by Deidre Berry
“Wow, I haven’t heard that name in years,” I said. “But Jayson was my first love, so I’m single, and if he’s single . . . you never know.”
At that moment, Irwin came through the door supersloshed, hammered, drunk as the proverbial skunk.
Irwin saw me and slurred, “What the hell is this broke bitch doing up in here?”
And the lovefest began.
“That’s funny, because I was just about to ask the same thing about you, boo!” I said. “Enjoy your rough trade last night? Trade!”
“Hey, knock it off you two. It is way too early in the morning to be going at each other’s throats the way you tend to do.”
“Your so-called man started it,” I said. “With his trifling ass.” Irwin gave me the finger, and less than a minute later, he was crying.
“What the hell?” Kyle and I said at the same time.
Irwin slobbered and slurred his words, but was eventually able to get out that he was fired from Bergdorf’s men’s store the day before for sliding free merchandise to his buddies. He didn’t come home because he knew that Kyle would be mad at him.
“You’re damn right I’m mad!” Kyle said. “I told you to cut that shit out before those needy, greedy bastards ended up getting you fired, and now look!”
“I know. . . .” Irwin sobbed like a little boy who just got his butt whipped. “I’m sorry!”
I said my good-byes to Kyle and quickly got out of there before Kyle blew his top and the real fight got started.
I sympathized with them, but hell. I had my own problems. I had just been fired myself, and was once again back at square one.
The Fun Zone
The rest of my day was spent updating my resume, and registering at Internet jobs sites like Monster.com and CareerBuilder.com.
Afterward, I got the idea to track down some of my colleagues in the publishing industry. My hope was that at least one of them would hook me up with a job, or at least provide me with a lead or two, but it was rough going, because without my iPhone, I was lost.
There had been way more than four hundred contact listings stored in that phone, and now I had to sit for hours racking my brain trying to recall the names of my old college buddies and industry colleagues, and where they had last worked.
Between the white pages online and 411, I was able to round up the numbers of several folks I was sure would do me a favor if it was possible for them to do so.
I got on the horn, and after a few phone calls, I found it amazing and tragic that nobody was where they used to be. Melissa, Lee, and Lorraine had all respectively been let go from Conde Nast, Time Inc., and the New Yorker, and I had known a fair amount of folks at Cosmo Girl, Radar, and Men’s Vogue, which had recently ceased publication.
My beloved publishing industry appeared to be down for the count. The death knell had sounded, and it was all over except for the shouting. It was depressing. Kinda like witnessing the slow, agonizing death of a loved one, and there is nothing you can do about it.
The writing was on the wall: it was time to forge a new career path. But what? Writing was what I had gone to school for, and what I knew for sure that I could do well without hesitation.
Seeking answers, I took one of those online career assessment tests and the end result was: You are artistic, creative, and best suited for a career that will allow you to display your analytical and writing skills.... Hmm . . . Yathink?
Later that evening, I was in the living room yelling at the clueless woman on Wheel of Fortune who’d had the chance to solve two puzzles with a huge amount of money in the bank, but was wrong on both of them.
“It’s Rumpelstilskin, dummy! Say ‘R’ . . . ‘R’!”
The woman said “A,” was dead wrong, and ended up losing yet another puzzle.
Note to self: Check into getting on Wheel of Fortune. Potential for revenue—extraordinary!
At that moment, Vance walked through the door with Sydney in tow. He was home from work earlier than usual, and I couldn’t have been more embarrassed to be caught watching television and looking like a freeloading slacker.
To counteract any bad feelings or misconceptions, I told Vance everything that had transpired since I last saw him. Getting into it with Zoë and her goon squad, getting fired, and waking up to a rat staring me down over at Kyle’s place.
When I was done, Vance asked his daughter, “What do you think we should do to cheer Eva up, Syd?” Sydney put her forefinger to the side of her head and appeared to be giving it some deep thought. “Dave and Buster’s!” she said with such glee, you would have thought she just solved the economic crisis.
“Well, what do you say, Eva, do you want to go to Dave and Buster’s with us to have a little fun?”
Sydney looked up at me with enormous doe eyes, filled with so much hope.
And a little child shall lead them....
Dave & Buster’s in Times Square is an overpriced tourist trap if there ever was one. It reminded me of the arcades that used to be all the rage back in the 80s, before malls started going bankrupt and every household had its own gaming system like PlayStation and Nintendo.
It was my very first time at D&B, and I must admit that I loved the concept and the energy of the place. It was like an indoor carnival with decent food, jumbo-sized adult beverages, and all the latest games. Fun! Sydney, Vance, and I stuffed our faces with an assortment of junk food like bar burgers, Buffalo wings, and cheese sticks, and then hit the gaming area with a vengeance.
Vance supervised Sydney as she played Crazy 8’s and Dance Dance Revolution, while I was drawn to my old-school favorites like Donkey Kong and Ms. Pac-Man.
I felt almost like a kid again, running around sticking my power card in every game that looked like a good time. But, oh! I almost lost my mind when I saw the row of Skeeball machines.
