“I say Jen goes on the show.” This came from Todd.
“I say we don’t bow to pressure,” Eileen Brown, who headed up advertising, and was the only other woman in the room, added.
Jen had been introduced to Eileen briefly. She too was African-American. They’d never said more than “hi” to each other. Now Jen warmed to her, glad to have found a supportive friend amongst the crowd.
“She goes on,” Percy said, giving the nod.
“No she doesn’t.”
And so it went. Finally Ian held his palms up. “Why don’t we wait until after tonight’s broadcast, then make a decision. Chet Rabinowitz could very well make an ass of himself and that will be the end of that.”
“I doubt he will,” Eileen said surprising them. Every head in the room now swiveled in her direction. “Chet is well-spoken and well-regarded and he is the politician’s son. I’ve heard from a good source, his father, the mayor will be a guest on WARP the following night.”
“Solomon Rabinowitz is a guest on the station?” Ian’s facial expression registered incredulity. “The mayor’s not exactly Baby Face or P. Diddy. He’s hardly the type WARP has on. Aren’t they more of an R&B or rap station?”
“The mayor will pander to any crowd at this point,” Percy said sourly.
“Not just any crowd.” This again came from Eileen. “He’s looking for votes in the upcoming election. Chet is his son and Mayor Rabinowitz’s appearance on the D’Dawg show will send a powerful message. Solomon’s up for election in the next few months and he’s shrewd enough to realize the opposition is young, popular and forward-thinking. The mayor may need the gay and African-American vote to win.”
Everyone began talking at once as the news slowly sank in. When there was a lull in the conversation, all eyes were fixed on Luis.
He began to speak haltingly, “If Mayor Rabinowitz goes on WARP…uh, Jen will have to go on.” Noting Jen’s expression, he held a palm up like a traffic cop. “Not necessarily to defend yourself but to say exactly what you said to me. We might be able to turn this thing around and make the rabble-rousers look silly and uninformed. We can have PR coach you if necessary.”
Jen exchanged a look with Eileen and shook her head.
Ian Pendergrass was pacing, but he slowed down to say, “I’m afraid Luis is right. Jen, my recommendation is to go on the show and maintain your professionalism.”
It would be useless to protest. The decision had been made for her, but she wasn’t very pleased.
“I’ve got us popcorn, beer, chips, fried chicken and potato salad,” Chere said, opening her apartment door to Jen.
Chere was determined to make it an occasion. She’d invited Jen over to her place to listen to the D’Dawg show. Even though The Chronicle’s public relations representative recommended it, Jen hadn’t been looking forward to tuning in to the broadcast. She’d brought with her the bottle of wine she’d planned to share with Tre. Between the wine and Chere, listening might be made bearable. If nothing else Chere would provide running commentary and entertainment.
“This place is so you,” Jen commented, entering.
Chere’s apartment was flamboyant and outrageous just like the zaftig woman herself. A red sofa the size of a small monument took up most of the living room. Zebra toss cushions gave the impression you’d walked into a whorehouse. A large glass table was supported by brass elephant feet. The elephant had red painted toenails. Off to the side was a red-and-white tiled galley kitchen with red appliances.
“You want some of that fancy wine?” Chere asked when Jen was settled on the oversized couch.
“Sure.”
Chere was dressed for comfort in an outlandish gold kimona and red vampy slippers with pouffed black feathers that swayed in the air-conditioning. She trotted off in the direction of the kitchen and stuck her head in the refrigerator. She removed a six-pack of some brand of beer Jen had never heard of, stacked a box that looked like it came from a fast-food chain on top of the beer, and opened a cupboard door. Chere retrieved a gigantic bag of chips, added it to the lot, grabbed Trestin’s cabernet and hurried back.
“Time to eat,” she said, arranging the goodies on the coffee table and plopping down next to Jen. “We got ten minutes before boyfriend comes on.”
Jen politely sipped on her wine and thought about how to diplomatically tell Chere that all that cholesterol was slowly killing her, and then changed her mind. She nibbled on a chip, her stomach too queasy to ingest that much grease. Chere was already halfway through a meaty chicken breast.
