Going Broke (8 page)

“Great.”

At one in the morning, the bartender rang the bell and announced, “Last call.”

“You want one more?” Conrad asked.

“No, I shouldn't.” I shook my head.

Checking his watch again, he swallowed what was left in his glass and said, “Let's go.”

I gave him a surprised look. “Where?”
Not to my room. No, sir.

He chuckled. “I'll walk you to your room.”

“That's okay,” I said. He was nice, but who could stand a fly that was buzzing too close? “I'll be fine.”

He looked me up and down. “No, you're not going to
be
fine. You already are.”

I bet that used to kill the ladies in the 1970s. “Thanks.” I pretended to blush. “But I'll make it to my room.”

“Can't a man be a gentleman anymore? It'll be my pleasure.”

I gave in. “Okay.”

“Which part are you staying in?”

“The Royal Towers,” I said proudly, like I didn't just confess to him that I was dead broke. “I'm in one of the regal suites.”

“Oh, okay,” he said as we began crossing the wooden bridge back to the hotel. “I'm in that part too.”

“What floor?”

“Nineteenth,” he said.

“Oh.”

Reading the hotel information earlier, I knew that the seventeenth through twenty-fourth floors were for the Royal Tower's Imperial Club members, a.k.a. big ballas. If I was paying twenty-five hundred for the week, I could only imagine what he had to pay for his room.

I couldn't hold out any longer. “Conrad, what do you do for a living?”

“Let's just say . . . I'm a person in a management position.”

I laughed. “What do you manage?”

“People,” he answered quickly.

“That doesn't tell me much, but I guess that's all you're going to say.”

He opened a door for me. “That's all that really matters.”

We talked and laughed all the way to the elevator. He was carrying my shoes and joked about how they looked like they could only be worn for five minutes before the corns started to cry. He walked me to my door and didn't invite himself in, try to kiss me, or even hug me before he said goodnight.

I was flattered.

He handed me my red heels, and I sauntered into my room alone, locking the door behind me. Those mango martinis had me feeling like the world was mine.

I went out on the balcony and just stood there with the wind in my tightly-sewn-in weave. I took a deep breath and realized that, in spite of all the things that had gone wrong, I was still alive. “Thank you.” I looked up at the sky.

 

 

“What?” I asked myself as I fought to open my eyes the next morning.

“Hello?” I grabbed the phone and pulled the covers from my head.

“Were you still asleep?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Conrad. I was wondering if you were having lunch alone.”

I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

“Eleven thirty,” he said. “I'm sorry about waking you up.”

“I didn't realize that it was so late.” I sat up in bed and stretched as I looked around the room.

“Go back to bed then.”

I thought of the free lunch offer. “No, no,” I said. “I need to get up.”

“All right. I'll meet you at the Lagoon Bar and Grill in an hour.”

“Where is that?”

“It's that dome-shaped thing, sort of like a merry-go-round.”

I knew exactly what he was talking about. “Oh, okay.”

“So I'll see you in an hour.” Then he added, “By the way, the guy I was talking to you about came in this morning. Actually, it's a few of them that came in. They'll be joining us. I hope you don't mind.”

I got nervous. “Well, maybe I should let you spend time with your friends. We can hook up later.”

“They're not friends. This is all about business,” he said. “It'll put your foot in the door as well,” he reminded me. “Remember those websites?—You might be able to get some help.”

“You mean advertising, right?” I didn't want a partner.

“Yeah.” He added, “Or even some financial backing.”

My eyes lit up. “I'll see you in an hour.”

I wasn't sure what to wear. After my shower I went through at least six outfits before I decided on an orange and yellow sundress. The thing I liked about it most was the low-cut front; it dipped into my cleavage, stopping right where my nipples would start. I buttered my skin with a shimmering lotion and curled my hair at the ends, swooping my bangs to the side, and watched my stunning creation unfold when I applied my makeup. Later, I slid on my orange sandals and was out the door.

It was a magnificent day. The sun seemed closer in the Bahamas than it did in Miami, but it wasn't a complaint, it was a blessing. The heat made me feel younger, sexier, and more carefree.

Instead of walking through the other buildings, I walked alongside the lagoon until I made it to the other side. As I stepped into the open-air restaurant and bar, I saw Conrad with not one or two men, but a group of four men. I stopped in my tracks and hoped that he wouldn't notice me turning to walk away.

