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Sheena had been sleeping off and on with Manny for over a year. Sleeping with men that weren’t hers was Sheena’s favorite pastime. It was an ego thing. True, Manny with his jet-black hair, olive complexion and expensive designer suits wasn’t bad. But it was the Benz he drove that made him a catch.
“Well let me know if you change your mind,” Sheena said, “And call me the minute you hear something.” She hung up.
These next few months were going to be devoted to me. I planned on losing weight, getting my man and starting a new career, and not necessarily in that order. Earlier, I’d placed a big toe on the bathroom scale and was pleasantly surprised to see the number was lower. Growing braver, I’d given the scale my whole weight. I still had eighty-three pounds to go, but losing two pounds for me was a big deal and should be celebrated.
Over the years I’d pretty much convinced myself that being big worked for me. I hadn’t lacked admirers. What you don’t know is there’s a slew of “chubby chasers” out there; men who think being full figured is hot. They weren’t necessarily what I was looking for but what I got. My expectations were set way high. This year I’d made resolutions; one being to get Quen Abrahams.
Quen with the corded arms and strong thigh muscles also came with a degree and ambition, and he could string two sentences together while flashing you a gut-wrenching smile. Since I had a degree and had worked damn hard to get it, I needed a man who was my equal, especially if he was going to father my child.
Tomorrow we were working out of Jen’s condo; a good thing, too, because I’d probably be dead after my session with Quen. During lunch I had an interview with Manny Varela, the property manager Sheena mentioned earlier. Like she said, his sales and leasing office was looking for part-timers. I needed a second job and I needed it quickly. These personal training sessions were pricey and diet food cost money.
Now I had just fifteen minutes to get to my elocution class. The class had been advertised in one of those inserts you get in the Sunday paper. It was a continuing education course given by one of the neighboring high schools and aimed at a certain type of person. Although it cost $150, I whipped out my credit card and paid. I was investing in myself. I couldn’t think of anyone better.
Deep down I’d always known if I wanted to be somebody I’d need to walk the walk and talk the talk. Not that I was turning my back on my roots, mind you. Like I said I knew who I was and I didn’t need to prove anything to anybody.
I made the ten-minute drive in five. And yes, I admit I have a lead foot. Class had just started when I tromped in and with a “hey” to the homies sitting next to me, I plopped onto a seat at the back of the room.
“You didn’t miss much,” the woman who’d told me she was an administrative assistant, but thought she was a CEO whispered to me.
“Good.”
The instructor, a proper-looking man who still wore a bow tie, and who had to be gay, was in the middle of taking attendance. He gave us a stern look. Since Adams was at the beginning of the alphabet he’d already passed over me.
I had nothing else to do so I looked around the room to see if there were any dropouts. Yup. This was the third session and the group was a lot smaller than I remembered. The class was supposedly aimed at foreigners and business types; people needing to learn to speak right.
The first two sessions had been jam-packed; now the only people I recognized were the married couple and the immigrants from Cuba, who barely spoke English, and in my opinion required more than “elocution.” Then there was the freckled guy from New “Joisey” who wanted to be friends. I called him, “Dese, Dems and Dose,” but not to his face of course. I wasn’t that stupid. Not that I was in a position to make fun of anybody.
The two homeboys who’d greeted me were still hanging in. They looked out of place in their oversize jeans riding low on the hips, with their undershorts sticking out over the top. In this case something big was at stake here, like money.
I grew up with the language of the street, which meant you said what you thought and punctuated with some well chosen cuss words to get your point across loud and clear. Jen, my boss had been forever after me to clean up my act. And I was trying. Talking like you had marbles in your mouth worked for her so why not me? It had landed her a cushy job. I’d decided if I was going to be selling real estate to all kinds of people no one needed to know I was black, at least not right off.
“Ms. Adams,” the instructor called, pulling me back to reality. I didn’t know the man even knew my name.
“Wassup, Mr. Cummings?”
He peered at me over ridiculous half-moon glasses and sniffed.
“Yes, Mr. Cummings?” he corrected.
“Yes, Mr. Cummings,” I obediently repeated.
A finger beckoned me to join him up front. As I plodded toward him, he turned to write on the blackboard. I was starting to feel like I was back in fourth grade when “the fat girl” was being singled out.
“Please translate these phrases in the queen’s English for the rest of the class,” Cummings said, handing me his chalk.
“Say what?”
Shoot, queen’s English? The United States did not have a queen, at least not the last time I looked. I scrunched up my nose and stared at the strange little man. The homeboys cracked up. People were howling and holding their sides.
