Going Broke (11 page)

“Money is sharper than a sword.”

—Ashanti proverb

Bank Statement # 8

 

 

 

A
fter the episode in the bar on Sunday night, I felt bad enough to stay in my hotel room for the remainder of my vacation, but instead I vowed not to let this trip pass me by. Holding true to my words, I shopped on Bay Street, Cable Beach, and the Straw Market, hopped on a tour bus, dashed into taxicabs, and did a lot of walking. I was truly enjoying the tranquil island lifestyle. I even went back to Conchman's Den and devoured another bowl of conch salad. The only thing I regretted was my decision to walk through the hotel's casino. I thought that playing blackjack on my computer deemed me an expert—error! I was also cocky enough to play four hands at two hundred dollars apiece. So I donated eight hundred dollars to the Save the Atlantis Casino fund.

Needless to say, after such a loss I couldn't afford to do anything else. I was lonely, bored, and couldn't wait to get back home. I roamed the hotel like a homeless woman. I sat on the beach, window-shopped, did a little dancing and drinking at night, and ordered from the appetizer section of various menus. I met a lot of nice men, but none worthy of more than a handshake. The best part of the rest of my stay was not seeing Conrad again.

 

 

When the aircraft kissed the tarmac of the airport in Miami, I wanted to shout hallelujah. As I made my way through the airport, I hoped that Natalya wouldn't be fuming about the plane being two hours behind schedule. I entered the area where non-passengers were allowed to stand, and saw a huge, neon green sign reading:
STELLA, DID YOU GET YOUR GROOVE ON?
I nearly fainted. We joked about her doing that, but never in my wildest dreams did I believe her. I'm sure everyone wanted a glimpse of this crazy woman's friend.

As I approached the sign, it seemed like a billboard. “I am going to kill you.”

“Stella!” she shouted and dropped the sign. Her welcoming arms made their way around me instantaneously. “I've missed you.”

I had missed her too. “You are insane, Nat,” I joked. “I'm gonna roll that sign up and beat your ass.”

Shoulder to shoulder, we walked to the baggage claim area with me telling her about the Bahamas. Nat was always worried about me in some way or the other, so I left the Conrad, Julian, and Doctor Baker story out of the mix, at least for now. I also didn't want her knowing exactly how tight my money was. I couldn't ask her for help knowing that teachers didn't make anywhere near what they deserved.

I went on and on about the hotel, food, friendly folks, sunshine, water, and the breathtakingly beautiful scenery. She was in awe of the hotel, so most of her questions were in regards to it, and I was thankful. She and Nick had plans, so she dropped me off at my apartment complex.

I spent the next day, Saturday, getting my business affairs in order. I had three picnic baskets to create and nine trips to get information about. Picnictogo.com personalized picnic baskets with special items and colors to suit customers' requirements. Youplanmytrip.com was a site for lazy people with travel needs. It was designed for people who didn't have the time or just didn't want to visit twenty websites in search of the best travel deals. Using the Internet, I basically found the best airfare, hotel, and rental car rates. I even went beyond that by making dinner reservations, finding out theme park fees, and even researching the entertainment in town during the allotted travel time.

I also arranged to have extravagant floral arrangements waiting for wives and girlfriends at the hotel's front desk upon check-in. I made phone calls to airport shuttles or limousine companies to transport clients from the airport to the hotel or vice versa. The fee for me to research all this information was fifteen dollars, but if I went the next step and planned the trip, I earned ten percent of the price of the entire trip. The site was a gold mine; I just needed the right advertisement. But at the same time, I was afraid that if I advertised, I wouldn't be able to handle the workload alone.

My Sunday was spent updating my resumé. I inserted copies into professional portfolios and hit the South Florida streets early the next morning. It actually took me four days to drop my resumé off at every television and radio station from Key Largo to West Palm Beach. I didn't discriminate. I'd do country again. I was even willing to do classical or gospel. But I was hoping to get something at 99 Jamz or 103.5 The Beat. Even Y-100 would have been all right.

Two weeks went by without a single phone call regarding a job, so I decided to be assertive. I phoned the stations to ask about the various positions and reminded them that they had my resumé. My spirits were up, until one receptionist decided to keep it real with me. She told me that the recording of me cursing and carrying on at WBIG had been passed around from station to station via e-mail attachment over the past month. I was the laughing stock of the industry and didn't even know it. They had associated my face with the voice and looked at me without cracking a smile. I wasn't going to find a job anytime soon, and worst of all, I didn't have a plan B.

 

 

By the end of August, I was a nervous wreck. I had been out of work for a total of two months, and both websites combined offered a profit of a little over $700. I used the money to keep my truck a little longer, since it could very well turn into my residence; I didn't have enough money in the bank to pay my rent. No one really knew how bad it was for me, and with a constant smile on my face, no one had to know. I was surviving on chicken-flavored Maruchan Ramen Noodles and Wal-Mart brand cola. My cable was off. Whenever my phone rang, I was surprised that it was still on, and flirting with the customer service representative who accepted my electric bill payment helped out a lot.

The first day of Dade County public school rolled around, and I kept up with the old tradition of having flowers delivered to Nat in her classroom. This year I couldn't afford the normal $75 bouquet, so I opted for a dozen roses at $30. Instead of the additional $10 for delivery, I drove them there myself.

Traffic at 9:00 a.m. was the pits. School buses, parents, and people driving to work were everywhere. The parking lot was full. I didn't want to park across the street, so I pulled into a handicapped spot. I was only going to be a few minutes.

When I saw the crowd in the main office, I figured it'd take a while, so I sneaked past. I didn't want to wait thirty minutes for Nat to come down or for someone to become available to deliver the flowers to her classroom. I walked through the empty halls hoping that she was in the same room as the year before.

