I'll Be Your Everything (16 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: I'll Be Your Everything
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I tiptoe to and turn on the flat-screen TV, which would take up so much less space than the behemoth I have in my apartment, and I surf commercials while I eat. Yeah, I’m weird. Most folks watch the shows. I surf the commercials.
Oh geez. Charmin and the cartoon bears! So what if your toilet paper doesn’t attach to dingleberries? And what are you trying to say about us? That we’re all hairy as bears down there? That which is everybody’s business is nobody’s business. When I purchase toilet paper, I do not think of your stupid bears or dingleberries.
What’s this? I have no idea what they’re selling. Is it a feeling, an aura, a lifestyle, what? What is the freaking product? And where can I get it? I want to be the first person in my neighborhood to have this, um, emotion.
Family size! Whose family? Not mine. What if your family has twelve people? You’d have to buy four cans. Or what if you’re a single lady like me? Aren’t you afraid to offend me and lose my business? This commercial only reminds me that I’m alone. Thanks a lot.
Oh, here’s a stop smoking aid that sounds like fun. It doesn’t contain nicotine? Where’s the fun in that? If I experience aggression, anxiety, suicidal feelings, dread, anger, rage, or bewilderment, I should discontinue using it? I live in Brooklyn! I work for MultiCorp! I experience all those things
every freaking day
before lunch! What’s this? Rash, puffiness, peeling skin? Dag, this junk gives you diaper rash. Common side effects include unsettled stomach, gas, and vomiting. Sounds like a night on the town gone bad to me. And why would I want to see the doctor who prescribed this junk to me if I have all these problems? Go on. Don’t quit smoking. Save yourself the rash and the vomiting. This is yet another product where the cure is worse than the disease.
Improved taste! What’s that one about? Does that mean your earlier product tasted like butt and we didn’t know it? All those years we thought it tasted just fine were a lie? Thanks for ruining my childhood.
Oh, not this foolishness again: contains
no
fill-in-the-blank. You can say that about any product, right? Milk—contains no alcohol. Cheese—contains no rat poison. Water—contains no MSG. Aspirin—contains no LSD. Like this little nugget of information will make your product seem safer and healthier. Ridiculous.
A knock on my door. At this time of night? And in a strange city? I wonder who it could it be.
I open the door, and the girl shoves the note in my face. “He wrote you back.”
Obviously. I smile at the girl. This is fun for you, huh? I read Tom’s answer, which is written just under my question “I thought YOU already had a bike. You seem like the type.”
I seem ... like the type. Hmm. Pretty vague. I’ll have to have him clarify this.
Don’t, Shari.
It’s only a clarification.
Now who’s leading someone on?
Honestly, it’s only a clarification.
Yeah, and this is only a rationalization.
Nothing is going to happen.
“You gonna write him back?” she asks, having the nerve to tap her foot on the carpet.
Are we a tad bit impatient? “Yes.” I write: “And what is my type, pray tell?” I fold and hand her the note. I know she’s reading these.
“I’m really not supposed to be doing this,” she says.
Neither am I. “Will twenty bucks be sufficient?”
She shakes her head. “Oh no, you don’t have to pay me. I’m
really
not supposed to be doing this.”
Oh. “You’re just giving excellent customer service.”
“I guess.”
I cannot resist asking.... “Um, what was Mr. Sexton wearing?”
The girl’s eyes practically roll back into her head. “Tight gray sweatpants and a T-shirt. He has incredible abs. And his chest is just ... you know?” Her eyes dart down the hall.
“Yes.” I know you want to see his incredible abs again. “Go.”
I seem like the “type.” What’s that supposed to mean? I am no one’s “type.” I pride myself on being different, on being my own person, on not being a “type.” I hate being pigeonholed into a “type.” Let’s flip this around, shall we? What “type” of man is Tom? He’s obviously into dark skin. Is that a “type”? He’s obviously in incredible shape. Is his shape or how he achieved it a “type”? He is very smooth, especially when he talks, except when I tie up his tongue. Is the way he talks a “type”? Is he even my “type”? I’m barely five feet tall and weigh as much as one of his legs. I am petite. I have small feet and tiny toes. Even my teeth are kind of small. He’s larger than life, and my neck is sore from looking up at him. He should be massaging my neck. Is he the sensitive, massaging “type”?
A knock on the door. That was quick. I open the door.