“Ooh, Daddy, look at all those tickets she got!” Sydney said when she and Vance joined me, fifteen minutes into my hot streak. I was in my zone, rolling the Skeeball and hitting the $500 hole three and four times in a row. The machine was going crazy spitting out those yellow tickets.
“Eva’s all right, Sydney, but Daddy can get you way more tickets than that,” Vance teased.
“Uh, hello! In case you haven’t noticed, I’m kinda like a big deal over here,” I said, indicating the small crowd that had formed to watch me do my thing.
“Yeah, but you throw like a girl.” He laughed, doing his best to get under my skin. It was working.
“Is that a challenge?” I asked.
“Direct, and in your face, lady!”
I sighed. “Now why do you wanna embarrass yourself like that in public?”
“Don’t you know that me and Skeeball go back like fried bologna and government-cheese sandwiches?”
“Oh, yeah? Well, that’s nothing, because me and Skeeball go back like Jheri curls and Thriller jackets.”
“Ooh, you got me on that one!” I said, giving Vance a high five. “But c’mon and put your power card where your mouth is.”
I hated to do it, but Vance got his butt whipped two games in a row in front of his daughter. I felt so bad that I purposely let him win the next two so that he could redeem himself in Sydney’s eyes.
By the time we were finished playing, we had enough combined tickets for Sydney to go crazy over in the redemption center, as if she didn’t already have enough toys and stuffed animals.
“You guys make a good-looking family,” said the woman behind the redemption center counter, as she handed over a stuffed Shrek doll.
Vance and I looked at each other and laughed.
“We’re just friends,” I said, “and that’s his daughter, not mine.”
“Well, you can’t tell it just by looking at you,” the woman said knowingly, and winked.
What the hell is that for? I wanted to ask her, but quite honestly, it did almost feel like we were a family.
Especially once we got back home, and Sydney invited both Vance and me to watch her favorit
e DVD with her, Lady and the Tramp.
Again, how could I say no when she asked in such a sweet and endearing way? “I’m in, what about you?” I asked Vance, who was obviously also unable to refuse any request his daughter made because he was already setting up the DVD. “Of course,” he said, “anything for my princess.”
The three of us settled down on the couch with a bag of Act II popcorn. Vance and I on opposite ends of the couch, and Sydney in between us. When it came time for Scamp to take Lady out to dinner, Sydney looked up at me and said, “He gon’ give her summa his spaghetti, watch Eva!”
Awww . . . Heartmelt.com!
That night, I started to look at Vance in a different way. He wasn’t the boring, corny stuffed suit I thought that he was. Now that I had gotten to know him a bit better, I found him to be charming and sweet, and could see that he would make an excellent boyfriend. Not that I was interested. I’m just saying.
America’s Most Wanted
The following Saturday, Donovan was profiled on Most Wanted Fugitives. Sydney was with her mother, and Vance and I were just about to walk down to Nobu for a bite to eat, when he got a call on his cell phone to turn to the program. Vance was all over it. He pressed record on the DVR, jotted down notes from beginning to end, and periodically grunted his disapproval.
“Devious, calculating, genius, crook—that is how federal investigators and the Manhattan district attorney’s office describe Donovan J. Dorsey, who seems to have pulled off the perfect crime . . . ” said Simon Chandler, in that intense and earnest way of his. “Donovan Dorsey understood the odds. His mother was a short order cook at a popular soul food eatery in Harlem, and his father was never around. Despite the deck being stacked against him, Dorsey rose from humble beginnings to become one of Wall Street’s highest rollers. Dorsey lived a jet set lifestyle, and seemed to live only for the day. Now, Donovan Dorsey is accused of gaining the trust of hundreds of investors, then swindling them out of close to one-hundred million dollars. . . .”
Several of Donovan’s victims spoke on camera, and some in the shadows, about how the scam had negatively affected them and their financial futures, and what they wished would happen to Donovan as a result.
“One step ahead of the law, Dorsey cashed in his chips a couple of months ago, and said a hustler’s good-bye; fleeing the country with his gorgeous, longtime girlfriend. . . .”
They inserted a picture of me dancing on a table at Butter, back when it was one of the hottest spots in town. The photo was clearly from the private collection of someone who had known me personally, and I wondered which one of my former friends had so willingly provided the picture. Bitches.
“Eva Cantrell has since returned to the U.S., claiming no knowledge of Dorsey’s whereabouts or fraudulent activities—which certainly remains to be seen!” Simon said snidely, making me wish that I could reach through the television and choke him with his own black leather jacket. “. . . phone records have run cold, and the man that has wreaked financial devastation in the lives of so many has all but disappeared into thin air. America, let’s bring this scumbag to justice. If you know where Donovan Dorsey is hiding, please call 1-800-FUGITIVE. . . .
I didn’t appreciate having my name put in it, but overall, I thought it was a good piece. Donovan’s capture would be the first step toward clearing my name. Simon Chandler and MWF mean serious business, and once they put the word out on you, you are as good as got.
I was optimistic that it would be any day now.
Hi! My Name Is . . .
In her continued quest for emotional healing, Tameka joined a support group that called themselves Ladies in Transition.
