What makes me less of a man than one with a business card?
What makes you think that I don’t work my ass off just as hard?
Turning me away, not giving me the time of day, just because I can’t buy you diamonds every payday.
But then again . . . who the hell are you anyway?
You busted your ass in college, but what are you really doing with that knowledge?
Too busy being superficial to even acknowledge the fact that because I don’t walk around in Armani suits doesn’t make me less of a man in jeans and Timberland boots. It also doesn’t mean that I’m in cahoots with thugged-out fellas or selling illegal grassroots.
I work hard for things that I do not yet possess.
I work too hard to think about stopping to impress.
Not stressing myself to finesse the shallow valleys of your mind, because even in a perfect world, your third eye is blind.
Princess, why are you so unkind?
I see that my uniform gives you the blues.
Stop! And live life by your own views.
Stop being so . . . materialistic, antagonistic, unrealistic, pessimistic.
Enough of that bullshit.
Because for as long as I dwell there’s a story to tell.
And for as long as there is a heaven, there will be a hell. And for that long I will always be M-E-L.
I’m not mad because of who I am.
You’re mad because of who I am.
You’re mad because of who I’m not.
But I guarantee you that it’s the best I’ve got.
Goddess, if I wined you and dined you tonight, tomorrow you still wouldn’t allow it to be right.
It wouldn’t matter that for you I opened up doors.
All that’ll matter is the fact that I’m still sweeping floors and still can’t afford to take you to expensive stores.
You won’t take me seriously; you barely even know my name.
Once you learned about me, you didn’t even look at me the same.
I never claimed to be anything other than a man, so it’s all right if you don’t want to be a fan.
Girl, you have issues, so cry me a river with a box of tissues.
Don’t blame me because someone left you scarred.
It’s not my fault that the remainder of your heart is charred.
The words that I put here you’ll continue to disregard, and all this because I still don’t have a damn business card.
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.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize,” he said with a smile. “We’re even now. I just needed for you to know that men come in all shapes, sizes, and occupations.”
“I know.” I felt like I was being chastised.
“So will you have a seat?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. I just lowered my body onto the couch.
He smiled. “I don’t know exactly what your man does, but one thing is for sure, he has quite a woman.”
I blushed. “Thank you.” It took me a few seconds to realize that he was talking about Damian. “He doesn’t know that, though.”
“How do you know?”
I tried to get comfortable on the couch again. “Well, if he knew that, then we’d still be together.”
He smiled. “I’m not even gonna lie and say that I’m sorry to hear that. But I consider this an even better opportunity now.” He stood to his feet in front of me. “Let’s start over.” He extended his hand to me for the third time since I had first seen him. “Hello, my name is Tremel. My friends call me Mel, I’m twenty-seven years old, no kids, no girl, but I do have a job.” He continued, “I may not be the president of my own company, but what I do is legal.”
With my hand still in his, I looked up at him from the couch. “I’m Sarai. I have no nicknames, and I like it that way. I’m also twenty-seven years old with no children, no husband, and also no job.” I looked away and realized how stupid I was to still be judging him because of what he did for a living, when no one would even hire me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sarai.” He smiled. “May I buy you a drink?”
“A Coke would be fine.”
A few minutes later, he made his way back to me with two sodas, two straws, and two hours worth of conversation.
Born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, Tremel moved to Miami two years earlier when he encountered Cashes Jackson, an up-and-coming music producer who promised to showcase Tremel’s sexy yet melodic singing voice. Cashes guaranteed the moon and the stars above, and told Tremel that he had a deal just waiting to happen.
Once here, Tremel learned that the recording studio Cashes bragged about was just a closet with an old microphone in the basement of his house, and the only connections he had were to an underground radio station that people could only pick up while it was raining.
In Cleveland, he left behind family, friends, and a stable job at his father’s construction company to chase a dream that he still couldn’t build up the courage to believe had failed.
Not wanting to return to Ohio to announce his bad news, he took the first job he could, as a janitor at Northern Miami Middle School. He also maintained the lawn, painted, and did handiwork in the home of an elderly woman he met at church, in exchange for free lodging in a spare room at her house. He hoped to save enough money to buy time at a good quality recording studio and create an unbelievable demo to help turn his life around.
He sang twice a month at Vocalize, but he was showcasing himself. There was no money associated with his performances. His voice had been compared to Jahiem. His sexy appeal was like Ginuwine, but his lyrics were more the style of Brian McKnight. Though he was not ashamed about what he did for a living, it was not something that he wanted to do long-term. Until something else arose though, he’d do it happily.
It was a little after three in the morning, when Tremel walked me to my truck. “So after learning more about me,” he paused, “if I asked you for your number, what would you say?”