“He wrote a longer one this time.” She hands it to me. “But he wrote it really fast.”
And I read: “Honestly, Shari, when I first saw you in the flesh two years ago, I thought you were a lesbian. Boots, jeans, sweater. Either that or you were from Oregon or Canada. Just thought you’d have a bike, though I never saw you riding one. I bike to work every day twenty-five miles each way from Great Neck. We both get a good workout on our way to work. Coincidence?”
A lesbian? Is he kidding? “Are you reading these?”
The girl looks down.
Yeah. She’s reading them. “I am not a lesbian.”
The girl nods. “Um, why don’t you just go talk to him?”
Because I’m not supposed to be doing even this much. “It’s complicated,” I tell her. “Just one more note, okay, and then you’re done.”
The girl looks sad.
So am I. Hmm. Why am I sad?
End this now, Shari.
Oh, do I have to? That must be why I’m so sad. Thank you, Self, but I don’t want this to end.
I tear another sheet from my notebook and write in large block letters: “I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT YOU THOUGHT I WAS A LESBIAN! I AM HURT AND WILL NEVER RECOVER! SWEET DREAMS, TOM TERRIFIC.”
I don’t even fold it this time, and I give the girl a twenty.
“I couldn’t take that, really.”
“Please take it,” I say. “You’ve been a good sport.”
“Okay.” She pockets the money. “Thanks for, um, an interesting evening.”
I turn off the TV then turn it back on to look at the adult movie offerings because the real Corrine would. They aren’t my cup of tea.
Sizzlin’ Sistas 6
? “Watch these sexy sistas as they explore each other’s sizzling caramel bodies.”
I turn off the TV. Caramel? Why not mocha? Or
café au lait
? Or bronze? They all can’t be caramel-colored. I have
parts
of me that might be caramel-colored. If Tom ever drew my entire body, he’d need lots of different shades.
I can’t believe that Tom thought I was a lesbian. Okay, I fit some of the stereotypes with my clothes, but I am heterosexual to the core. I love men. They have parts that fit naturally into mine. And yes, I’m twenty-seven and unmarried. What of it? That man is just delusional, that’s all.
I look outside. I look at the clock. I look at the TV. I collect my notes and put them into my tote bag. I look outside again.
I check the clock. Too early for bedtime. I check my teeth for okra. Nope. Pearly white. I brush my teeth anyway.
I could call Bryan. Nah. I’ll see him soon enough.
I look at myself in the mirror. Do I look like a lesbian? I’ve been hit on by women before. I must have something they like.
I look outside again. I look at the clock. I turn on the TV and watch a free preview for
Sizzlin’ Sistas 6
for about ten seconds. It reminds me of health class. I hated health class. And none of y’all are caramel!
I turn off the TV.
I lie on the couch.
I examine my cuticles.
I decide not to trim my toenails.
A knock on my door. Another note? Maybe an apology. I rip open the door.
Tom.
Gulp.
In all his Tom-ness.
Chapter 15
 
W
hy aren’t I breathing? How can I handle this professionally if I can’t breathe? One needs oxygen to form professional thoughts.
He stands there in his boots, no socks, tight sweats, and a tight T-shirt.
And he holds a few pencils, some blank white paper, and a full bottle of wine.
“Yes?” I wheeze. I will never take oxygen for granted again. Maybe it’s the altitude. I
am
on the third floor.
“I came to apologize,” Tom says.
I make full eye contact with his chest again. “So ... apologize.”
“I apologize.”
That’s it? My eyes wander up to his.
“To make up for my infraction,” he says, “I would like to draw you, free of charge.”
Well, he is obviously prepared to draw me. Maybe that’s all he wants.
What about the wine, hmm? The cork is already out, Shari.
It’s a standard, um, hotel room–warming gift.
Yeah, and there’s this bridge in Brooklyn I could sell you. The cork is out! You don’t give
used
wine to people.
I swallow and try to get my tongue to work. “Well, um, how’d ... how’d you know this was my room?”
“How’d you know where my room was?” he asks.
I look back at his chest. I could curl up into a ball right there. “The girl just blurted it out.”
He laughs. “I had to pay her forty bucks.”
The little tramp! And I just gave her another twenty. Sixty bucks she made off us plus the original gratuity plus 20 percent. An interesting evening for her, indeed.
“So, may I come in?” he asks.
