Going Broke (7 page)

“No one said anything about anybody shooting,” he said nervously. “When you pick up your next check, we'll talk.”

“No, let's talk now.” My neck started to roll.
Oh no. Here she comes, y'all.
“I have direct deposit, so you tell me what you have to say right now. I don't need to come back to be told
not
to come back again.”

He looked shocked.

“I already know the deal, so let's get down to business and talk severance.”

Within an hour, I was no longer an employee of WBIG and would be receiving a $5,000 severance package. The money would give me two months' rent and two more months of Daddy's continued medical assistance. So basically I had two months to find a job somewhere before I was evicted, and Daddy was denied further care.

I didn't hug anyone on the way out. I opened Mr. Mote's door, put on my shades, jumped into my SUV, then drove to the parking lot of Rockwell Mutual and waited until I saw Damian's H2 pull up. I had just lost my job because of him, and I realized that I would probably be losing my truck and other things as well. I didn't wait for him. I just walked into the bank.

Two minutes later he was by my side.

I hated him enough to make a scene, but he wasn't worth it. Under my breath I said, “Don't say any fuckin' thing to me.”

He looked at his watch. It was two minutes to twelve. “Good morning to you as well.”

“After we leave here, let this be the last time I see you.” I still hadn't looked at him.

“I still have stuff at the apartment,” he said.

“Your things are by the door. The locks are being changed as we speak, so don't come up without a security guard.”

I signed my name so that we could see one of the bank representatives. He sat down first. I selected a seat that faced his, but was two people down. One would assume we were complete strangers.

From a distance you'd think that Damian was an upstanding guy. Sitting there in a suit and tie, he was looking as good as he could look. He almost seemed like an honest, hardworking family man, but evil comes in all shapes and sizes.

When we finished our transaction, the money was transferred from my account to one in his name. I signed the necessary paperwork and left the desk, without saying another word to the devil or the banker.

 

 

I walked through the door of my apartment and finally realized how much I had lost. I was without a man, a friend, a job, money, and my mind, all in just three days. There wasn't much else that I could lose. In the comfort of my own hiding place, I did what I wanted to do all day but was too much of a woman for Tommy, Mr. Motes, Damian or the banker to see—I cried. Mr. Velázquez, the handyman, came and changed the locks. I wished he could've done the same thing to my heart. I couldn't afford to have any intruders inside, messing things up more than they already were.

 

 

The only time I answered my house or cellular phone was when Nat or Savion called. Every other call went straight to my voicemail, which I vowed not to check until I returned from the Bahamas. I didn't want to hear what anyone had to say about what they heard on the air, or what they heard someone else say about what they heard.

I kept my hair appointment at Bob & Weave on Thursday afternoon. I didn't dare say too much in that place; it was gossip headquarters. Although the sign on the door read
Nothing goes back outside except you,
I didn't buy it. Not only Bob, but all those nosy heifers bought, sold, and traded secrets. I've heard them—“You tell me about Latrice's man, and I'll tell you who Mimi is pregnant from.” Hell no. If they didn't already know my business, they weren't going to hear it from me. I kept my head buried in an
Essence
magazine the entire time.

I treated myself to a $300 weave job, a manicure and pedicure, a facial, and five new outfits. I returned home a little after 9:00 and enjoyed a warm shower. I couldn't wait until 1:12 the following afternoon when I'd be on my way to a week away from my “American problems.” I finalized my packing and called Nat a little before midnight, promising her that I'd have fun, be free, and return rested.

As my head touched the pillow, the phone rang. “Hey, sexy,” I answered, thinking it was Savion returning my call.

“Damn, what a greeting,” Damian said. “Open the door. I'm outside.”

“Outside?” I sat up in bed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I'm glad to know that you're happy to hear from me.”

“I thought you were someone else, actually. I'm not opening the door, unless you have a police officer or the security guard from downstairs with you.”

