Going Broke (13 page)

When I was out of the shower, dressed and made up again, I had two thousand one hundred dollars in my hand. I didn't want to see Doctor Baker ever again, but I probably would, because I had just proven to myself that for the love of money I would do anything.

“The lack of money is the root of all evil.”

—George Bernard Shaw

Bank Statement # 9

 

 

 

I
t was 10:47 when I parked outside of Vocalize and dialed Nat's number. “Where are you?”

“At the club,” she shouted.

The noise in the background was deafening.

“Are you still coming?”

“I'm outside,” I said three times before she understood. I gave the man at the door my name. “Where are you, meaning where are you sitting?”

“Up front by the stage,” she yelled.

“Okay.” I opened the door and heard the jazz saxophonist wailing.

Vocalize wasn't that big. The maximum capacity had to be 100 people, and it looked like ninety-eight were already present. The bar was next to the door, so as I pushed my way through the crowd of about ten people, I was in front of it.

I ordered two Chocolatinis.

The wall murals of famous jazz musicians brought a smile to my soul. They made me remember my mother. The building was fashioned on a downward slope, like a theatre, so the stage was down below. There were five sections, each one a step lower than the next. There were three sofas in every section, with stylish coffee tables in front of them.

With the drinks, I carefully stepped down toward the front of the club, and the lights went down, leaving only the exit signs and the flicking candles on each table to light the way. “Damn,” I whispered.

“Sarai.”

I heard Nat's voice to my right, and made her out in the darkness. I rested the glasses on the table then took a seat. “I got
you
a drink.” We were sharing a couch with three other ladies.

She pointed at two other Chocolatinis already waiting there. “I got you a drink.”

We both laughed.

“Well, two apiece ain't ever killed anybody,” I said.

The saxophone player stopped, and the spotlight danced around the club. A tall, light-skinned guy graced the stage, wearing an orange dashiki and matching hat. He introduced himself as Twalik Abdul, the host. He knew good and well that his momma didn't name him anything like that.

Twalik, just as I thought he would, opened the show with a pro-black poem, with the usual message of reciprocity. He introduced the next poet, an overweight black woman named Wanda Kendall. She had it all together, and before she was halfway through, most of the crowd was on its feet. I'll probably always remember this line: “Between my legs you'll find nothing but treasure. Rub it the right way and watch it spit diamonds beyond measure.”

Twalik's presence, in a new dashiki between every act, was an absolute show-killer. I had finished both of my drinks and wanted to grab him from the stage and beat him until he admitted that his real name was Leroy.

“Can you all take what's up next?” Twalik asked the crowd.

The crowd roared the same answer they belted all night when he asked those types of stupid questions before each act. “Bring it on.”

“I don't think you can handle this brotha,” he said.

Once again the crowd roared, “Bring it on.”

“Our next poet is no stranger to the Vocalize family. He graces us with his talent once a week in either song or poetry.” He paused. “But a song is just a poem set to music, isn't that right?” He smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, sistahs and brothas, queens and kings, I present to some and introduce to others, Mister Tremel Colten.”

The crowd went wild more than they had for everyone else, but this time even Nat could barely contain herself. “Mel, do your thing, baby,” she yelled as he walked onto the stage wearing a beige shirt, black jeans, and boots.

“What's up, Vocalize? How y'all doing?” He smiled. “It's good to be back. I'd like to thank you all for coming back.” He cleared his throat. “Tonight I've decided to do a poem.”

There were sighs around the room.

“Come on, now. I have to rest my vocal chords. Maybe next Thursday I'll have a song ready.”

Applause filled the room.

I fought rolling my eyes. “I didn't know he was gonna be here,” I said to Nat.

“He's the one that gave me the free tickets,” she said.

I tried to look comfortable on the couch. He was just ten feet away. “He's probably no good.”

Nat smacked my leg. “Stop it.”

Tremel looked over the audience as he spoke. “I wrote this poem yesterday,” he said. “I ran into a situation that bothered me, and the only way out were these words.” He spotted Nat and gave her a little smile.

If he saw me, he didn't make it known. It was like I was just another part of the chair.

“The title of this piece is
Business Card
.”

My eyes widened. I felt like sinking beneath the floor.

He rested the microphone back into the cradle and paused for a few seconds.

When he started to speak, it was with such thunder that I jumped.

 

 

Everyone was on their feet clapping, screaming, ranting and raving. Everyone except me, of course.

