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.”
Snap. Snap. Snap. “And you’ll take me on one ah dem ‘Fun Ship’ cruises?”
Jen’s laughter rippled out. Chere supposedly had been the publisher, Ian Pendergrass’s housekeeper. He’d had a one-night stand with her and to shut her up he’d given her a job.
“Here’s the deal,” Jen said, still laughing. “You read the mail when it comes in and keep me up to date, then we’ll talk.”
There wasn’t a prayer in hell of Chere catching her up. She wasn’t one to work harder than she needed to.
“Done. Tomorrow I’m going shopping for one ah them skimpy little bikinis that shows off my curves.”
Jen wisely let that thread of conversation drop. Full-figured Chere in an itsy-bitsy bikini wasn’t something she wanted to think about.
“See you at the Pink Flamingo in half an hour then,” Jen said fumbling with the radio dial. She located WARP where a lively discussion was underway.
“Mama needs a good whopping,” a strident male voice said. “Mabel shouldn’t even be meddling in her grown son’s affairs. And that advice columnist don’t have a clue. Do you know the kind of women answering those personal ads?” The caller didn’t wait for the DJ to comment. “Chicks no one else wants. Two tons of fun, and a whole lot neurotic.”
The disk jockey chuckled. “I hear you. My man speaks from experience. Who in the house has been on one of those Internet dates? Step up now. Tell us if our man here is right.”
Phones began ringing off the hook. It still amazed Jen just how much information people were willing to share about the intimate details of their lives. D’Dawg’s audience for the most part were very vocal about her usage of the word queer.
The