“So you never did tell me what happened at that meeting,” she said through a mouthful of food. “I had to hear from my girls that you agreed to go on the D’Dawg show. That came as a big surprise. Seems to me you sold out.”
“I had no choice,” Jen admitted. “I was ordered to.”
“By who? Want me to sit on them for you?” Chere joked.
Jen watched Chere closely for a reaction when she said the name, “Ian Pendergrass.”
“Why that dirty low-down…I’ll squash him like the maggot he is.”
Jen wasn’t about to touch that one. “I’m sure he thought it was a good business decision,” she said diplomatically.
By now Chere had worked her way through half the box of chicken. She was spooning large gobs of potato salad that came with the family-sized meal into her mouth. “Mmmm, this is good.”
Jen wisely thought it best to concentrate on her wine and say nothing.
After a while Chere got up and toddled to a black lacquer-and-glass étagère. She flipped the switch on the stereo and fiddled with the knobs until she found WARP.
“This is D’Dawg coming to you live on WARP, the station that rocks.”
“That man’s voice would have me climbing out of my pants double time,” Chere said, longingly.
Chere had finished the chicken and was swigging from a can of beer. Jen decided another glass of wine was definitely in order. She refilled her glass and took a big gulp. Trestin had superb taste in wine.
The air personality’s voice sounded like liquid velvet. It was deep, sexy and hauntingly familiar. It drew you in. Jen knew if she’d met him she would have remembered.
“How come you don’t know D’Dawg?” she said to Chere.
“Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Hard to keep track at times. The girls tell me he pretty much keeps to himself. He’s not one for hanging at the clubs.”
“I would think that’s a good thing.”
Beyoncé was belting out a soulful tune now. On purpose the DJ was dragging things out and the agony was excruciating.
“Our special guest tonight is Chet Rabinowitz,” he finally announced between tunes. “For those of you who don’t know, he’s Mayor Rabinowitz’s son. He’s also the director of Flamingo Beach’s Gay Alliance. Tonight he’s going to tell us what he thinks about Dear Jenna, the latest addition to The Chronicle. Stay tuned. Things are bound to heat up.”
Another round of tunes gave Jen time to top off her drink. Chere had started in on the chips and was noisily munching. Jen glanced at the clock. “That man is holding out until nine o’clock.”
“What’s so special about that hour?”
“You’ve got a captive audience. Kids for the most part are in bed. You’re relaxing after dinner.”
“What else do you know about this guy?” Jen asked.
“Only that he’s single and fine,” Chere answered through a mouthful of chips. “He pretty much stays to himself as I mentioned before.”
“Where does he live?”
“Now, that I don’t know.” Chere who was half sprawled on the sofa flexed and arched her feet. The feathers on the silly-looking mules fluttered. “But you know there ain’t nothing I can’t find out. Why you so interested?”
Good question. Why was she? “Because it’s nice to know what I’m up against.”
D’Dawg took some calls before putting another tune on. Some had opinions about the upcoming election, others fe
lt that Flamingo Beach’s boardwalk and ancient arcade was well overdue for a face-lift. A few had questions about the upcoming interview but were urged to hold them until Chet Rabinowitz came on.
“Maybe we should make some popcorn,” Chere suggested.
“Thanks, but I’ve had quite enough.”
“You’ve hardly eaten,” Chere said, noting that Jen still had a couple of chips she’d taken out of the bag clutched in one hand, and the chicken leg she’d deigned to part with on the plate in front of her.
“Now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” D’Dawg announced. “In the house, and coming to you live from Flamingo Beach is Chet Rabinowitz, director of the Gay Alliance. He’s a man you all know. Chet is a florist and part owner of All About Flowers. He’s also our mayor’s son. What do you have to say for yourself, my man?”
“I’m very pleased to be invited on the D’Dawg show. You’re doing a fine job of keeping the folks of Flamingo Beach up on current events,” a high-pitched and very nasal voice said.
Chere rolled her eyes and chortled. “That’s a good one. Prying into citizens’ business is now called current events.”