I was almost in tears and embarrassed, as though he had shined the spotlight on me during his torture. I couldn't believe that he used this forum to get back at me. As if walking away while I was talking yesterday wasn't bad enough. He had to be the person that told Nat about the tickets and knew that if he convinced her to come, chances were I'd be there.

He was on stage holding up his hands like he had just won a boxing match. He looked down at me with what I perceived to be the most evil stare in the world. Then he walked behind the curtains with the audience still singing his praises.

When Nat sat down, she looked at me. “Wasn't Mel awesome?”

“Fuck Mel,” I said.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. “What in hell is wrong with you?”

“What's wrong with
me
?” I snapped. “What's wrong with
him
?”

“What?”

“That poem was about me.”

“What?” She looked confused. “How?”

“He asked me for my number at your party,” I said as I tried to keep my voice down. “I told him that I would take his number if he had a business card. And then yesterday when I was at the school, we exchanged words. If I knew that he had invited you here, there was no way I would've come.”

“Loosen up.” She shook me. “Smile.”

“Smile nothing.” I felt like running backstage and punching him.

“You must admit, though,” she said, “that was a tight poem.”

“Shut up.” I managed to smile. “It wouldn't be so tight if it was about you.”

There were two more acts after Mel, then a jazz band took the stage. The evening would've been delightful if Tremel had never been born.

About an hour into the band's set, the house lights came on, and everyone clapped and stood to leave.

Since we were parked on opposite ends of the street, Nat and I said goodbye in front of the club. As I approached my truck and saw yet another ticket on my windshield, I wanted to scream. There was no handicap sign, parking meter, or a no parking sign anywhere.

“What in the hell did I do this time?” I grabbed the paper and opened it—
I'd like to call a truce. Please meet me back inside to negotiate the terms. Tremel.
The word
please
was underlined.

“Ha!” I smiled and looked at the note. “Now you wanna be friends?” I crumpled the note, threw it over my shoulder, de-activated my alarm and opened the door. When I sat behind the wheel and slid my key in the ignition, I couldn't help but wonder what he wanted to say to me.

It was one in the morning, I wasn't sleepy, and I had nothing to do the next day, but for the life of me I wasn't giving in to Tremel after what he had just done to me. I turned the key and put the gearshift into drive. As I pulled onto the street, the club door swung open, and Tremel stepped out and ran into the street. I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting him.

He walked over to my window and leaned in. “So I take it that we're not signing the peace treaty tonight, huh?”

“I think that there was enough peace in your poem to set the world in motion.” I looked out of the front window. “Don't you?”

“No, I don't.” He laughed. “Would you please come inside?”

“Why? You have another poem?”

“No, but I have another side.” He paused. “There is more to me than what you think.”

“Is there really?” I chuckled sarcastically. “You could've fooled me.”

“You know what—” He pushed away from the vehicle. “I've never had to prove myself to anyone, and the fact that I have to do so to you says a lot about you.” He stepped away. “Have a good night.”

He walked back into the club, while I sat in my truck, watching him with my mouth open.

I was livid. “No, he didn't just walk away from a conversation with me again.”

I drove up the street and into a parking spot. Without caring about turning on my alarm, I slammed the door and marched like a madwoman back to Vocalize, grabbing the doorknob so hard I thought I'd crush it.

I looked to the left, then to the right and didn't see him. He wasn't in the lobby or at the bar. I stomped down towards the stage, but the area was empty.

I spotted the side door the performers trekked in and out of all night. If I had to go backstage to let him have it, I would. As I made my way to the door, I was stopped by a grip on my arm.

“Why do I have to push your buttons to get you to act right?” Tremel asked.

All the words I had for him disappeared, when he gestured for me to have a seat on the very same couch where Nat and I were seated moments before.

“Why did you do that to me?” I asked, still standing.

“Do what? What did I really do?”

My forehead wrinkled. “You humiliated me in front of all of those people.”

“Did I really?”

“Yes.”

“You and I were the only people who knew what that poem was about.” He continued, “That was your pride getting in the way, which is the same reason you wouldn't even talk to me—pride.”

“Whatever!” I wasn't about to confirm or deny his accusations. “You didn't have to do it like that.”

“Yes, I did,” he said. “It was important to me that you hear what I had to say.”

“Why?”

He chuckled. “Because you were so damn mean to me.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“How?” I asked.

“I saw you asking Miss Blake about me, and I guess when she told you more about me, you just lost interest. You just started treating a brotha like a straight-up scrub.”