for love.

  Geez, I nearly just cut my finger off. I have to stop thinking about Diane. She’s not like any of the women in Essence, and yet she’s…more.

  Now you’re thinking.

  She did ask for my phone number.

  She sure did.

  Noël didn’t do that. I had to ask.

  Maybe it’s a black woman thing.

  Or simply a “Diane thing.”

  Maybe.

  You need to think outside the racial box.

  While I slice up the onion—and tear like crazy!—I think of Diane. It feels so strange. For five years only Noël has been in my head, and now…Diane. She has a clear, distinct voice. It’s not a lilting, melodious, or “cute” voice. It’s a voice I can listen to. And her eyes aren’t, well, “pools of starlight” or some other such nonsense I wrote to describe Ty’s eyes. They’re…soft and open, though they roll around a good bit. And her smile? It doesn’t set the world on fire or stop traffic or sparkle. It just…moves me. And her body wasn’t anywhere in Essence. She isn’t “bootylicious” or “fly” or “da bomb.” She’s plainly…attractive. That’s it. She’s attractive. From the tone of her calves to the curve of her…form, from the light from her face to the kindness in her eyes, Diane is…genuinely attractive to me.

  I like her.

  I wipe tears from my eyes, some of them caused by the onion, the others caused by a single thought: I like her.

  Noël would like her.

  How can you say that?

  They might even have been friends.

  Yeah. They might have been.

  The p
hone rings.

  It’s Diane!

  No, it isn’t. It’s dinnertime, so it’s probably some telemarketer.

  I pick up the phone, and it nearly slides out of my hand.

  Your hands are sweaty.

  Shh. “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Jenny Dwyer.”

  Who?

  “I called about the car yesterday.”

  “Oh, yeah.” The drive-by lady.

  “I must have missed you today. The car looks real nice. How does it drive?”

  “Uh, I don’t normally drive it. It’s my wife’s car.”

  “Oh, is she there? I’d like to talk to her about it.”

  I sigh. “Um, she’s not here at the moment.”

  Why didn’t you tell her the truth?

  I’m not ready.

  Yes, you are.

  “When will she be back?”

  I clear my throat. “She won’t be back, uh, Jenny, because she died six months ago.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Not as sorry as I am.

  “Well, um, hmm. Uh, when can I drive it?”

  I feel a little weight come off my shoulders. “Anytime.”

  “How about tonight?”

  She is so eager! You’re a magnet for eager women, Jack!

  No, I’m not. One wants information on a book, and the other wants a car. Neither wants me.

  You never know…

  “How about tomorrow…morning, around nine?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up.

  See how easy that was? And Jenny is a perfect stranger.

  I didn’t have to face her or see her reaction. That made it easier.

  Easier is good.

  Yeah.

  So when Diane calls…

  Shh.

  After mixing the onions with the soup and the soup mix and pouring the goop over the chicken, I turn the Crock-Pot on low and head for my office. As soon as I sit and get a fresh screen, I start typing:

  Where do rainbows go when they’re done…rainbowing?

  “Rainbowing” isn’t a word.

  Shh. I think I’m on to something.

  English is too limiting sometimes. “Rainbowing” should be a word. I mean, what else do rainbows do? They rainbow.

  “Rainbow” isn’t a verb, either.

  It is now.

  Roy G. Biv. Hmm. He sounds foreign. He probably isn’t from around here, which is somewhere lost in the South, where everyone has the same old, dull Southern names and accents. Good ol’ Roy G. flies in during a storm as if to mock the thunder, sneer at the rain, raise a colorful eyebrow at the lightning, shrugging clouds off his back. That’s my kind of man, and if he is foreign, he can marry me to become an American citizen. I can give Roy G. Biv his green card.