Marcia King-Gamble - Flamingo Place

“Chere!” Jen shouted over the din emanating from next door. “What’s the holdup?”

“I said I was coming.”

Jen rolled her eyes. Sure she was, when she was good and ready. There was a residential directory somewhere around. Jen searched and found it before realizing she didn’t know the neighbor’s name. This meant she’d have to go next door.

The hall was alive with music. Using her fist, she banged on 5B’s front door.

“What’s up?” he called when the sound registered.

She didn’t stick around to answer. Hopefully he would get the message. Rather than wasting energy debating his selfishness, Jen returned to reread Ms. Mabel’s letter. The old lady had a quirky sense of humor. She pleaded with Jen to help save her son, even likening homosexuality to a rare disease.

How had she come to such a conclusion? It was a metrosexual world. Men got manicures, pedicures and facials just like women did these days. Men were marrying later and later. Thirty-five wasn’t that old. Jen was thirty-two and very single, and left to herself she’d stay that way. There had to be more to it. Maybe Mother Mabel had found her son in a compromising position. Jen decided she would ask.

She typed her witty and well-thought-out prose, pausing to rotate her cramping shoulder muscles and stare out the living room windows. A beautiful coral and lavender sunset made her long to be outdoors, sipping on something cool and frothy. It was wishful thinking on her part—with the looks of that in-box.

It had taken Ms. Mabel a full eight pages to tell how her son had been engaged three times but never quite made it down the aisle. Mama was now speculating that her son’s loud “Cabana Boy” shirts and “butt-hugging” jeans were a clear sign he was batting for the other team.

The music next door ceased, thank God. Jen’s head still vibrated with the sound. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She’d never regretted leaving Ashton, the small Midwest town where she’d worked for ten years. The Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s offer had come at the perfect time.

Jen’s romantic life had been in turmoil. She’d been happy to put space between herself and Anderson, the lying, cheating dog who’d broken her heart and put her off men, permanently. Now was not the time to think of him. She had a deadline to meet.

“I’m calling it a day,” huffed Chere, the assistant she’d inherited. She was still chomping on the chicken leg she’d taken from Jen’s refrigerator. She slid a glass of water Jen’s way. “Unless you need me for something.” Two plump cheeks parted to reveal perfectly white teeth. Then she made a chicken neck. “What’s with that brother? He tone deaf or what?”

Damn if she knew. She’d been wondering the same thing. Jen waved an expansive hand in the direction of her crowded desk. “Nope, just self-focused like we need to be. We’ve got work, girl. Those letters need to be read and logged in. Today.”

Chere placed two pudgy hands bedecked with gold rings on each finger on her oversized hips. Her nails were a work of art, depicting the New York skyline in black and silver. She proudly announced to anyone who would listen that she’d grown up in the Bronx, followed a man South, and although that relationship was long over with, remained because she enjoyed the Southern hospitality. Translation, the dark-skinned brothers had been good to her and delighted in her charms.

“Shoot. I have plans tonight,” she grumbled. “What am I supposed to tell Leon?”

“What you’ve told every man you didn’t want to be bothered with. You’re busy.”

“But I want to be bothered with this one—you should see how he’s hung.…”

Jen now fixed her hazel-eyed stare on the outrageous woman who thought work was a contagious disease and tended to disappear more often than not. Chere did serve a purpose though. She knew everything there was to know about Flamingo Beach and its residents. She’d slept with most of the men and could proudly list their long and shortcomings. As she’d said to Jen time and time again, you didn’t have to be skinny as a rail to bag a man. Booty was booty. Good loving just as easily came in an oversized package.

Chere harrumphed before settling in and attacking the pile in the in-box. She slid a nail that reminded Jen of a talon under one envelope flap while sighing loudly.

“You might as well get used to long hours. If we’d met at a small Midwest paper you do everything including your own copyediting,” Jen added.

“I’d rather be serving fries at Mickey Dee’s,” Chere grumbled. “Here you are, stuck in this big ass apartment when you should be lying around the pool sipping on Margaritas and strategizing how to get one of them personal trainers into bed. My mama used to say no employer’s ever dedicated a tombstone to a workaholic. Hell, you’re lucky to get a silver watch if you make it to retirement.”

Jen smothered a grin. Lazy as Chere was she did provide comic relief. “Here, take a look at this.” Jen flipped Ms. Mabel’s letter in Chere’s direction. “What’s your take?”

Chere’s double chins bobbed. She scanned the letter before guffawing loudly. “Uhhh, your advice ain’t going to sit well with the peoples.”

“Why not?”

Because this is Buppyville. We are nothing if not politically correct. These peoples aren’t going to like that you used ‘queer.’ Lover boy might be a player but you telling Mama to get on the Internet and place one of them there ads is meddling, baby girl. No man ever likes the babe Mama chooses.”

“Maybe you should be answering my mail,” Jen said jokingly. “You know how this town operates and you seem to know your way around men.”

“Yup, I sure as hell do. What if Romeo’s gay? You didn’t tackle that.”

Jen chuckled. “Maybe the number of letters from women offering to turn him straight will force him out of the closet.”

“I doubt that. I had me a few of them, even my antics couldn’t keep them on the straight and narrow. Listen, I have to go. Leon will kill me for being late.” She tossed the letters back on Jen’s desk and reached for an oversized Coach bag in a sickly shade of coral, hoisting it onto her shoulder. “Just tell the witch to butt out of a grown man’s life. She should be at bingo or learning to fox trot at Arthur Murray. She needs to get a life.”

Chere wiggled her bejeweled fingers and headed for the door. “Want me to take care of homeboy next door on my way out?”

“I already have.”

No sooner had Chere left than the cacophony next door started again. Jen’s walls vibrated. Her head felt like someone had parked a Mack truck in it and left the motor running. Enough was enough. Jen stepped out into the hallway in time to see a scantily clad hoochie mama exit 5B.

This was no tenant. 5B seemed to get more than his share of action. Women were constantly coming and going at all kinds of hours. Jen had heard the fights, the broken glasses and the slammed doors.

“Call me,” the woman with the belly-button ring said to someone Jen couldn’t see.

A grunt followed before the door closed firmly behind her.

Jen’s Midwestern good manners kicked in. “Hello,” she greeted the woman tottering by in too-high heels.

A disinterested glance was tossed Jen’s way. She’d been summarily dismissed as inconsequential. The music inside 5B’s apartment ended abruptly.

Jen returned to her apartment and decided to get comfortable. She slid into a pair of shorts and a halter top and considered what to do about dinner. There were at least three restaurants to choose from nearby but it was no fun sitting at a table eating alone.

Discarding the possibility of having food delivered, Jen opened the refrigerator hoping to find something edible. She slammed the door again. It looked like takeout was the only option.