raucous laughter rang out. “Mama needs to find herself a man.”
“Anyone else in the house?” Using a finger that was almost as dark as the console before him, Tre pressed the button on yet another line.
“This is Kim. My ex-boyfriend turned out to be gay and there was nothing I could do to change that.”
“Hear that, callers. Kim couldn’t get her man to change. You try one of them Victoria’s Secret numbers?”
“Yes, I did.…”
Kim quickly hung up. She’d lost it and sounded like she was about to cry.
And so it went on, until Tre took a break for advertising. All of Flamingo Beach must have tuned in tonight. Some had opposing views but the discussion was lively, controversial, and at times irreverent, just like Tre liked it. Four hours would pass quickly tonight.
Jen stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her dripping body. When the phone rang she considered letting the machine pick up but at the last minute grabbed it.
“Hello?”
“Watcha doing?” Chere bellowed.
Ignoring the puddle beginning to form on the white tile floor, Jen responded, “Getting ready to head for the Pink Flamingo to grab something to eat.”
“Want company?”
What about Leon? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”
Chere sucked her teeth. “Leon who?”
Clearly that diversion was over with. Chere sounded perfectly fine. She was one of the most resilient people Jen had ever met.
Balancing the receiver between ear and shoulder, Jen said, “Okay, give me the lowdown.”
“Turn your radio on, girl. Tune into WARP. D’Dawg’s dissing you.”
“Is it some kind of wrestling station?” Nope. The DJ’s supposed to be finer than The Rock. Alls I know is he sure as hell cracks me up.”
Jen vaguely recalled hearing something about a controversial show modeled after the New Yorker, Howard Stern’s, except a whole lot cleaner.
“The man is slamming our column and he’s got the listeners calling you Dear Jemima and saying you’re a bigot.”
“Why am I a bigot?”
“Might have something to do with your using the word ‘queer.’ You don’t look a thing like that fat turban-headed woman selling her maple syrup.”
Chere cracked her up. “Queer is politically correct,” Jen explained. “I meant no disrespect. It’s like the way colored evolved to Negro, then became black, and now African-American.”
Her assistant snorted and began snapping her gum; at least Jen hoped that was what she was snapping. She refused to get bent out of shape. Controversy was her middle name.
“I’ll turn on my radio and see what the fuss is about.” Jen sighed. “All of that free advertising’s bound to snag me more readers.”
Snap. Snap. Snap. “And you’ll take me on one ah dem ‘Fun Ship’ cruises?”
Jen’s laughter rippled out. Chere supposedly had been the publisher, Ian Pendergrass’s housekeeper. He’d had a one-night stand with her and to shut her up he’d given her a job.
“Here’s the deal,” Jen said, still laughing. “You read the mail when it comes in and keep me up to date, then we’ll talk.”
There wasn’t a prayer in hell of Chere catching her up. She wasn’t one to work harder than she needed to.
“Done. Tomorrow I’m going shopping for one ah them skimpy little bikinis that shows off my curves.”
Jen wisely let that thread of conversation drop. Full-figured Chere in an itsy-bitsy bikini wasn’t something she wanted to think about.
“See you at the Pink Flamingo in half an hour then,” Jen said fumbling with the radio dial. She located WARP where a lively discussion was underway.
“Mama needs a good whopping,” a strident male voice said. “Mabel shouldn’t even be meddling in her grown son’s affairs. And that advice columnist don’t have a clue. Do you know the kind of women answering those personal ads?” The caller didn’t wait for the DJ to comment. “Chicks no one else wants. Two tons of fun, and a whole lot neurotic.”
The disk jockey chuckled. “I hear you. My man speaks from experience. Who in the house has been on one of those Internet dates? Step up now. Tell us if our man here is right.”
Phones began ringing off the hook. It still amazed Jen just how much information people were willing to share about the intimate details of their lives. D’Dawg’s audience for the most part were very vocal about her usage of the word queer.
The discord caused Jen to second-guess herself. Maybe as some had suggested she really should have told the old lady to get a life. Perhaps she could have presented other options, but she’d gone with her gut. And her gut seldom let her down.
D’Dawg’s urban drawl snapped Jen back to the present.
“Any of you see Dear Jenna up close and personal? There’s a photo in the newspaper with girlfriend wearing this little business suit, pearls and glasses. Looks to me like she stepped right outta the fifties. Uptight I say, lady needs a good loving to loosen her up.”
The DJ’s raucous laughter caused Jen to quickly shut off the radio. Even though only a chauvinist would have made that outrageous remark, he’d hit a nerve. Jen hadn’t allowed a man to get next to her since Anderson dumped her. She was still recovering from his betrayal and it would be a cold day in hell before she trusted another man. She would play the same game men did. No connection and no commitment. Live in the present and enjoy each day as it came.
Jen had dated Anderson for two years. Even so, he’d walked away without an explanation and a short time later gotten engaged to another woman. Adding insult to injury, he’d purchased a home in the same Ashton suburb as Jen.
She would be late if she didn’t hurry. Chere, the bottomless pit, would be waiting at the Pink Flamingo’s bar checking out the prospects. After hurriedly zipping up the apricot sundress scooped low in the back, Jen stepped into matching wedge sandals. She finger-combed her shoulder-length hair and added a pair of gold hoop earrings. Convinced she no longer even faintly resembled Dear Jenna, she headed off.
Ten minutes later, Jen strolled into the packed Pink Flamingo. The place was filled with patrons winding down from a stressful work week. At the bar, groups of men nursed beers while female companions sipped on Cosmos and Appletinis. How could anyone possibly hear themselves? Jen wondered.
An olive-skinned hostess in a Flamingo Pink mini-dress chatted with a man Jen guessed to be the restaurant manager. He wore the exact color shirt. She tore herself away to point out a vacant seat at the outdoor bar.
Jen’s first impressions were of Flamingo heaven or maybe it was hell. Fluttering from the thatched ceiling of the Tikki Hut were the pink birds in abundance. Jen eased onto the vacant bar stool, noting there was no sign of Chere. Her administrative assistant wasn’t amongst the chattering twosomes and single hopefuls. Nor was she holding court with the two men at the end of the bar looking for action. The lighter one in a turquoise linen shirt, winked at Jen. Forcing herself, she winked back. She’d promised herself a new life.
Just then Chere entered in a ridiculously short skirt she had no business being in. Her cropped top exposed a layer of jiggling mahogany flesh. Two hundred pounds of confidence tottered across the floor in acrylic platform-soled sandals; a red hibiscus wobbled from the big toe.
“Sorry. Something came up,” she said wedging herself between Jen and the man to her right.
Better not ask Chere what that might be, lest Chere told her.
Chere