“Shhh. Let’s hear what else he has to say.”
“Thank you. Let’s hope the good citizens of Flamingo Beach are in agreement. I need ratings, y’all. Tell everyone you know to tune into the D’Dawg show. But you didn’t come on the radio to talk about me. We’re here to discuss people’s reactions to last Sunday’s column. There’s been a lot of tongue-wagging and people wanting Dear Jenna’s head. You’ve been fielding calls from angry townspeople and answering e-mails. Care to comment?”
“Well, I think it was an unfortunate choice of words…”
“What words are we talking about? The advice to the parent or a particular word?”
What an instigator! The host sure knew how to stir things up.
“Well I don’t know if I would have given the same advice,” Chet said, “The son is still in the closet. Suggesting to his mother she find him the right woman is insulting. I might have recommended therapy. Clearly he has issues.”
“You hear that, y’all?” D’Dawg chortled. “You know what I think is insulting, that slur that was used. Flip through a dictionary—that word means strange or odd. You’re neither.”
Jen held her breath, certain more rhetoric would be coming.
“And from here on,” Chere said, heaving her bulk off the couch and stabbing a fingernail at Jen’s nose. “It goes downhill. Every circuit’s going be busy on the air and off.”
Jen raised a finger shushing her. “Let’s listen. No point in getting riled up.”
But she was already riled up, although she was less vocal about it than Chere.
Chapter 7
“Is it the word queer that’s got everyone so bent out of shape?” Chet asked, his voice taking on even more of a lilt.
“That’s it. That’s exactly the word!” D’Dawg shouted. “You said it. I didn’t.”
“Personally I didn’t find it offensive.…”
“You didn’t?”
“Yes!” Jen said, pumping her arms in the air. “Yes, thank you. There is a God.”
“There’s a ‘but’ coming,” Chere warned. “Just wait and see.”
She must have ESP because right on cue it came.
“…but others did and that’s what’s important. The gay community’s worked very hard to eliminate epithets from the layperson’s vocabulary. Words like queer, fairy, light in the loafers, fag, that kind of thing. Those were all considered inappropriate words deemed insensitive and hurtful.”
“And you’ve made great headway,” D’Dawg said. “Your efforts have contributed to the almost total elimination of gay-bashing in this town. You’ve mainstreamed the word gay. Those with alternative lifestyles are now accorded respect. Look at how far we’ve come. In some states marriage between two people of the same gender is sanctioned and accepted. About time I say.”
“We?” Jen said aloud. “No wonder this guy came after me with both barrels. The dog’s gay.”
She’d taken to calling him “the dog” because, like a salivating canine on a bone, he just wouldn’t back off. Now she knew he’d taken her comments to heart and was making going after her his personal crusade.
“Nah, I don’t think so.” Chere’s head moved from right to left. “My girls say the equipment works fine but it’s been out of commission for the last few months, and no one knows why.”
“He’s probably found himself a partner.”
“No, I would have heard.”
Chet was now yakking a mile a minute. He was passionate on his subject. “Even more states need to get with the program,” he said. “Homosexuality is a reality in today’s world. There’s at least one of us in each family. Progressive companies are offering insurance to those in same sex partnerships so…”
“Which makes it even more disheartening when a newcomer to our town sets our effort back several years.”
“Our,” Jen pointed out. “See.” She and Chere exchanged looks.
“Nah,” Chere repeated, “Don’t even go there. I told you he was all male.”
“You had to have been offended by Dear Jenna using the word queer, instead of gay,” WARP’s host stated, no longer interested in beating around the bush.
“As I said before,” Chet answered, “I didn’t take it personally. I wasn’t offended. ‘Queer’ is perfectly acceptable lingo today.”
“So why the huge uproar? Why are my phones ringing off the hook? Why are people looking to hang and quarter Dear Jenna?”
“It’s her advice that was a problem.” Chet was speaking rapidly now, warming to his subject. “There’s nothing you can do to change genetics. That’s what Dear Jenna’s trying to get this mother to do. She’s trying to force the man into becoming something he’s not. That’s just wrong.”