Cummings sniffed loudly and wagged a finger. “This is exactly what I mean. Those types of expressions have no place in everyday language. You are here to learn to speak English, and that includes the use of proper grammar. You are here to articulate.”
“Yo, man. You trying to teach us to conversate,” one of the homeboy’s in the back shouted.
That produced another round of laughter.
Mr. Cummings gave him his stern look.
“You must eliminate all urban slang from your vocabulary, Ms. Adams. Now please continue.”
Yup. I was being made an example of. Lucky for me, I was wearing one of my hot little J Lo outfits, well maybe not so little. It was size 3X. I was working it. Rather than writing, I repeated out loud what I thought Cummings wanted to hear. He corrected me in his snotty manner and I slunk back to my chair.
The remainder of the two-hour class passed quickly. The homeboys had their turn, as did the Cuban couple. Cummings was mean. I’d almost decided I wasn’t being singled out. I knew people judged you by both your appearance and the way you spoke. They assumed if you were a big girl you were a slow, stupid ox. But being big had always been advantageous for me. My sense of humor and big mouth had made me popular in school and gotten me through.
The way I saw it, Cummings’s class was keeping me off the street these days. Before that I’d spent one night a week at the Haul Out. Not because I was a big drinker, but because it was a sure way of catching up on who was doing who. All that time hanging out got me a big fat nothing except the occasional pickup, then when he found out I was on lockdown I promptly got dumped. This elocution class would at least help me build a future.
I left thinking that even though Mr. Cummings had a stick up his ass, he might be onto something.
I’d only been home about fifteen minutes, and was thinking about going to bed when my telephone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, sweet thang.”
Who the hell was this?
“Do I know you?”
The man chuckled. “Baby, how could you forget the best lover you’ve ever had? This is Richard.”
“Richard who?”
Why was he acting like I knew him, like we were close?
A long pause followed as he tried to pick up his ego from the floor. “Richard Dyson, baby, the owner of Dyson Luxury Limousines.”
Oh, that Dick! Rich Richard. Obnoxious Richard. Richie Rich who thought his Platinum American Express card bought him any woman. The last time he’d phoned was months ago. It had been late at night, he’d been drunk and on a booty-call spree. “What do you want, Dickie?”
“Can’t a man touch base with a beautiful woman just to see how she’s doing?”
“It’s been three months since you and I spoke.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you, sweetness. What are you doing now? I’d like to come over.”
“Going to bed,” I answered. “Without you. Good night, Dick.”
“Wait! Wait! How about dinner tomorrow night? You pick the place.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
I hung up while he was still talking.
I used Dyson’s Luxury Limousines when I was out to make an impression or didn’t want to drive. Like the time I attended my cousin’s wedding and knew that the sight of her in a white wedding dress, complete with trailing veil, would make me drink. Richard owed me because if it hadn’t been for my contacts, he’d never have gotten the Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s account. Then Jen got Richard the WARP account through Tre, her fiancé, who now used Dyson’s exclusively to pick up the people he hosted.
Richard and I had gone out a time or two when I was lonely, and being with him seemed better than being alone. He’d dropped big money on those dinners. Now I’m starting to sound like I’m a gold digger. Fast-talking Dickie isn’t too bad to look at and he liked his women big. Since the way to my heart is definitely through my stomach I thought I’d give him a shot. Feed me and I’ll listen to you bray on any topic. Richard’s gold card had taken a beating on those meals.
I yawned. My bed waited. I had to be up at the crack of dawn and I needed my beauty sleep. I was already planning tomorrow’s outfit in my head. As my grandmother used to say, “fat does not have to mean sloppy.” She was one smart old lady.
After I’d left class, I stopped at a discount store and splurged on a new workout outfit. The peanuts I got paid didn’t get me into Macy’s. I hadn’t gone hog wild with the colors and although it killed me, I passed on zebra stripes and polka dots, sticking to black. Black was slimming. I bought two pairs of capris and an oversized T-shirt and spiced up the outfit with hot pink socks and a matching cap that said, Love Handles All.
I was doing this for Quen Abrahams. I’d noticed the types of women he went for. They were fit, trim and looked like they stepped off magazine covers. I was going to be one of those women soon.
Bedtime. I was getting overtired and punchy.
A god-awful racket woke me next morning. It sounded like a freight train was roaring through my head. I hit the snooze button, sat up and looked at the clock. I had exactly one half hour to crawl into my outfit, plug in the curling iron and throw in some curls.
By the time I left my apartment I had ten minutes to get across town. It wasn’t even summer yet but it was hotter than hell in Florida, this promised to be a steamer of a day. The air-conditioning in my car was on the blink and I would be feeling it. Trying not to think about that, I wedged myself behind the wheel of my Honda, cranked up the engine, and lowered the window. I roared into that parking lot with a full minute to spare.
