All About Me. Marcia King-Gamble
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. I was being made an example of. Lucky for me, I was wearing one of my hot little J Lo outfits, well maybe not so little. It was size 3X. I was working it. Rather than writing, I repeated out loud what I thought Cummings wanted to hear. He corrected me in his snotty manner and I slunk back to my chair.
The remainder of the two-hour class passed quickly. The homeboys had their turn, as did the Cuban couple. Cummings was mean. I’d almost decided I wasn’t being singled out. I knew people judged you by both your appearance and the way you spoke. They assumed if you were a big girl you were a slow, stupid ox. But being big had always been advantageous for me. My sense of humor and big mouth had made me popular in school and gotten me through.
The way I saw it, Cummings’s class was keeping me off the street these days. Before that I’d spent one night a week at the Haul Out. Not because I was a big drinker, but because it was a sure way of catching up on who was doing who. All that time hanging out got me a big fat nothing except the occasional pickup, then when he found out I was on lockdown I promptly got dumped. This elocution class would at least help me build a future.
I left thinking that even though Mr. Cummings had a stick up his ass, he might be onto something.
I’d only been home about fifteen minutes, and was thinking about going to bed when my telephone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Hey, sweet thang.”
Who the hell was this?
“Do I know you?”
The man chuckled. “Baby, how could you forget the best lover you’ve ever had? This is Richard.”
“Richard who?”
Why was he acting like I knew him, like we were close?
A long pause followed as he tried to pick up his ego from the floor. “Richard Dyson, baby, the owner of Dyson Luxury Limousines.”
Oh, that Dick! Rich Richard. Obnoxious Richard. Richie Rich who thought his Platinum American Express card bought him any woman. The last time he’d phoned was months ago. It had been late at night, he’d been drunk and on a booty-call spree. “What do you want, Dickie?”
“Can’t a man touch base with a beautiful woman just to see how she’s doing?”
“It’s been three months since you and I spoke.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you, sweetness. What are you doing now? I’d like to come over.”
“Going to bed,” I answered. “Without you. Good night, Dick.”
“Wait! Wait! How about dinner tomorrow night? You pick the place.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
I hung up while he was still talking.
I used Dyson’s Luxury Limousines when I was out to make an impression or didn’t want to drive. Like the time I attended my cousin’s wedding and knew that the sight of her in a white wedding dress, complete with trailing veil, would make me drink. Richard owed me because if it hadn’t been for my contacts, he’d never have gotten the Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s account. Then Jen got Richard the WARP account through Tre, her fiancé, who now used Dyson’s exclusively to pick up the people he hosted.
Richard and I had gone