I drop my eyes to his shoelaces. Yes. Shoelaces are safe. Such big feet. “I don’t let strangers into my room.”
“How about old friends?” he asks.
Good answer. Acceptable. He can come in.
No!
He’s an old friend. We’ve been talking for years. No problem.
Still no!
Well, I’ll just step aside slowly, and if he comes in or maybe a gust of wind blows him inside, it’s not my fault. I step aside slowly.
You’re in trouble, Shari.
Probably.
Tom enters, and I get the strongest whiff of oranges, lemons, and musk. I don’t know what cologne that is, but it is intoxicating. I close the door behind me, and I hold my breath again. I have a man in my suite at the Hilton. So many firsts today.
Ask him to leave now.
He just got here!
He stands beside the coffee table. “Where would you like to, um, pose?”
I’ve been posing as Corrine all day, and I’m tired! Where to do this thing. Me at the window looking back? Nah. I’d look like an early seventies album cover, and that window is in the bedroom. Can’t go there. Won’t go there.
That’s the first sensible thing you’ve thought tonight.
I’ll lounge on the couch, and he’ll sit in that chair. Distance. Must keep my distance.
“Sit in that chair,” I say. Why don’t I have any feeling in my hands? I see them. I just don’t feel them.
He holds out the bottle of wine. “I, um, I didn’t know if you liked wine. I hear this is pretty good.”
I know nothing about wine. “The glasses are in the bathroom.”
Are you crazy? You haven’t had anything to drink since last New Year’s!
I’ll be fine. I just ate.
You’ll probably get drunk just from the fumes.
Well, I do need to relax. I have been under a great deal of stress.
He returns a minute later with one glass of wine.
“You’re not having any?” I ask.
“Oh, um, I don’t drink,” he says.
And yet you bought a bottle of wine with your meal, and you expect me to drink it. Hmm. Interesting. Presumptuous, but interesting.
He’s trying to get you drunk.
No, he isn’t.
I take a sip, and it burns so nicely down my throat. I want to chug it and get another so I can relax.
“You can sit,” I say.
He sits.
I recline on the couch and look off into the distance trying to look contemplative and vulnerable.
You were vulnerable the second you let him in the room.
Hush.
I can just see him out of the corner of my right eye, and he looks so
good.
Should I take off my glasses? No. Then I won’t be able to see him looking so
good.
Take off your glasses, Shari.
No.
“Oh, I’ll need to use the table,” he says.
I pick up my glass and take a swig of wine as he pulls the coffee table to him, sets down the paper, and stares at me.
He’s not staring at me. He’s staring at the glass.
The glass is empty.
“Would you like some more?” he asks.
I am a fish.
Yep. You’re going under.
“Sure,” I say. What can one more glass do to me?
Twice as much as the first one did!
Hush. I’m on vacation.
He gets up, gets me another glass—this one full to the top—and returns to his pencils and paper. And he still looks
good.
He filled it to the top. You sure he isn’t trying to get you drunk?
He’s just being ... economical. He won’t have to get up for a while, right?
You’re blind, Shari, with or without your glasses on.
Tom doesn’t move for a solid minute.
“I don’t hear any scratching or sketching going on,” I say.
“Just ... mapping you out.”
Yeah right. He’s groping me with his eyes, those soft brown eyes. And he’s probably staring at the toenails I should have clipped.
What a creepy thought, Shari!
I know. It’s the wine talking already, okay?
Then stop drinking it and speak for yourself!
I hear some sketching and relax a little. I take another sip and begin to relax a lot. This is some
nice
wine.
“You’re not smiling,” he says.
I suck in my cheeks. “I am a model. I do not smile.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I have your smile memorized.”
That was sweet.
Yeah, it was.
I hear more scratching sounds.
“I used to do this for extra money in college. I’d set up an easel on the sidewalk in San Francisco and just draw. Ten bucks a portrait. Used to bring in a couple hundred a weekend.”
I think up a relevant question, which is amazing since I have no oxygen going to my brain right now and the wine is tearing swiftly through my brain cells—and my conscience. “You don’t do caricatures, do you?”
“If people want them, I can do them. I prefer doing portraits. Shows off my skills. Caricatures are too easy. It’s not hard to add size to a pair of breasts, length to a nose, height to a forehead, hips to a skinny booty.”