Quen was waiting in one of the workout rooms. He had on black track pants with a stripe on the side, and a body hugging T-shirt with a hot pink flamingo emblem that matched my socks.
“Morning,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You’re right on time. Cute getup.”
“Thanks.” Boyfriend sure as hell made my mouth go dry. It was going to be one painful hour and not just because of the exercise session.
Quen was one of those delicious, dark brown men, with a smooth complexion and square jaw. Everything about him squeaked cleanliness. He had wide shoulders, a tapered waist and hands just as scrupulously clean as the rest of him.
I set my fanny pack in the corner and made my way to the machine in the corner that he pointed out. The contraption made me think of that guillotine I’d read about in my English class, Madame Defart or something. Grimacing, I managed to mount the thing while he barked orders.
“Tuck your stomach in and sit up straight. Your legs go under not over.”
Quen stood beside me, his hands on my flesh, showing me where everything went. My stomach fluttered and the parts below pulsed. I closed my eyes and inhaled citrus. God I loved how he smelled. Gotta get me a piece of him. Soon.
Concentrate, Chere. Forget about the fact that you want to eat this man whole.
I concentrated letting the pain of muscles I hadn’t used in years numb my brain. There was definitely more than sixty minutes in an hour when your whole body ached. Finally it was over. I was crippled but done. Now I needed a wheelchair to get back to my car.
“Good workout,” Quen said as we cooled down. Of course he could say that he hadn’t been the one peddling or rowing. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. “Come with me to my office.”
I would go with him anywhere. I limped down a hallway to a glass-enclosed box that was as neat as he looked. A Formica desk held a tray with only a few pieces of paper stacked on top. A filing cabinet was angled in one corner. Framed photos of fitness gurus adorned the walls, and in another corner was one of those medical scales. Tell me he wasn’t planning to have me get on some scale. I liked the guy, okay, wanted him badly, but he didn’t need to see how much I weighed.
I took a whiff at my pits. Phew! My deodorant was a thing of the past.
Quen waved me into the chair across from his desk. He crossed over to the filing cabinet removed a card and handed it to me. His finger brushed mine.
Zap. Zap. Zap. His touch was electric and I was lit.
“What you got here?” I asked, turning the card over.
“A list of suggested foods to stay away from. I’m a nutritionist, remember? Normally I give these cards to my clients after weighing them in.”
We were back to weight again. I had no intention of putting one toe on that scale, not with him standing there. Besides, I’d only hired him to do the personal training bit. I didn’t need no menu.
“Thanks,” I said, the card still in my hand. I smiled at him. “You can hook me up with some menus soon as I can afford it. If my real estate career takes off then you and I are in business.”
Quen sat behind his desk, legs propped on the surface, ankles crossed. His brown eyes twinkled. He must find me amusing.
“Consider that a gift,” he said. “So when did you become a real estate agent? Last I knew you were working for the Chronicle.”
“I still am.”
“Hmm.”
I looked him square in the eye. God, just gazing at him made me want to eat him alive. “That job barely pays the bills so I had to do something. I got my first client yesterday.”
“Congratulations. Want another?”
I perked up immediately. Was he teasing me or what? “I’m open.”
“Available?”
I swear he was flirting and dang I wanted him to.
I needed another client. Heck I needed several more clients to make this work.
Quen took his legs off the desk and rolled his chair forward, looking at me intently. “I own three apartments in the Flamingo Place complex,” he confided. “I need two renters.”
“You don’t say?”
This was news to me. I knew Quen was smart I just didn’t know he had business sense. Boyfriend was a real entrepreneur.
“I bought them at the insiders’ price when the buildings were transitioning from rentals to condos.”
Forgetting about sweat and my fear of B.O., I leaned in closer.
“Betcha I could move those condos for you. Are you looking to sell or to rent?”
“Rent right now. I figured if I can hold on to them for a couple of years I could make a small fortune.”
“And they’re all waterfront?” My mind was calculating both possibilities and commissions.
“Yes. I’m keeping the corner unit for myself. It’s the biggest with the best view.”
Excitement surged through me. When I moved into Jen’s place we would be neighbors. And if I were his real estate agent we would be talking regularly. I won’t need an excuse to call him. I’d be more than the fat woman he was helping to lose weight.
Quen and I would be agent and client, and later boyfriend and girlfriend. Fantasy was already taking over.
I was going to be late for work. I stood.
“You’re my friend,” I said. “For friends I work miracles. You let me rent those apartments and I’ll cut my commission in half.”