As I trotted up the stairs and entered the math section of the middle school, a voice startled me. “Can I help you?”

“No, I'm just dropping these off to a teacher,” I said quickly, not wanting to be kicked out by security.

“What room are you looking for?”

“Miss Blake's room,” I said, not even bothering to look over at the voice speaking to me.

“They changed her room,” he said. “She's in five-zero-six.”

“Thank you,” I said and looked up at the numbers, noticing that I was walking in the wrong direction.

“Hey,” he said. “Don't I know you?”

I looked over and saw him looking back. “Oh, hi.” I tried to remember his name and couldn't, so I just settled on, “How are you?”

“I'm fine,” he said. “Do you remember me?”

I knew that he was the guy in the phantom mask from Nat's party, but for the life of me, his name was a mystery. All I could recall was that he was a janitor. “Yes, I remember you.” I paused. “But your name I honestly can't put my finger on.”
That was over two months ago—Give me a break.

“Mel.” He extended his hand. “Tremel.”

“Nice seeing you again, Tremel.” I shook his hand. “Sarai.”

Although he held a can of cleaning spray in one hand and a rag draped over his shoulder, he was still handsome. He had a fresh haircut, his goatee was neatly trimmed, and his lips still looked as though they would say, “Kiss me,” at any given time. “I can show you where the classroom is if you want.”

“Sure.” I smiled. “Thank you.”

He was one step ahead of me, so I checked him out. I'm sure the middle school girls got a kick out of him being around, but even they wouldn't want to date a custodian, or even the custodian's son. His body looked even more toned than it did at the party. He had on navy pants and a light-blue shirt. All custodians got stuck with such awful colors, like their jobs aren't punishment enough.

Nat's classroom was right around the corner. He pointed at the number. “Five-zero-six.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Have a nice day.” He turned and walked away.

I said, “You too.” I thought sure he'd try his hand at getting my number like he had at the party.

When I opened the classroom door, thirty-three pairs of little eyes turned to me.

Nat looked over at what took their attention and grinned from ear to ear.

“Happy first day of school,” I said.

She walked toward me. “Class, this is my best friend, Miss Sarai Emery.”

I smiled at them and waved my hand.

She took the flowers. “Thank you.”

“Have a great first day, girl.” I kissed her cheek. “I won't hold you up. Go get your math on.”

She looked at the roses then looked back at me. “Thank you.” A tear fell from her eye, and to me that was worth more than a field of roses.

“Don't cry,” I whispered.

“I cry every year. You're just not around to see it.” She smiled.

“You're such a cornball.” I continued on like I was one of her students. “I love you, Miss Blake.”

“I love you too.”

For the next five minutes, I watched Nat talk about first day of school stuff with the kids, then I tiptoed out. I walked out of her classroom feeling like I had just won the “best friend of the year” award.

I rushed down the stairs and ran into the old familiar smell of school lunch. The odor was revolting. It smelled like fish sautéed in Pepto Bismol.
No wonder kids are so damn bad nowadays
. I held my breath and tried hard to walk and not run out of the lobby.

When I was finally close to the door, I heard a voice. “Excuse me.”

I turned around and saw Tremel approaching me.

“I don't mean to hold you up. I'm sure that your time is precious,” he said with a smile, “but you dropped these on the staircase.” He held up my keys.

“Thank you.” I didn't even realize that they were missing. “I guess I wasn't going anywhere, huh?”

He placed them in my hand. “Not until you went back up those stairs to get 'em.”

I was grateful. “Thanks a lot. That was very kind of you.”

He quickly took me back to the night we met and the comment I made to him. “All of this done by a man that has no business cards.” He surely did remember me. “Have a nice day,” he said.

“Wait.” I was utterly embarrassed. “Would you still like my number?”

“What? I suddenly meet your standards?” he asked without a smile. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

His demeanor threw me off. “I never said that you didn't meet my standards.”

“You didn't have to. Everything else you said that night did.” He smirked. “Or don't you remember?”

I played dumb. “No, I don't.”

“Oh, I see.” He smiled and started walking away backwards. “Well, if you don't remember, then I don't either.”

I flirted. “Well, if we both don't remember it, then why talk about it?”

“We won't.” He quickly turned and walked away.

I couldn't believe that he had just left me standing there. “You broke motherfucker,” I said under my breath then realized that I could've been talking about myself as well.

I stormed out of the main entrance like a bad student. I was so upset that it was hard to find my truck. Then I remembered that I had parked in the handicap spot, and when I did find it I was praying that it was just one that looked like mine.

I saw the beige ticket a mile away. “You've got to be fuckin' kidding.” I snatched the ticket from the windshield. “Ninety-five dollars.” This nightmare kept getting worse by the minute.

 

 

As I made it back into the apartment, the phone was ringing. The caller ID read:
UNKNOWN CALLER.
Over the past month I had learned enough to know that it was the student loan folks, Chase, Discover, or Sears.

I looked at the phone. “Thanks for the handout, y'all. 'Preciate it.” I tried to smile, but I was really flipping out inside.

The phone stopped ringing, and before I could get the sound out of my head it started again.

I was trying to balance my checkbook, but twenty minutes of constant on-and-off ringing, and the painful realization that I now only had three hundred and fifteen dollars in the bank, left me in tears. “Hello?” I said into the receiver.

“Ms. Emery?”

I asked sharply, “Who is this?”

“Well, hello to you too.”

“Who is this?” I didn't feel like playing games.

“This is Mr. Johnson. Conrad Johnson.”

“How in the hell did you get this number?”

“Whoa,” he said, “that's no way to greet a friend.”

I was still crying. “What do you want?”

“Are you okay? Is everything okay with your dad?”