“I’m telling you, Eva, those are some of the strongest women I have ever met in my life!” said Tameka, her eyes flashing with excitement. “You should come join us.”
And so I did, mainly because I was curious as to who and what was responsible for causing Tameka to do almost a complete one-eighty when it came to dealing with Jamal Senior. She no longer flew off the handle at the mere mention of his name, and there was no more crazy talk of “snapping” on his ass, even though he now had the audacity to question the paternity of Montell, their youngest son.
“Hello, my name is Sarah and I’m here because ever since I lost Charley, my life just hasn’t been the same!” sobbed the blond waif seated next to me. It was my very first Ladies in Transition meeting, and we were at the part where the facilitator goes around the room and makes everyone introduce themselves and tell how and why you came to be there.
I always hated that part. Especially back in high school when forty pairs of eyes bore through me, picking my appearance apart from the unflattering mushroom haircut that was my trademark to my corny, unfashionable outfit that Mama Nita swore there was nothing wrong with. Yes, hard to believe, but I was not the ultimate flyygirl back in my school days. I wanted to be, of course, but there was just no extra money for all that.
“Charley meant the world to me, and I just don’t know how to get past it—” The waif’s voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands as she burst into tears. A sympathetic chorus of “Ooohs” went around the room. Including Kate, our hostess, there were eight of us in the room. Women of various colors, races, and ages, seated in a circle on brown folding chairs, each of our faces displaying various degrees of distress and bewilderment.
None of us looked like we had anything in common other than the fact that we were “evolving,” moving from one stage in our lives and chartering new, unknown territory.
Kate crossed the room and draped a comforting arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “Oh, Sarah, we’re all so sorry to hear about Charley. . . .” Kate said, patting Sarah’s back in the same manner as if burping a baby.
While she took care of Sarah, Kate smiled at me, and nodded for me to continue with the introductions.
“Good evening, ladies, my name is Eva Cantrell and I’m here tonight for support in dealing with financial ruin caused by a recent breakup,” I said.
“Welcome, Eva, keep coming back!”
There were eight women in attendance that night, and it was an amazing and diverse group of women ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties and every color, race, and religion, but what we all had in common was that we were each struggling to overcome devastating personal hardships.
There was Irene who was dealing with the sudden, tragic death of her only daughter, and Bethany the hoarder who had a very hard time throwing anything away.
Tameka was there, as was Tiffany the pre-op transsexual, and Mitzi, who cried and carried on the entire time because just that day she and her hedge fund fiancé were forced to postpone their wedding indefinitely because of rumors that the recession was expected to deepen, and last for at least three more years.
When it comes to support groups, anyone can start one. There aren’t any required credentials or prerequisites, and there are no boards or committees to apply to. No. All you have to do is set some chairs in a circle and spread the word.
If you start it, they will come.
So in light of that, I didn’t quite know what to expect of the meeting, certainly no more than a bunch of women sitting around griping about their problems and crying on each other’s shoulders, but my first Ladies in Transition turned out to be more helpful than I had thought it would be.
Kate had brought in an expert who gave us all tips on how to start getting our lives back on track.
I took lots of notes, but what really stuck with me was:
1 ) Write down one area in your life, whether it is your finances, marriage, health, career, in which you feel insecure, uneasy, or frustrated. What one thing can you do right now to improve your situation? What can you do tomorrow and the next day?
Answer: Liquidate my few remaining assets, including chinchilla and diamond necklace.
2) Procrastination and fear often block our progress. What task have you been avoiding for at least a month? Why are you putting it off?
An
swer: Liquidating my few remaining assets, including chinchilla and diamond necklace. Why? Good question.
Recessionista
It was a frigid Thursday afternoon, and I had just left Dalyah on Fifty-eighth Street, where I sold the diamond necklace Donovan had given me for my birthday for three thousand dollars.
The jeweler had gotten over like a fat rat, but I couldn’t argue with the fact that the recession had hit so many people so hard that I wasn’t the only one trying to unload my baubles for extra cash. Dalyah’s display cases were filled with OPJ (Other People’s Jewelry), and I was told that there was plenty more of it in the back.
Still, I was happy to have gotten even that small amount of money, and next up for sale was the infamous chinchilla coat.
I was ashamed of the amount of time that it took me to come around, but the fur was the most expensive thing I had left over from my life with Donovan, and I had been reluctant to give it up for that very reason.
I guess you could say that the coat was my trump card and as long as I had it in my possession, I felt like I was somebody, even if in reality I was a poor somebody who was living in the guest “bedroom” of a man I hardly knew.
Plus, it was just time. Not only did I desperately need the money, but karma-wise, I needed a clean slate. The fur coat, the diamonds, the designer this and that—none of it ever truly belonged to me, because every last one of those things was bought with ill-gotten gains.
And bad karma was more than likely the reason why my entire set of Louis Vuitton luggage had been lost in transit, and I had completely given up hope that I would ever see any of it again.
Of course I hated to give it up, but there would be other furs. Ones that I would buy for myself, with my own hard-earned money.
