I'll Be Your Everything Read online

I sigh at myself.

  At least whatever I come up with won’t get bad press like some of the fashion ads lurking around New York. Some of the billboards I’ve seen—wow. Some sell the most expensive clothing and fragrances using violence, blood, rape, and bondage. Some only use drug-addicted, bulimic, and plastic models to sell clothing that won’t even be available in their sizes. Some models on those billboards are barely wearing the clothes they’re trying to sell. I know skin is in. I know sex sells, but in the final analysis, these ads sell sex, not the product. But people do talk about it, and talk is the cheapest form of advertising, so, unfortunately, these controversial billboards can be highly effective.

  His voice, soft, husky, juicy at times. And the way he looked when I told him about Bryan! He looked like he needed a big ol’ hug, and I could sure use one after the stress I’ve been through since Friday. Oh, he’s so precious and—

  Sell the stupid bike, Shari!

  I am no fun when I’m alone with myself.

  Okay, where would this billboard go? It has to be displayed near a park. Those billboards are hard to get. It would be stupid to plaster it on the subway or on a bus. That would be kind of counterproductive, especially if I add the tag “If you owned this bike, you’d be home by now.” Ha!

  I write that one down. You never know what might work in the world of advertising. I mean, “Where’s the beef?” sold a butt load of hamburgers.

  As much as I ate today, I should not be hungry, but I am. Being creative burns a lot of calories. I look at the room service menu for the Great American Grill. Hmm. It’s open till nine. I could just put on some more clothes, go downstairs, get fed, and maybe some random guy from Klamath Falls, Oregon, shows up, we eat, have some conversation, laugh at each other’s jokes, rub knees, maybe go somewhere to compare ... notes. Sounds like a plan—

  No. I do not need that complication.

  I’m still no fun.

  I call room service, order a burger and fries and some bottled water, and then begin doodling T-shirts. I put little stick people on bikes and realize that I really suck at drawing, even if it’s only stick figures. I give some riders smiles, others Afros, a few only sideburns and glasses. They sort of look like Elvis. A child could draw better than this with crayons. I am no artist, but at least doodling keeps my hands and my mind occupied.

  I should have asked Tom what his major was.

  Shari, get back to—

  Hush.

  Maybe he has an art degree and an MBA. That’s a logical assumption. And from Cal Berkeley. Ooh, la la. I’m ODU and now LIU. I have more acronyms than he does but none of the prestige. Why aren’t people paid according to their skills and not their degrees in this country? Some of the most talented people in this country don’t go to Ivy League schools, don’t have MBAs, don’t have silver spoons up their butts—

  A knock at the door, and me without a bra.

  I look through the peephole at a teenaged girl. I open the door, and she sweeps in, placing my dinner tray on the worktable in the bedroom. Since MultiCorp is paying, I add 20 percent to the tab.

  The girl looks at the receipt. “Thank you so much. You know we already added the tip to the bill.”

  And she’s honest? “I know. I, um, I just ...”

  Don’t do this!

  “Well, there’s a, um ...”

  Are you even thinking? What happened to no complications? Don’t start something you can’t finish. Leave the man alone.

  No.

  “There is a man in this hotel who—”

  “Two fifteen.”

  I look at the floor. Tom is right under me? “Um, white guy, six-two ...” Nice eyes, great big paws ...

  “Gorgeous eyes,” she says. “Burger and fries just like you. Some fancy wine.”

  They’re not ... gorgeous. They’re soft. She’s so young. “Um, could you ...”

  You’re out of your freakin’ mind! Stop doing this!

  No!

  “Yes?”

  The girl seems so willing. Why aren’t I? “Could you ... wait.” I tear a blank page from my notebook while my heart pounds.

  What are you doing?

  Nothing.

  Then why are your hands shaking?

  I’m just ... sending a message. One simple message.

  You’re going to send him the wrong message.

  No, I won’t.

  I write: “Why didn’t you tell me you had two bikes?” Just a question, that’s all. No harm in a question. I hand it to the girl. “Just take this to him, and if he has a reply, bring it straight back to me.”

  “Sure.” She zips out, closing the door behind her.

  It’s just a note. It’s not like I’m asking him up to my room, right? So what if he’s right under right now ... reading my message. I wish the floor was transparent. I wonder if he can hear me.

  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

  Why 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 w
ine. 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.