Marcia King-Gamble - All About Me

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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