“Are you serious, Sarai? I'm just here to get my stuff.”

I was scared. “I don't trust you.” I jumped out of bed to make sure the latches were on. I looked out of the peephole, and there he was. “I don't want you in here unless you have the security guard.”

“Come on, I just need my stuff, Sarai. I don't want any drama.”

“Hold on.” I ran back to my bedroom, grabbed my cellular, and called the security office. “I need one of you up to eleven twenty-seven right away.” I went back to the door. “I don't want any problems, Damian.” I tried to stall.

“I promise you.” He sounded like the man I used to know.

I sighed. “Damian, don't fuck with me.”

“Sarai, I'm only here for my stuff. There are things from my office that I need.”

I thought for a minute before I unlatched the locks and opened the door.

He stepped in and offered me his hand. I didn't take it. I just opened the door wide enough for him to walk in, and didn't close it all the way.

“This is all your stuff.” I pointed at the boxes and bags stacked neatly in the corner.

“Damn.” He smiled as he saw his things then looked at me. “I fucked up, huh?”

I couldn't say anything. This man was a totally new creature from the one I had been dealing with the past few days. He was insane. One could say that he was sampling the very goods he had young boys hustling for him.

“I'm sorry, Sarai.” He took a quick step toward me, and I flinched. He hung his head. “I didn't mean to do all those things to you that night.” He grabbed my hand. “I'm so sorry.” He kissed my hand, and I was close to begging him to stop all the talking. “I love you. Will you forgive me?”

I stared at him. The eyes that used to stare me down and undress me, the lips that heated my nights from head to toe, the ears that listened to my problems, the shoulders that held me up when I couldn't stand. “You're sleeping with my friend, Damian,” I said in a whisper. “You can't love me.”

“Sarai, this has nothing to do with not loving you.”

I still couldn't believe this. “What does it have to do with then?”

“You won't understand.” He continued to hold my hand. “Just know that I still love you.”

“The fact that you can't even explain why you did it makes it even worse.” I snatched my hand away.

“Don't do this.” He placed my hand back in his. “I don't care about India.”

I was in disbelief. “Obviously, you don't care about me either.”

“I'm sorry, baby.” He added, “I had my reasons.”

“I bet you did,” I said. “And I hope that they were worth it.”

“Please forgive me, Sarai.”

“Is everything all right in here?” The security guard pushed the door and walked in. “Everything okay?”

Damian looked at me. “Everything is fine.”

The man turned to me. “Is everything all right, ma'am?”

“No.” My words hurt my soul. “He needs help taking his things downstairs.”

Damian dropped my hand.

“Not a problem,” the guard said. “Are you ready?”

He was still staring at me. “I guess so.”

I couldn't sway, falter, or lean. I wasn't falling back into the trap. For whatever reason, this man was cheating on me, and I did nothing to deserve that. I looked at the guard. “Can you guys put everything in the hall and take it from there?” I smiled. “I was already in bed.”

“No problem at all,” the guard said and pointed. “Let's start with these things first.”

“Sarai.” Damian turned to me. “Why are you doing this?”

“For the same reasons you did what you did,” I said. “I'm tired of you.”

He actually looked sad. “Damn. So, I'm really out?”

“Where have you been these last couple of fuckin' days? I caught you screwing my friend, you've drained my bank account dry, and called me everything but a child of God,” I cried. “Yes, you're really out.”

I looked at the guard. “You might want to take his access pass. He doesn't live here anymore, and if he ever makes it to this door again, I'll see that you'll be looking for work just as I am.”

I looked back over at Damian. “That's right. Because of you, I'm on the unemployment line now. Our conversation was broadcast live on the air the other night, so I have nothing.” I faked a smile. “Nothing, including your sorry black ass.” I grabbed a bag full of clothing and threw it in the hallway. “Get your ass out of my face.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and watched them drag things into the hallway for the next five minutes, then I slammed the door and locked it behind me.