“Hold that thought,” D’Dawg practically shouted. “We’ve got to make time for our advertisers.”
During the break, Chere helped herself to yet another beer while Jen settled for a chilled bottle of water. She needed all her wits about her to plan her counterattack when it was her turn to go on WARP.
The following fifteen minutes D’Dawg entertained questions and comments. It seemed all of Flamingo Beach had tuned in. The conversation now shifted from the perceived slur to the advice that was given. The audience was equally divided and some had quickly changed positions. Instead of wanting to crucify Dear Jenna, they were now praising her for staying on the cutting edge.
In many ways Jen considered this a victory. She had won over many people, and that translated, hopefully, to new fans and more newspapers purchased.
At the end of the hour, D’Dawg called a halt to the questions. He thanked Chet and confirmed that Chet’s dad, Mayor Rabinowitz would be on the air the following night.
“It wouldn’t be fair if Aunt Jemima doesn’t have her say as well,” D’Dawg said. “Two nights from now WARP’s going to have Jenna on this show. Stay tuned—temperatures in Flamingo Beach are about to rise even more.”
“What about me?” Chere said, pointing to her ample chest. “Don’t I deserve my fifteen minutes of fame too? I help you.”
“You’ll have more than fifteen minutes,” Jen said high-fiving her. “The Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s distribution’s about to increase. That should mean money in both of our pockets. There’s a cruise in our future. We’ll be slurping down those Bahama Mamas in no time.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear.”
Chere’s palms were in the air, her overdeveloped bootie swung left, right, forward and center. She had that calypso music playing in her ear. In her mind she was already boogying on the upper deck of that cruise ship.
Temperatures had soared into the nineties, unseasonable for that time of year. Tre having awakened from his afternoon nap, decided lying poolside in the sweltering heat was a pleasant alternative to sitting around an air-conditioned apartment listening to tunes. He’d
decided to bring his iPod with him.
He lay poolside on a cedar lounge chair with a plump striped cushion under him, gulping iced tea, and pretending to be oblivious of the parade of hotties going by.
No more casual encounters, he vowed. They were a waste of time. At thirty-five, his focus needed to be on establishing a name for himself in the broadcast world. After that, the search would begin for an intelligent, attractive wife who wanted to have his children. She would have to be an independent woman, able to adapt to the crazy hours an on-air personality kept, and one who didn’t easily get jealous.
His mother, for one, would be ecstatic. It would put an end to her efforts at matchmaking and they’d get along much better. Marva Jones-Monroe had taken to nagging him about his single status during her weekly phone call. Much as he loved his mother, she was getting on his last nerve.
Tre had hoped the high temperatures and clear blue skies would drive his intriguing neighbor, 5C out. He’d hoped she’d bring that bottle of red wine with her. Could be she was already lying poolside. Tre glanced at the sun worshipers. Most who occupied the loungers were reading books while sucking down beers and colorful concoctions. No Jen in sight so far.
Every now and then, a resident would jump off the diving board or plunge into the pool headfirst. A few sat on the sidelines dipping a big toe into the water. The bar meanwhile did a brisk business. And the outfits were wildly tropical running from ultra-tasteful to the outrageously bizarre.
Tre tried not to analyze what these feelings of disappointment at not seeing Jen meant. He’d had fantasies of seeing her athletic body in a string bikini. But he doubted she would be that daring. He’d pegged her as the tankini type, showing a hint of midriff, and a lot of leg. And he’d hoped that if they hooked up again he could convince her to give dinner with him a try. Lunch as far as he was concerned had been very successful.
His attention turned to the shallow end of the pool where kids were splashing. A boy’s and girl’s laughter reached him as they tossed a ball back and forth. Some tenant must have visitors since the complex was restricted to adults that were age thirty and over. Not that Tre had anything against kids, he wanted a couple himself. But with the kind of hours he kept, he could only take noise in small doses. Now he was glad he’d brought a headset with him.
Flamingo Place (Mills & Boon Kimani) Page 6