All About Me. Marcia King-Gamble

3

      “Why should Flamingo Place Realty hire you?” Manny Varela asked me as if we were strangers.

      He sat in this big swivel chair behind a huge glass desk, making notes on a pad with an expensive-looking pen.

      I almost didn’t answer. I had nothing to prove to Manny. We’d been friends ever since nursery school. Manny and I had spent endless times playing “show and tell.” Truth is Manny has little to show, but he does like to tell. I know every inch of his olive body and he knows every layer of mine.

      In the thirty-plus years we’d known each other, we’d done everything short of sleeping together. And believe me when I tell you his weenie is teenie. Sheena told me it still hasn’t grown up.

      Okay, okay. I was supposed to take him seriously. This was an interview, if I got the job Manny would be my boss. He’d left Flamingo Beach after high school and gone away to college. He’d returned years later claiming to have experience in real estate and property management, and he’d worked his way up from agent to big shot.

      “You know anyone who knows this town better than me?” I answered, batting my lashes at Manny.

      His big white capped teeth flashed an acknowledgment. They were a new addition that must have cost him a fortune.

      “Having you work for Flamingo Place Realty would certainly be a plus. You know everyone there is to know in town. And their business,” he added.

      Smooth. Yeah Manny was as smooth as the slicked back black hair on his head. He tapped the black and gold pen he was holding against the desk’s glass surface.

      “Aren’t you still working at the Chronicle?” he asked, stroking his chin. “How are you going to swing two jobs?”

      I shot him my mean look, which meant narrowing my eyes and sticking out my bottom lip. “Didn’t you say this was part-time?”

      “Yes, weekends and such. You did well on the real estate test, plus you’re a talker. That’s to be taken into consideration.”

      Enough of this cat and mouse B.S. “Do I get the job or what?”

      “I’m thinking.”

      I’d brought Manny a copy of my notification that I’d passed the test, just in case he didn’t believe me. Either he wanted to hire me or he didn’t not. So what was there to think about?

      “You still dating Lizzie Smith?” I asked, playing my ace card.

      By the way he jumped out of that chair you would have thought a gnat had stung him.

      “Off and on. Why?”

      I pushed back a handful of store bought hair off my face, and did a chicken neck. “Ain’t you and Lizzie exclusive. So how come you doing Sheena?”

      Manny needed to know I knew about Sheena. Let him read between the lines and not underestimate me. If he didn’t hire me I’d be chatting with Lizzie.

      “I could give you a try…”

      Manny wasn’t stupid.

      I bounced up and down and began screaming. I threw my arms around his neck and pressed his muscular body against mine. “You the man, Manny. You won’t be disappointed.”

      He gave me a little push away from him on account of the weenie becoming less teenie.

      “There is a but.” He gulped.

      “Yeah?” He was beginning to sweat. That white starched shirt had rings around the armpits.

      “Uh…things are fairly casual here in Florida, but if you’re selling real estate you can’t look too wild. A personal shopper might help you get more pulled together.”

      Suck it in, girl. You got the job. That’s what counts.

      I loved my look. I might be out there sometimes but it was me. I liked being wild. And I didn’t need to lay out money for some 3X pants outfit or one of them stuffy suits. But if Manny wanted me to get a personal shopper then I’d consult Jen. She’d been threatening forever to give me a makeover. And it wouldn’t cost me a thing.

      “Well what do you say?” Manny asked, glancing at his buffed nails and then back at me.

      “What do I say about what?”

      “About starting this weekend?”

      I gave him another hug almost knocking him over.

      “You’re the man.”

      “It’s strictly commission,” Manny warned. “You’ll have an office and a desk in that cubicle. And you’ll need to be on time. Understand?”

      “Do I get a secretary who’s goin’ to screen my calls?”

      “You’re pushing it, Cherrie.” He called me Cherrie to annoy me. “I’m just trying you out for size.”

      Back to the weight thing or was it just my imagination.

      I curled up one side of my lip, kinda like a dog does and snarled, “Okay, Saturday it is, first thing. Thank you, Manny.” Then I wiggled my fingers and sailed off.

      I had to pinch myself. I was now a full-fledged real estate agent and already I had properties to show: Quen’s two apartments. Next on the agenda, business cards.

      A big fat smile creased my face as I crossed the parking lot. Things sure were looking up. I’d lost two pounds this week, gotten two clients and had a new job. Now I needed to focus on getting that promotion at the Flamingo Beach Chronicle.

      It might require Ian Pendergrass. Jen wasn’t about to hand over her column to me, and truthfully I didn’t want it; at least not all of it. I just wanted to get credit where credit was due. Talking to the editor, Luis Gomez, would be useless. Luis was too much of a wuss to do anything about it.

      I sat planning my strategy while eating lunch. Yuck, I hated canned tuna fish and what could a measly boiled egg do to satisfy real hunger? I found a guest spot in Jen’s condo lot and swung the Honda into it. There were days Jen liked us to work from her condo and today just happened to be one of those days.

      “So how did it go?” Jen asked, the moment she let me into her apartment.

      “I got the job.”

      “Good for you. By the way that stack’s getting huge,” she said, pointing to the growing pile of letters in her box. Letters I hadn’t the time or desire to read, though it was supposedly my job to tell her which ones required her attention.

      She was already banging away on that laptop of hers.

      I’d made no secret about this job interview. I’d been crying poverty for a long time. I’d threatened to find a job as an exotic dancer; sliding up and down poles and wagging your tits in some horny guy’s face paid bucks.

      I’d told Jen I’d give the required notice if something good came along. I didn’t want her thinking I would always be here; the loyal assistant that she’d promised to take on a cruise and then dumped. Maybe if she thought I was going to walk I could finagle a big fat raise. Nobody else in town could provide the kind of inside information I could.

      Grabbing the pile of letters, I made myself comfortable on the couch. A bag of potato chips would have been perfect right now. But for now I would have to settle for an awesome view of the open bay and fantasize what it would be like to live on some fancy boat with a deck hand slobbering all over me. Mentally, I had already moved in.

      “Chere! Letters!”

      “Okay, okay,” I jumped up and made a halfhearted attempt to read. I waved a letter at her. “This one’s from Camille Lewis complaining about Winston.”

      Camille was Jen’s neighbor from hell. She and her husband lived in 5D. Camille was a nosy, loud West Indian woman who loved getting into peoples’ business. Winston, the quiet,