All About Me

I had to pinch myself. I was now a full-fledged real estate agent and already I had properties to show: Quen’s two apartments. Next on the agenda, business cards.

A big fat smile creased my face as I crossed the parking lot. Things sure were looking up. I’d lost two pounds this week, gotten two clients and had a new job. Now I needed to focus on getting that promotion at the Flamingo Beach Chronicle.

It might require Ian Pendergrass. Jen wasn’t about to hand over her column to me, and truthfully I didn’t want it; at least not all of it. I just wanted to get credit where credit was due. Talking to the editor, Luis Gomez, would be useless. Luis was too much of a wuss to do anything about it.

I sat planning my strategy while eating lunch. Yuck, I hated canned tuna fish and what could a measly boiled egg do to satisfy real hunger? I found a guest spot in Jen’s condo lot and swung the Honda into it. There were days Jen liked us to work from her condo and today just happened to be one of those days.

“So how did it go?” Jen asked, the moment she let me into her apartment.

“I got the job.”

“Good for you. By the way that stack’s getting huge,” she said, pointing to the growing pile of letters in her box. Letters I hadn’t the time or desire to read, though it was supposedly my job to tell her which ones required her attention.

She was already banging away on that laptop of hers.

I’d made no secret about this job interview. I’d been crying poverty for a long time. I’d threatened to find a job as an exotic dancer; sliding up and down poles and wagging your tits in some horny guy’s face paid bucks.

I’d told Jen I’d give the required notice if something good came along. I didn’t want her thinking I would always be here; the loyal assistant that she’d promised to take on a cruise and then dumped. Maybe if she thought I was going to walk I could finagle a big fat raise. Nobody else in town could provide the kind of inside information I could.

Grabbing the pile of letters, I made myself comfortable on the couch. A bag of potato chips would have been perfect right now. But for now I would have to settle for an awesome view of the open bay and fantasize what it would be like to live on some fancy boat with a deck hand slobbering all over me. Mentally, I had already moved in.

“Chere! Letters!”

“Okay, okay,” I jumped up and made a halfhearted attempt to read. I waved a letter at her. “This one’s from Camille Lewis complaining about Winston.”

Camille was Jen’s neighbor from hell. She and her husband lived in 5D. Camille was a nosy, loud West Indian woman who loved getting into peoples’ business. Winston, the quiet, long-suffering husband, had pretty much thrown in the towel. Why Winston put up with Camille no one knew. Some speculated she did cartwheels in bed.

“Read it to me,” Jen ordered, a pencil clenched between her teeth.

My painted on eyebrows arched, and with some satisfaction, I read aloud. I hated Camille and she hated me.

“Dear Jenna,

I have lost respect for my husband. He’s a puppy dog and just follows me around. The worse I behave, the more loyal he is. I push to get a reaction, any reaction. He’s no longer interested in sex. All he wants to do is sleep. He’s a man of a certain age. Do you think he needs Viagra? I don’t want to leave him. Should I get a lover?”

Jen frowned. “Why do you think it’s Camille?”

“’Cause there ain’t nobody in this town she can talk to about her situation. Nobody trusts her.”

“There isn’t anyone in this town she can talk to,” Jen corrected.

“Whatever.”

I was trying to clean up my act, really I was. It’s just when you’ve talked a certain way for so long, it’s comfortable for you.

“Give me that.” Jen reached out a hand.

I handed her the letter and went back to reading the others. I was bored, and sick to death of reading about other people’s problems. But something made me look up. I froze. On top of Jen’s desk was a pile of bridal magazines.

It was a sad reminder that I wasn’t getting any younger. My biological clock was going tick-tock, and I had no man around. Time to hit the john before I got weepy.

“Where are you going?” Jen called after me as I wobbled down the hallway in my three-inch platforms. “Stay away from the refrigerator.”

She knew me that well. And yeah, I was beginning to feel faint. The lousy boiled egg and tuna minus mayonnaise had made me hungrier. I blinked a couple of times and dry-eyed, doubled back.

“I’m taking the tour of my new home,” I said, trying to sound jolly. Fat girls are supposed to always be happy. I wasn’t. “When can I move in?”

“When do you want to move in?”

“Tomorrow.” I was half kidding. But this was living in the lap of luxury compared to how I lived. My landlady wanted me out. I had a running toilet and a broken dishwasher that hadn’t been fixed in weeks and I’d been slow on my rent.

“How about week after next? That’ll make it close to the end of the month,” Jen said. “It’ll give me time to move some things into Tre’s place, the rest of the stuff I’ll put in storage.”

“Yeah, two weeks will work. I need a favor.”

