All About Me. Marcia King-Gamble

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СКАЧАТЬ another piece of turkey just to quiet things down.

      “So did I hear right?” Sheena yakked. “Your boss is taking a stroll down the aisle with our favorite disk jockey?” That girl didn’t miss a thing.

      “You heard right.”

      “When’s the wedding?”

      “I don’t know.” I didn’t want to talk about any wedding unless it was mine.

      My short answers didn’t bother Sheena one bit. She was off and running. “What’s happening with your real estate? You selling any houses yet?”

      “I just passed the test a week ago. Cut me some slack,” I said irritably. I wasn’t going to say one word about my two clients. That news would be all over town in a Flamingo Beach minute and I didn’t want to be jinxed.

      “Then you must not have sold anything,” she said. Sheena could be a bitch at times. “I hear they’re looking for part time help selling or renting properties at Flamingo Place. Manny Varela is the property manager. You want me to put in a good word for you?”

      “No, thanks. I know Manny. I can speak for myself.”

      Sheena had been sleeping off and on with Manny for over a year. Sleeping with men that weren’t hers was Sheena’s favorite pastime. It was an ego thing. True, Manny with his jet-black hair, olive complexion and expensive designer suits wasn’t bad. But it was the Benz he drove that made him a catch.

      “Well let me know if you change your mind,” Sheena said, “And call me the minute you hear something.” She hung up.

      These next few months were going to be devoted to me. I planned on losing weight, getting my man and starting a new career, and not necessarily in that order. Earlier, I’d placed a big toe on the bathroom scale and was pleasantly surprised to see the number was lower. Growing braver, I’d given the scale my whole weight. I still had eighty-three pounds to go, but losing two pounds for me was a big deal and should be celebrated.

      Over the years I’d pretty much convinced myself that being big worked for me. I hadn’t lacked admirers. What you don’t know is there’s a slew of “chubby chasers” out there; men who think being full figured is hot. They weren’t necessarily what I was looking for but what I got. My expectations were set way high. This year I’d made resolutions; one being to get Quen Abrahams.

      Quen with the corded arms and strong thigh muscles also came with a degree and ambition, and he could string two sentences together while flashing you a gut-wrenching smile. Since I had a degree and had worked damn hard to get it, I needed a man who was my equal, especially if he was going to father my child.

      Tomorrow we were working out of Jen’s condo; a good thing, too, because I’d probably be dead after my session with Quen. During lunch I had an interview with Manny Varela, the property manager Sheena mentioned earlier. Like she said, his sales and leasing office was looking for part-timers. I needed a second job and I needed it quickly. These personal training sessions were pricey and diet food cost money.

      Now I had just fifteen minutes to get to my elocution class. The class had been advertised in one of those inserts you get in the Sunday paper. It was a continuing education course given by one of the neighboring high schools and aimed at a certain type of person. Although it cost $150, I whipped out my credit card and paid. I was investing in myself. I couldn’t think of anyone better.

      Deep down I’d always known if I wanted to be somebody I’d need to walk the walk and talk the talk. Not that I was turning my back on my roots, mind you. Like I said I knew who I was and I didn’t need to prove anything to anybody.

      I made the ten-minute drive in five. And yes, I admit I have a lead foot. Class had just started when I tromped in and with a “hey” to the homies sitting next to me, I plopped onto a seat at the back of the room.

      “You didn’t miss much,” the woman who’d told me she was an administrative assistant, but thought she was a CEO whispered to me.

      “Good.”

      The instructor, a proper-looking man who still wore a bow tie, and who had to be gay, was in the middle of taking attendance. He gave us a stern look. Since Adams was at the beginning of the alphabet he’d already passed over me.

      I had nothing else to do so I looked around the room to see if there were any dropouts. Yup. This was the third session and the group was a lot smaller than I remembered. The class was supposedly aimed at foreigners and business types; people needing to learn to speak right.

      The first two sessions had been jam-packed; now the only people I recognized were the married couple and the immigrants from Cuba, who barely spoke English, and in my opinion required more than “elocution.” Then there was the freckled guy from New “Joisey” who wanted to be friends. I called him, “Dese, Dems and Dose,” but not to his face of course. I wasn’t that stupid. Not that I was in a position to make fun of anybody.

      The two homeboys who’d greeted me were still hanging in. They looked out of place in their oversize jeans riding low on the hips, with their undershorts sticking out over the top. In this case something big was at stake here, like money.

      I grew up with the language of the street, which meant you said what you thought and punctuated with some well chosen cuss words to get your point across loud and clear. Jen, my boss had been forever after me to clean up my act. And I was trying. Talking like you had marbles in your mouth worked for her so why not me? It had landed her a cushy job. I’d decided if I was going to be selling real estate to all kinds of people no one needed to know I was black, at least not right off.

      “Ms. Adams,” the instructor called, pulling me back to reality. I didn’t know the man even knew my name.

      “Wassup, Mr. Cummings?”

      He peered at me over ridiculous half-moon glasses and sniffed.

      “Yes, Mr. Cummings?” he corrected.

      “Yes, Mr. Cummings,” I obediently repeated.

      A finger beckoned me to join him up front. As I plodded toward him, he turned to write on the blackboard. I was starting to feel like I was back in fourth grade when “the fat girl” was being singled out.

      “Please translate these phrases in the queen’s English for the rest of the class,” Cummings said, handing me his chalk.

      “Say what?”

      Shoot, queen’s English? The United States did not have a queen, at least not the last time I looked. I scrunched up my nose and stared at the strange little man. The homeboys cracked up. People were howling and holding their sides.

      Cummings sniffed loudly and wagged a finger. “This is exactly what I mean. Those types of expressions have no place in everyday language. You are here to learn to speak English, and that includes the use of proper grammar. You are here to articulate.”

      “Yo, man. You trying to teach us to conversate,” one of the homeboy’s in the back shouted.

      That produced another round of laughter.

      Mr. Cummings gave him his stern look.

      “You must eliminate all urban slang from your vocabulary, Ms. Adams. Now please continue.”

      Yup. СКАЧАТЬ