Damn, that felt good. I looked in the mirror and saw a new attitude growing already.
You go, girl.
I turned off my ringers and drank a glass of red wine to celebrate my new “bad-ass attitude” and calm my nerves enough to fall asleep.

“There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.”

—Robert A. Heinlein

Bank Statement # 5

 

 

 

“L
adies and gentlemen, I'd like to welcome you to the Bahamas,” the pilot announced.

The way the other passengers and I clapped after his words, you'd think that we just witnessed the capture of someone who was trying to hijack the plane. Everything happened for a reason, so I was ready for whatever was destined to become reality. The commercial says, “It's better in the Bahamas,” so I was planning to live by those words.

Pulling my luggage behind me, I was approached by a man walking into the airport. “Way you tink you goin' wit' all a dem bags?” He all but snatched the pull-cart from me. “Way you stayin'?”

I realized that I wasn't being mugged. He was a taxicab driver.

“At the Atlantis.” I tried to keep up with him.

“I shoulda know dat.” He looked me up and down. “You look like an Atlantis-type gal.”

He was old enough to be somebody's grandfather. He had better not even think about trying to turn on his rap. “What does an Atlantis girl look like?”

“Jus' like you.” He smiled and winked at me. “Sweet like suga', sassy, and sexy.”

“How far is the hotel? How much will the ride be?”

“Man, don' worry 'bout dat,” he said. “You suppose ta be on vacation.”

I checked my account balance before I boarded the plane; I had a little something to play with, but not much. My severance money was already spent. I wrote a check for $2,800 for two month's rent, $1,400 for the next two months of Daddy's nursing home care, and $1,100 to have my Expedition for two months. I also took care of a host of other things that Damian used to: cable, lights, Internet, phone, all of the utilities. I wanted him back just for these things and nothing more. I had two months to get it together and find another job, or Daddy and I would be living under the Rickenbacker Causeway, taking turns watching my repossessed vehicle drive by.

I was stressing. However, when the airport sliding doors opened, I almost forgot everything. “Wow.” I was awestruck when I stepped into the Bahamian atmosphere. The blue sky was sprinkled with milk-white fluffy clouds, and the sunbeams were accompanied by welcoming dark-brown faces and the scent of the not-too-distant ocean. “This is paradise.”

“This ain't paradise yet,” he said as he loaded my bags into his van. “Your hotel is on Paradise Island.”

He was right. I flew into Nassau, but was told that Paradise Island was across a bridge that connected the two.

During the thirty-minute ride, the taxi driver introduced himself as Ian Ambrister. He was sixty-six years old and had volunteered his services at discount rates or even free, if I'd meet him for drinks later that night.

I didn't want to hurt the old man, so I let him down by saying that my husband and kids were here since yesterday. It was nice that the friendliness continued after my confession, but the fifty dollars he charged told me that he wasn't mixing business with pleasure to the benefit of a married woman.

The Atlantis Hotel was modeled after the lost city of Atlantis, an island in the Atlantic Ocean said to have sunk beneath the sea during an earthquake. The designers of the resort went way out to re-create what the city must have looked like. They had me believing, and I was still standing outside. The enormous coral and teal building seemed to be cut straight from my dreams. I stared up at the structure as Ian unloaded my bags. I loved the mythical theme already. There were sculptures of sea horses, larger-than-life seashells, horses with wings, sea serpents, and swordfish carved into pillars on the outside.

Once inside, I was even more stunned. The marbled floor in the lobby was breathtaking. There were even more sculptures, and large murals based around the history of the lost city. To make it to the counter, Ian and I traveled past a pool-sized fountain with mythical creatures spitting crystal clear water. The surroundings were so elegant that I felt a bit out of place, knowing that my checking account would scream bloody murder if this trip hadn't already been paid for.