“Sarai.”

As he yelled my name, I let out a painful sigh. “Sarai, we're over here, honey.”

Did he just call me honey?
I spun around with a fake smile and began walking toward the group.

When I approached, they all stood as he introduced me to them one by one. There was Richard from Atlanta, Julian out of Boston, and Thomas and Martin were both from Salt Lake City.

As I looked at the brothas, I wished I had a camera. They were all worthy of some type of praise. I introduced myself to them, stating that I was on the radio, but currently between stations. Before too many questions were asked, I transitioned into talking about youplanmytrip.com.

Julian asked a lot of questions about it, but he didn't seem overly interested.

After ordering and finishing our lunch to nonstop football talk, instead of steering the conversation more along the lines of business, preferably my business, Conrad continuously ordered drinks for me and the guys.

When the calypso band showed up, he kicked into party mode. “Sarai, show Julian those moves you put on me last night.”

“Excuse me?”

“On the dance floor, baby.” He laughed. “Show him those moves.”

I thought I would sink into the sand. “I'm not in the dancing mood right now.”

Julian looked at me. “Are you turning me down?”

I glared over at him. He was cute—No, the man was fine. He had the “Jason Taylor thing” going on—Tall, pecan tan, bald head, and lips that looked like someone had been sucking on them.

When he reached over the table for my hand and exposed his wedding band, I nearly spit into my martini.

“So are you gonna show me?”

I was disappointed, but I stood up. “I guess I can.”

Conrad winked at me and whispered.

Was this his way of helping me with my website? I thought I was coming to talk business to the guy, not bump and grind with him.

As Julian and I moved together, I watched Conrad at the table. Three girls, younger than me, strolled in and walked straight toward him like they knew him. They greeted him with hugs and kisses.

Before long they had Richard, Thomas, and Martin on the floor.

Conrad moved to the bar and just watched us. While moving his glass in a circle to stir his cognac, he smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.

“So how old are you?” Julian asked.

“Twenty-seven.” I asked, “You?”

“Thirty.” He moved closer to my ear. “So what are we doing tonight?” He was smiling like I was really supposed to have something planned.

“I wasn't aware that
we
were doing anything,” I joked. “I'm on vacation. What about you?”

“Well, I'm only here until tomorrow morning.”

“Why are you leaving so soon?”

“I was actually supposed to be in Fort Lauderdale at a convention. Today is the last day, and the only thing planned was a luncheon and a workshop that I attended earlier this year.” He pointed at Conrad. “When I learned that Rad was here, I hopped on the plane he sent for us.”

“So what do you guys do?”

“I do marketing for Jump Records.” He pointed at the others. “I just met those guys today.”

I was confused. “But you all know Conrad?”

“Yeah, he's the common denominator,” Julian said as we continued to move to the beat.

We did more talking than we did dancing. In a strong Bostonian accent he said that he was married, and had been for six years. He also had two boys, Julian Jr., who was three, and Kurt, who was just seven months.

Normally I couldn't stand to hear anyone with a Massachusetts accent even yawn, but he had me curious.

We left the dance floor and made our way out to the beach. It wasn't an intimate setting, but we sat side by side in the sand, the waves stopping just three or four feet away.

Julian talked like he had been living on a deserted island for months without conversation. I listened to him, offered my advice, and answered whenever he paused long enough. He was making money at Jump, but two restaurants that he opened had failed, and his wife had two miscarriages before getting pregnant with J.J. His mother was suffering from the same illness as my father, and he found himself in the middle of deciding if he should disconnect his sister from the life support machine keeping her alive. A month before, a car accident killed her husband and left her hanging on in a coma.

After hours of talking, Julian put his problems on hold and stood up, tossing rocks and shells at the water. They skimmed the surface a few times before falling to the bottom.

I thought that after revealing all that he did to me, the least I could do was make him smile. “I bet I can make mine skip more than yours.” I picked up a rock and tried. It didn't make it far from the shoreline.

“What a waste of energy.” He laughed and threw out another stone. “This is how it's done.”

For about fifteen minutes, he coached me. Before I knew it, I beat my record of no skips at all and finished out at three. The last one I threw so hard that I fell to my side on the sand.

