Marcia King-Gamble - Flamingo Place

“This is Jen St. George, our new neighbor,” Tre said smoothly, forcing a smile. “Camille Lewis.”

“We already met.” Camille turned her attention back to her cell phone.

She had a heavy West Indian accent that came and went depending on whether she was talking to a relative or not. She waggled the cell phone at him. “I’m trying to talk to my girlfriend. Can you at least go inside?”

He was being ganged up on. Camille Lewis normally didn’t care about how loud he played his music; just that he made sure some of the disks came her way. She’d mastered the art of multitasking and knew everything there was to know about everyone in the building. They usually got along fine and Tre had learned to ignore her monitoring of his comings and goings.

“Fine. We’ll take our discussion inside,” Tre agreed. He held his apartment door open hoping Jen would come in. “Night, y’all.”

Camille grunted at him and slammed shut her door. Ida stayed put.

“Tomorrow this entire building’s going to hear about the threesome we had in the hallway.” Ida cackled loudly and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray she held. Examining Jen through rheumy eyes, she continued. “You’re a step up from his usual. His taste is improving.”

“I am not his usual. I am nothing to him,” Jen answered before stomping off.

Tre said good-night to Ida Rosenstein and slipped inside his apartment.

Jen St. George wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to plan a strategy, maybe take a bottle of wine over to her later in the week and turn up the heat.

With any luck, he’d have her on her back and those long legs wrapped around him.

Give him one month and he’d be in those tight shorts of hers. Then guess who would be complaining about who.

“Yo, Flamingo Beach. This is D’Dawg coming to you live from WARP. Bad day at work? You been dumped, lied to, or just played? Come sit back and chill with me. My tunes are guaranteed to make you relax and take you on a trip down memory lane to the good old days when brothas and sistahs pushed getting high on life. Let’s conversate. You can tell me what’s happening in this sleepy little town of ours, the Southern answer to Peyton Place.”

Tre had a habit of slipping into urban vernacular when addressing his radio audience. He’d grown up in the ghettos of Detroit and knew this was what his people expected and what they understood. He punched a button and Luther Vandross’s soulful crooning dominated the airwaves. The singer was a man he’d deeply admired. Tonight would be a tribute to him.

Tre sat back, preparing to listen. He propped his feet on the console and took a bite of his sandwich, letting Luther’s sensual voice mesmerize him. It was times like this he wished he was with someone special, someone he had a connection with. So far that hadn’t happened and he didn’t want to just hook up with anyone. Times had changed and making the wrong choice came with consequences.

Another Luther song dropped, this one in a slightly different vein. As the singer began sharing his childhood memories with the radio audience, Tre unfolded The Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began flipping through it. This new advice columnist was a trip. Here she was giving some crazy old lady tips on marrying off her son. What if the man was a confirmed bachelor? And who cared if he was gay?

He reread the mother’s letter and dissected Dear Jenna’s response. Pushing a button on the console he drawled, “Nothing like a little Luther to soothe the soul and get us in the groove. So what y’all think about this chick Aunt Jemima, the new advice columnist from Cincinnati? Anyone read today’s column? Let’s break it down. I’m here to take your calls.”

Tre guffawed loudly. “Freudian slip, y’all. The lady’s name is Jenna. This brotha thinks she likes to stir things up, telling the man’s mama to get on the Internet and place one of them personal ads. Phone lines are open, y’all. I’ll be here for the next four hours.”

During the next fifteen minutes every line at WARP lit up. Tre took call after call and conceded he just couldn’t keep up. His show rocked.

“Sheila, what do you think?”

“Dear Jenna gave sound advice.”

“Why is that? What mama needs to get involved in a grown man’s business?”

To her credit, Sheila stood firm. “I’m a mama. My son brings home these hos. They come into my house, belly hanging out, disrespecting me. Who can blame a mother for wanting to see her son settled with a good churchgoing woman?”

“I hear that. But what if the man’s gay or as Jemima calls it, queer?” Tre now appealed to the audience. “Anybody else got anything contradictory to say?” He punched another button. “Rufus, you still hanging?”

“In for the duration, my man.”

“You got a different opinion from Sheila?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. Mama needs to butt out. Cut the apron strings and let sonny boy make his own mistakes.” Rufus’s 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.”