I approached the check-in counter and offered a smile back at the lady behind it. After I gave my name, she quickly did her job, telling me a little about the hotel, then sliding an envelope bearing two keys over the countertop to me. I felt like a princess, when I learned that my regal suite was in Royal Towers. I was ushered up to my seventh floor room by a bellman, who provided me with a five-minute presentation on the hotel. He made me aware of where things could be found, from the ice machine to the water slides located by the Beach Tower.

The suite was the largest I'd ever been in. The bedroom included a king-sized bed, armoire, plush chaise lounge, television, two walk-in closets, and a chair and desk. The far side of the bed was filled with pillows, and the bedspread was a real spread, not like most you see at hotels. In the bathroom, I found fresh flowers, slippers, and a bathrobe waiting for me. The toilet area was enclosed, and the shower and bathtub were separate. The living room area had a sleeper sofa, armchair, four-seat dinette, and a half-bath. My balcony towered over a lazy, river-styled pool, and just yards away was the Atlantic Ocean.

I walked onto the balcony and breathed in the cool ocean breeze as it rushed past me into the room. “All of this just for me?” I asked the wind.

It was around 6:00, and I knew that if I took a nap, I'd be in for the night. Instead, I turned on the television and flipped through the Bahamian cable channels. I was expecting some Caribbean flavor to greet me, but instead found MTV, VH1, BET. I felt like I was back home; I was even able to get the local Miami news. I refused to watch it.

Even though I was just 150 miles from home, I wanted to believe that I was light years away. I thumbed through the hotel guide and was interested in a lot of the activities, but I honestly didn't have the funds to go all out or to go out every night. My partying would have to be limited to the weekend, and after that I'd take on whatever entertainment was free.

At 8:00 p.m., I jumped up from my bath and into a dangerously sexy, red slip dress. I didn't know where I was going or what I was going to do, but I didn't fly all the way to the Bahamas to do nothing. I explored the hotel by foot—the many restaurants, bars, and stores—and decided to have dinner in the Café at The Great Hall of Waters. The restaurant was built on the inside of a humongous aquarium. The walls were glass and it was as though the fish, sharks, and stingrays were watching the patrons as we normally watched them in a tank.

Eating dinner alone was always uncomfortable, especially when surrounded by strangers who were laughing, talking, and mingling. I purposely positioned myself facing the glass, and a stingray swam close the entire time. He sensed my loneliness, and didn't leave the area until my jumbo lump crab cakes and Caribbean quesadillas were all gone.

Though the hotel had four different bars, I wanted to visit the one called The Beach Bar. The Beach Bar was—where else?—on the beach. With the moon shining brightly you could watch the waves crash a few feet away. I removed my heels and carried them in my hand. On my approach, I heard the steel drum band playing, and though my ears weren't familiar with the beat, my body moved as though it was. The open-air bar was crowded and noisy with conversation, music, and laughter. The air was crisp, clean, and sexy.

I sat at one of the only empty stools and dropped my shoes beneath me.

The bartender walked over to me. “I ain't even gon' ask you what you want.” She smiled. “I gon' give you what I think you need.”

“Okay.” I grinned.

All of the Bahamians I encountered were so friendly. I felt like I was a long-lost cousin returning home.

I sat patiently awaiting her return.

In a few minutes, she presented me with a drink in a martini glass. “Welcome to Atlantis.” She set the drink in front of me. “Enjoy your mango martini. It's on us.”

“Thank you.” I took a sip, and my eyes shot open. It was strong, but it was good.

As most of the couples danced offbeat to the steel drum music, I became envious, wishing I had someone to hold me close. Although I planned this trip as a private getaway, if Damian and I were still together, I would've called him that night and asked him to hop on a plane in the morning. The romantic ambiance had me feeling extra lonesome.

“Can I have another one?” I asked the bartender.

Within an hour, I had four mango martinis, and after the last one, I didn't care about not having a dance partner. I just jumped off the stool and shook my boom-boom in the midst of the couples and girlfriends dancing together. The drums were tantalizing. Every time the mallet hit the steel it struck a nerve that wouldn't allow people to stay seated. The rhythm of the waves rushing back and forth was an aphrodisiac.