He didn't bother picking me up. Instead, he sat in front of me. “So how about dinner tonight?”

I was speechless. The only thing I could do was blush. “Umm.” Didn't he just say that he was married with children? “Are you serious?”

He looked taken aback. “Yes.” He asked, “Are you playing hard to get?”

I thought it over. What else was I going to do tonight? Of course I was going to have dinner. At least tonight it wouldn't be with a stingray, and most importantly, I wouldn't have to pay for it. I was lucking out; my drinks the night before, my lunch today, and I was about to hit the dinner jackpot. “I'm not playing—I
am
hard to get.”

“Well, I'm up for the challenge,” he said. “Dinner?”

“Sure.” I smiled. “What time?”

“I'm on your watch.”

I looked down at my Timex. It was almost five in the evening. “How about eight?”

“Eight is great.” He stood up and helped me to my feet. “Where would you like to go?”

“I'm on your appetite,” I joked as I dusted the sand from my dress.

“How about we leave the resort and see what's out there?”

“I'm down, if you are.”

“I'll meet you in the lobby at eight then.” He smiled.

“Sounds like a plan.” I gathered my things from the beach and started off in the direction of the Royal Towers.

I then heard him say, “I'll let Conrad know.”

“Okay,” I said just to appease him. Why did he have to know? I certainly didn't want him joining us. I never even got a chance to mention to Julian that Conrad was a stranger to me, and I never asked him what help or advice he could offer me for my sites.
Oh well, I'd have all night to find that out.

“We can get over being poor, but it takes longer
to get over being ignorant.”

—Jane Sequichie Hifler

Bank Statement # 6

 

 

 

J
ust as I promised, I was in the lobby at eight. I checked myself out several times before leaving the room. I tooted my own horn—“Damn, you look good.” My Hershey's Kiss-colored skin, tight physique, and my form-fitting black strapless dress accentuated my long, black hair.

I couldn't help taking a deep breath, when Julian came around the corner wearing black slacks and a jacket over a pale yellow Oxford shirt. I was sure people thought we were a couple as we walked through the hotel.

Standing outside, I assumed we were waiting on a cab, but a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up instead. Apparently, Julian had made plans. He told the driver the name of the restaurant, and we were on our way.

He looked over at me. “You look very nice.”

His staring made me timid. I was trying to sit as close to the door as I could. “Thank you.” I blushed. “You're looking very dapper yourself.”

“I try,” he said.

Lord knows he didn't have to try very hard.

“Has anyone ever told you that you resemble that girl?” He couldn't remember her real name. He gave up and continued, “The one that played Bird on the movie
Soul Food
.”

I had heard that comment countless times before. “Yes. Nia Long.” I rolled my eyes, not because it wasn't a compliment, but because the last person to make reference to it was Damian. He thought it was cute to call me Birdie. “I'm taller, though.”

He was still looking at me. “I don't bite, ya know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you look like you're about to jump out of the car.” He lifted my hand from the seat. “Come over here.”

I slid across the seat and tried not to tense up as my shoulder touched his chest.

Being so close, I had to fight to create conversation until we arrived at our destination, a restaurant called Conchman's Den. The restaurant was the size of a small three-bedroom home; it actually looked like it used to be a house.

“Conrad told me about this place,” he said. “He said that it was great.”

“Really?” I looked at it and wondered if we had the right spot. The blue paint was chipping away from the building, and the door looked as though it would fall from the hinges the next time a car passed too closely.

“Shall we?” He gestured at the door.

“I guess.” I was afraid to touch the doorknob.

He had the same look on his face. “I guess.”

He opened the door, and when I entered, it did nothing more to impress me. Though the tables were covered with white plastic, I could tell that they weren't sturdy. My purse alone might send it crashing to the floor. Being the only patrons, we expected service right away, but it didn't seem like anyone was working. There was no hostess, and no waiter rushing to seat us. The noise of pots, pans, plates, and glasses touching each other, came from a room I assumed was the kitchen.

We stood talking for at least three minutes before someone came out.

“Oh, I sorry. I didn't hear nobody come in,” a pudgy, dark-skinned woman said as she emerged. “How y'all doing?”

“Just fine, thank you,” Julian answered.

“Falla me please.” The woman dried her hands on her apron. In passing, she hit a button on an old stereo, filling the room with the same type of Caribbean music Julian and I were shaking to earlier.