“I’m not lending you money.”

I cut my eyes at her. I’d only borrowed money from her once and I’d offered to pay it back with interest when my numbers came in. She’d refused to accept anything more than the loan.

“Take me shopping.”

“Sure. Do you have a credit card you can still use?”

I shot her a dirty look. “I need business clothes. Manny says if I’m to work in real estate I need to dress the part.”

“Manny is right. We could go shopping after you finish reading those letters. I’ll even treat you to dinner at the Pink Flamingo later.”

“Okay you got it.”

I had my teeth set for plump pork chops, garlic smashed potatoes and at least three buttered rolls.

“What are you going to do about your hair?” Jen asked, circling me.

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Big hair’s dated, hides your pretty face.”

I was sick to death of hearing about my pretty face. I’d been hearing about it all my life, that and my weight. Enough already, it was enough to make a body do some serious eating.

Getting rid of my weave meant I’d need a relaxer and a cut. Jen knew how much I made. Couldn’t she let the weave slide? I’d have to take out a second mortgage just to improve my appearance and I didn’t own a home.

“All right, all right. But I don’t want to look like those old ladies with the helmet hair and tight curls.”

“What about going natural. Just add a little texturizer to your hair and you should be fine. If you play up your eyes and highlight your cheekbones, I say move over Halle, Chere’s the new girl in town.” She laughed and I laughed with her.

“Okay back to work.”

Jen plopped down in her chair, her attention again on her monitor. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “What have I got for the Sunday column?”

I snorted. At least she could say “we,” and acknowledge my contribution.

Four hours later, my car was filled with shopping bags from the three stores that Jen insisted we go into. I’d been talked into buying black everything and I wasn’t feeling the clothes, reminded me of a funeral director. I’d turned into a Florida girl and I liked my vibrant colors. But I put on a happy face and pretended to go ga-ga over the slacks, skirt and jacket she’d picked out, all in the same boring black.

Jen even made me buy old lady pumps. You know the kind with three inch heels and round tip that ladies with varicose veins wore. “Orthopedic” shoes I called them.

By the time we were through shopping I was way over my credit card limit. I had to talk the bank into upping the amount. Now I was in serious hock. I’d better sell some houses quick.

“I’m starving,” Jen announced as we pulled into a vacant spot in back of the Pink Flamingo.

I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch so I was more than starving. Even the fluttering fake flamingos on the restaurant’s ceiling looked like they might make good barbeque.

On a Wednesday night, the place was jumping. The hostess, a hot Latino woman who thought she was better than everyone, flirted with the restaurant manager, Rico. She managed to peel herself off of him to greet us.

“We want a table in the bar area,” Jen said not consulting me. Guess I wasn’t good enough to be taken into the restaurant.

Whipping long jet-black hair off her face, the hostess asked, “Is it just the two of you?”

“You see anybody else?”

Jen shushed me loudly before I could say something real smart-assed.

“Follow me.”

I clomped along behind them, looking around to see who was there. Drinks must be half-priced because the bar was jumping. Spotting Chet Rabinowitz, the mayor’s son, I waved. He and his lover, Harley, gave me the hand sign that meant “call us,” soon.

My girls were out in full force, the ones I ran into at the curl and weave; those who were forever running their mouths. Most were on their way to being hooked up or laid.

We slid into a booth. Jen and I faced each other. I was all talked out and just wanted the menu. I stabbed my finger at the first thing I saw. Jen barely glanced at hers before tossing it aside.

“I know what I’m having,” she announced. “A Cobb salad.”

“Cobb what?”

“Salad. Nice, healthy and will justify my glass of wine.”

“I’m having ribs with barbecued sauce.”

She slapped my hand. “No you’re not.”

“Am too.”

“Don’t let me slap you. Didn’t you say something about having lost two pounds?”

I stuck out my tongue. “Fine, fried chicken with collard greens on the side.”

“We’ll have two Cobb salads,” Jen said when the waitress came over. Wine for me and water for her.”

Who died and left her boss. That’s right, she was my boss.

“Isn’t that Quen seated at the bar?” Jen mumbled out of the side of her mouth.

“Where?”

My palms became sweaty and my stomach began to rumble. All on account of hunger of course. The walls around me wavered, changing from Flamingo pink to floral.

“Think the woman seated next to him is a date?”

Now why did she have to say that? Quen on a date was bound to upset me. I’d want to poison the witch.

I kept my face blank, tossed a glance in the direction of the bar, and damn near flew out of my seat.

Sheena, the “ho,” was sitting next to my man.

Not for long. I was on my way over.

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