I felt a hand touch my waist. “May I have this dance, darling?”

I did a one eighty and saw an older, black gentleman.
Why not?
“Sure,” I said.

He placed one hand on my waist, the other held my left hand, and we danced and twirled for a while before he invited me to have a drink with him at the bar.

“You sure gave me a workout,” he said as we sat down.

“I don't know,” I teased. “You gave me a run for my money.”

He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his forehead.

Now that we were in better lighting, I saw that he wasn't as old as I thought—maybe fifty, but not over fifty-five. The hair on his head was curly and sprinkled with gray, but his goatee was black. He was tall and thin, but had somewhat of a stomach hanging over his pants. How much?—I couldn't see his belt.

“I'm Conrad.” He held his hand out to me.

“Sarai,” I said as I took his hand.

He looked down at me. “Nice name.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. “Are you from the States?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He brought his barstool closer. “From the capital of California.”

“Oh, Los Angeles.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Isn't it L.A.?”

“Sacramento.” He smiled.

“Oh.” I was too buzzed to be embarrassed. “Now I know.”

“What are you drinking?”

I thought a second. “Mango martinis.”

He called the bartender over and ordered drinks. He was actually a good-looking older man. I could see that back in the day, Conrad might've been a dangerous dude to look at, but his sugar was a bit too old for my tea. However, when he pushed up his sleeve to check the time on his gold Cartier Pasha watch, he was looking more and more like my kind of man. Was he really checking the time or was he putting me in check?

I had witnessed India pay fifteen grand for a Cartier watch, so this brother was somebody, and I was about to find out who. “So what brings you to the Bahamas, Conrad?”

“Well, I come here three or four times a year.” He continued, “I do a little business here.”

“Oh yeah.” He put it out there, so I was going to inquire. “What do you do?”

He smiled big. “A little bit of everything.”

“Like?”

“Like everything I can,” he said. “And I do it well.”

I laughed. I didn't push him for more information. However, when my drink came and he started asking the questions, I left no stone unturned.

Something about him made my mouth hard to stop. I told him about my father, my brother, India and Damian, my job, and my websites.

By the time I was done with the second drink that he bought, the only thing he didn't know was my social security number. It felt good to vent, but at the same time I felt a little naked, revealing to a stranger that I was almost down to my last dime.

“Wow,” he said at the end of my made-for-television-movie-like life. “You've had a hell of a week then, huh?”

“I'd say.”

“Well, it can't get any worse.”

“It better not,” I said, smiling.

“So have you been pounding the pavement for another job?”

“Nope,” I answered. “I figured I'd do that after my vacation is over.” I didn't realize just how incredibly stupid my decision was until I heard myself say it. There was no reason I couldn't print a few copies of my resume and distribute them before leaving town. I tried to make it sound better. “I was still trying to get my mind right after everything that went on.”

“I hear you,” he said, “but you have bills to pay.”

“Well, my severance has me caught up for two months.” Lord, why was I talking my business to this man? And why was he so interested in it?

“I'm sure you know how hard it is to get into the broadcasting industry.” He paused to swallow his cognac. “Are you prepared to do something else, just in case you can't get back into it right away?”

“Yeah,” I lied. “I'll have to do something.” I paused. “Anything until I get a bite.”

“Are the websites productive enough to pay some of your bills?”

“Naw.” I frowned. “I need to advertise more. Until then, they barely pay the cable and light bills.”

He pushed over a napkin and pulled a pen from his pocket. “What are the website addresses?” he asked. “I'll see if I can get you some clients, and I have a friend who might be able to help you with advertising.” He looked at me as though he suddenly had an idea. “Actually, I have a few associates who are flying over tomorrow. I'm certain that one of them will be able to help you generate some business.”