He pulled out my chair and sat across from me at the table.

“Here is da menu.” She placed paper menus with grease stains plastered over them before us.

I let mine fall to the table; I didn't want it to make contact with my fingers.

“My name is Sybil. Just holla fa me when y'all ready.”

When she walked away, Julian and I looked at each other and laughed.

“What in the hell did I get myself into?” he asked.

“What did you get
us
into?” I studied the menu. “Conchman's Den,” I read from the sheet.

“Sybil,” Julian called for her before she even made it to where she was going.

She turned around with a smile and returned to the table.

“What do you have to drink here?”

“What do you want?”

“I'm in the mood for a man's drink.” He smiled.

She winked at me. “What about the lady?”

“She wants a man's drink too.”

Sybil thought for a moment. “What about a Bahamian Rum Punch?”

“Will it put hair on my chest?” he asked.

She reached over and rubbed his bald head. “It'll even put hair on your head.”

“Bring it on then. Make one for her too.” Then he added, “A friend of mine told me to try your conch salad, so let us have two bowls of that to start with.”

As she walked away again, I was curious. “You ever had conch?”

“No,” he said. “What is it?”

I pointed at the beautiful shell housing the salt and pepper shakers. “It's the big snail-like creature that used to live in this shell.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, sir.” The Bahamas was close enough to Miami for me to be a little familiar with seafood. I had conch salad a few times, but never prepared by the hands of a native Bahamian.

After two glasses of rum punch and a bowl of the best conch salad I'd ever had, our main courses and third glass of punch were before us. We both ordered stuffed lobster, crab and rice, macaroni and cheese, and potato salad.

The food was so good that there was almost no talking while we ate. I was too busy studying the ingredients in everything so that I could have this experience again.

“Let's make a toast,” Julian spoke with a slight slur as he raised his almost-empty glass.

I did the same. “A toast to what?”

“To you, Sarai.” His alcohol was talking. “Thanks for listening to me go on and on earlier.”

“You don't have to thank me for that.”

As good-looking as he was, he could find any woman to sit in his face for three hours, and every word out of his lips would become the gospel according to St. Julian.

“I enjoyed our afternoon.” Then I added, “It was therapy for me.” I needed to feel that men were still attracted to me, were still interested in me, still willing to spend money on me, and still wanted to know what made me tick. “I needed that.”

He grabbed my hand and kissed it from across the table. “No, I needed this.”

I couldn't argue with his soft, moist lips.

Sybil approached the table, and he asked for the check. For putting her foot into the pot, Sybil got a twenty-five-dollar tip from Julian.

When we returned to the car, he asked the driver to take us to a club called Wet Dreams. We had warmed up to each other considerably over the past two hours, but I was astonished when he began moving his hand up and down my leg, taunting my bare flesh. “You are so sexy,” he said as he kissed the side of my neck. “Sexy, sexy Sarai.”

Though I was enjoying his touch, I was a little taken aback by his affection.

He looked me in the face. “I'm glad you made time for me tonight.”

“Made time for you?” I asked. “I didn't have anything else planned.”

“I guess Conrad had it all wrong then. He said that you might have been busy.”

“‘Conrad'? Conrad doesn't have the slightest idea who—”

His cellular phone started ringing. He looked at it and his eyes widened. “Damn.” He looked at me, and I could tell that he wondered for a second if I was one of those ghetto chicks that would purposely blow up his spot. “I need to get this.”

“Then get it.” I smiled.

“Hello?” he said. “Hi, honey. I was just about to call you.”

He stayed on the phone for about ten minutes. I wasn't about to get mad. How could I? He was almost a total stranger. I honestly didn't care, and couldn't be bothered by it. I just made myself comfy next to him.

It was his wife, and his entire conversation was one big lie. It made me think about the many times Damian said the same things to me.

First, he said that the meeting and luncheon ran longer than expected, then told her that he was in a cab heading from Miami back to his Fort Lauderdale hotel, and lastly, he said that he thought of skipping the luncheon and returning to Boston a day early, but his boss wasn't hearing it. The real joke would've been if she were at the hotel waiting on him. I would've loved to see him scramble to the airport, trying to get back into the country on the first thing smoking.