Breasts ... booty. He’s pushing my buttons. I wonder what he would add to me? Would he turn my B-cups to C-cups?
You’d tip over.
At least I’d have more cushions for my fall.
I take a peek while he has his head down. Hey, that’s my shape. I’m kinda sexy. Why don’t I have a face yet? And why can’t I still feel my hands? “So you were an art major.”
“Nope. MBA all the way.”
I peek again. Ten toes. They are so tiny. “How boring.”
“Yep. Completely.”
“So why’d you stick with it?”
“Money. Opportunity. Possibilities. Adventure.”
Opportunity. Possibilities. Adventure. Doesn’t he know he’s talking dirty to me? I mean, I now have the opportunity and the possibility for some adventure!
And a hangover.
Hush. Let’s enjoy our company.
“What would you rather be doing?” I peek.
He catches me peeking.
I look off into the distance.
“You really want to know the answer to that question, Shari?” he asks.
And that gives me my answer. Whoo. Yeah, I know what he’d rather be doing—
me.
These pajamas are certainly warm. Oh, my hands are starting to tingle. Must be the wine. I sip some more. “I mean, career-wise.”
“What I’m doing, only I’m not doing it for someone else.”
Doing it. He is
merciless!
“You want to be your own boss.”
“Yes.”
“You want to be the master of your own destiny,” I say.
“Yes. Can you hold still?”
No. C’mon, feet. Chill out. “Holding.”
I hear him sketching again. “You have the cutest little dimples,” he says.
Since birth.
“Um, could you turn your head this way just a touch?” he asks.
Touch!
He’s killing me! “Define ‘touch.’” And now
I’m
killing me.
“A quarter inch.”
I turn a “touch” and smile. “Better?”
“Yes.”
I peek again. Man, he’s good. My body is still disembodied, but my face is definitely my face, and my glasses are sexy glasses. “You plan on giving me a body, Tom?”
He looks straight into my soul, I swear. “I don’t need to give you a body, Shari. God gave you a very nice body already.”
Yes, He did.
This man is incredible.
Oh, now you agree.
I’m just sayin’.
But now my body is at war with itself! My legs are on fire, but the rest of me is freezing! I should have turned up the heat. That has to be the AC kicking on, and I know he can see my, um, nipples. “When you do get to my body, be kind.”
“Are you cold, Shari?”
He noticed! “The thermostat is ... is in the bedroom.” I just said the B-word. I should never drink wine.
I told you, but would you listen?
Hush.
“I already turned the thermostat in my room way down,” he says. “I can’t sleep unless it’s cold. You want me to turn up the heat?”
Too late! This man is
ruthless!
“I want you to turn up the thermostat, yes.”
When Tom stands and turns, I let my mouth drop open. That is a booty only God could make.
Lord, You done good.
I smile. I didn’t know my conscience could be so naughty.
I suck down the rest of my wine, and it makes my eyes water and my conscience take a nap.
Tom returns, and I try not to stare, but I can’t help it. A mountain is moving toward me.
“I bumped it up to seventy-eight,” he says.
Bumped!
He has to know he’s putting a hurting on me with his words! “Thanks.”
He sketches a few minutes more then slides the picture across the coffee table. “How’s that?”
I’m ... I’m actually kind of beautiful. I suppose if I had a piercing or two and some tattoos, I could be exotically beautiful. His shading is outstanding. He’s drawn my eyes and my glasses. I’m even a little cute. “Um, could you draw me without my glasses on?”
“I think they’re sexy.”
I’ll leave them on then. Anything to fuel my, I mean,
his
passion. “Um, why don’t you draw the rest of me? I look like a disembodied Dali angel.” I know
some
art.
“I’m not very good at drawing clothes,” he says. “I can never get the folds, contours, and shades right.”
“But you’re good at drawing skin.”
“Faces. Yes. Neck up. Shoulders.”
Skin. The man likes skin. I have some of that. “Have you ever done any nudes?”
He looks away. “No.”
“Not even Miss Cringe?”
“No.”
So I’d be his first nude? It’s the wine talking, I swear. “Bare shoulders.”
“Yeah.”
I hold out my glass. I am such a lush! He brings me another glass full to the top. I wonder if there’s any left.
I slide out of the straps of my tank top and let the straps dangle to my sides. “At least give me a neck and shoulders.” And if you want to massage this neck and these shoulders, you go right on ahead and do it, big boy.

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