Keeping close company with a married man really wasn't my style. I felt a little guilty hearing him tell his wife all those things. He wasn't even in America, and she'd never know. Why are some men so evil? If I wasn't almost penniless, bored, and across international waters, I probably would've turned his fine ass down. I believed in karma—what you do to others will be served right back to you—I wasn't doing anything that night that I couldn't stand eating a big plateful of myself, I think.

“All right, baby. I love you too.”

Ironically, his hand was still rubbing my leg, but he stopped when he said those three little words. Did he think that pausing would validate his claim?

He looked at me. “Now back to you.”

“Welcome to Wet Dreams,” the driver said as he pulled up and stopped in front of the building.

“We're here already?” Julian asked.

“I actually took the long route,” the driver explained, “since I was supposed to be driving you from Miami to Fort Lauderdale.” Even the driver didn't mind being a partner in Julian's evil game of betrayal.

“Good looking out, man.” Julian was all smiles.

Wet Dreams was very wet indeed. The bar counter was an oversized rectangular fish tank, and so was the wall behind the bar. The dance floor was elevated. In fact, the steps led to the deck of a pirate ship, so it appeared that there was a party on the boat. With its sail high, the S.S. Wet Dreams had treasure chests sprinkled around it, and bogus rubies and diamonds embedded in the floor. The bow pointed to the entrance, and the stern was toward the back of the establishment.

Way atop the ship, where the lookout person would stand, was a machine blowing down fog. The club walls were covered with beige old-style maps, and along the walls were half-circle booths with glass-encased helms as tables. The lights in the club were shades of the ocean, and when the dizzy illuminations danced on the walls, they created the illusion of sparkling water.

Julian pointed at a vacant booth. “Are you going to be my first mate tonight?”

I blushed. “
No, soy el capitán
.” I loved saying the word captain in Spanish. I just haven't figured out why yet.

“
Bien, si usted es el capitán entonces yo soy el barco. Tómeme para un paseo
,” he said.

I gave him the ghetto stare. “What did you just say?”

“I said, ‘Well, if you're the captain, then I'm the boat. Take me for a ride.' ”

“Where did you learn Spanish?”

“My wife.”

“Where did she learn it?” I asked.

“Well, she's from Ecuador.”

His worth was depreciating. “No sistahs in Boston?” I mocked his accent.

“Plenty of black women in Boston, but I met and married her.” He seemed offended.

“I think I need a drink,” I said sarcastically. “Quick.”

I was the type of black woman he didn't want to have a conversation with on interracial relationships. Yes, I got angry when I saw it at the mall, at the movies, and on television. Yes, I allowed it to ruin my day. Yes, I wished I could snatch the brotha and scream, “Why?” And now that I was single again and would be looking for a good brotha soon, it angered me even more.

I said, “Let's have more rum punch.” But what I felt like saying was, “Give me more rum before I punch you.”

He made his way to the bar, and I used the opportunity to take deep breaths. One part of my brain was telling me to get over it because love was love. The other side was jealous that he hadn't chosen to share his life with a black woman.

All of the racial tension melted, when Beyoncé started singing about how crazy in love she was with Jay-Z.

By the time Julian returned with the drinks, I was standing, trying to shake my moneymaker like Beyoncé did in the video. “Oh oh, oh oh, oh oh, oh oh,” I sung. “Looking so crazy, ya love's got me looking, got me looking so crazy, ya love.”

I guess it was Beyoncé's night because right after that song, the DJ blasted “Baby Boy.” This was one of Damian's favorite songs; he loved Sean Paul.

I continued to jerk my body as Julian sat down behind me.

Seconds later, he pulled my body towards him. My butt had to be in his face.

I grabbed my drink and didn't miss a beat. “Baby boy, you stay on my mind. Baby boy, you are so damn fine. Baby boy, won't you be mine?”

Whenever I heard Sean Paul, Damian's face seemed inches away. I missed him dearly, I wanted him, and when I turned to face Julian, all I saw was my ex.

I continued to dance provocatively in front of him until the temptation smoldered.

His hands moved over the back of my body like they knew their way around, and in a moment I straddled him, and our lips found comfort in each other.

We never made it to the dance floor. In our booth, we created our own spectacle. People on the dance floor were watching us. Still facing him on his lap, I was moving like an angry snake, and he was licking, biting, and squeezing me like we were behind closed doors.