I grinned as we continued to walk. “I’d say that I don’t have a business card, but I could write it down on a piece of paper for you.”
“Hold up.” He stood still and pretended to be a girl. “You don’t have a business card? Oh hell naw.” He walked away, then ran back over to me laughing. “May I have your number?”
We reached the truck, and he handed me a pen and a receipt to write my number on. “When can I see you again?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t know what to say.
“Well, how about this Saturday?”
“Well, it is after midnight, so it’s Friday,” I said. “You mean tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess that is tomorrow.”
“Sounds good to me.” I smiled. “Where are we going?” I was almost afraid to ask.
He thought a while. “To a restaurant you’ll never forget.” He ushered me into the truck. “I’ll call you to get directions. I’ll pick you up around seven. Don’t wear anything fancy.” He closed my car door. “Drive safely.” He watched me until I got to the second light and made a left turn to head home.
My phone started ringing when I pulled into parking garage of my apartment. It was after three in the morning. “Who in the world . . .” I looked at the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
A female’s voice came over the phone. “Sarai?”
“Yes.” Then I thought. “Who is this?”
“I’m Stefani.” She paused. “Conrad’s secretary.”
“Oh, hi.” I had forgotten to call her. “I’m sorry. I totally forgot to call.”
“That’s all right. I was calling to find out how things went.” Then she added, “I know that the first time is always a little awkward.”
“Awkward isn’t the word,” I said. “But it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“Good,” she said. “And you collected two and one, right?”
It took me a minute to realize that she was talking about the money. “Yes, yes, I did.”
“All right,” she said. “Now that that’s out of the way, do you have any plans this coming week?”
“Why? What’s going on?”
I felt a million miles away from being one of Conrad’s girls, while I was out with Nat, and while Tremel and I were talking, I didn’t even remember Doctor Baker. Not until right now.
“Well, the Black Pastors’ Association is meeting in Richmond, Virginia. They want six girls there on Monday to stay until Thursday.”
“‘Black pastors’?” I couldn’t have heard her right.
“Yes, ma’am.” She laughed. “Believe me, we get calls from people you’d never expect. Do you want to go?”
I thought about the session with Doctor Baker and couldn’t imagine anything being worse. “Yeah, I’ll go.”
“All right. Let me go over some things with you,” Stefani said. “When we affiliate with churches or church groups, we operate with extra precautions. I’m faxing pictures and profiles of everyone that’s going.”
“You need a picture of me?”
“I have one of you.” She giggled. “By the pool in the Bahamas, taken by Mr. Johnson.”
“When did he do that?”
“Honey, he gets what he wants. Anyway, they’ll be calling to let me know who wants to see who. So, before they visit you in your room, I’ll have already secured the transaction via credit card. We charge the pastors two. Before he’s even there, you’ll get a call from me. If your phone doesn’t ring, then you don’t open your door,” she said. “If the transaction goes through okay, I’ll call, and you just have a good time. For every one, you’ll get fourteen deposited into your checking within two days.”
“All right.” I was overloaded with information.
“By the way, since our clients at times use other names to protect their privacy, you can do the same. Though they have your picture, you’re listed as a number, not a name, so you can give them whatever name you want to.”
“Okay.” I thought about the extra money. “So how am I getting there?”
“You’re flying out on Monday. I’ll call you tomorrow with the details.” She giggled. “In the meantime, just get packing. There is a lot of money to be made up there.”
; “Pastors, though?” I asked again.
“Yes, pastors,” she said. “One more thing—We don’t need you out of your room at all. We don’t want the good guys knowing anything or raising questions. Also, some of the men traveling are traveling with their wives, so this has to be on the down-low.” Stefani finished with, “Get your rest. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
“All right.” I couldn’t believe the conversation. “Bye.”
The next day, Nat couldn’t believe that I had gone from wanting to strangle Tremel to agreeing to have dinner with him. I couldn’t believe it either. He wanted to be more than a janitor, was actively striving to be more, and that made him even sexier to me.
When I told Nat that I’d be leaving town on Monday, I knew that she’d ask why. I had a lie waiting—“I sent a resume to a station in Richmond, and they want me to fly up for an interview.”
She believed me, wished me luck, and begged me to call her on Saturday after my date with Mel.
On Saturday, I was ready at 6:30. At first, I didn’t know what to wear. Tremel had called two hours prior for directions and said not to dress fancy, so I was hoping my black jeans and blue button-down shirt weren’t still too dressy.
I was nervous. I didn’t know what I was getting into, and because I wasn’t in charge of planning the evening, I wasn’t sure if I’d even allow myself to enjoy it.
When the security guard called to inform me that I had a visitor, I entertained the shallow idea of asking what type of car Tremel was driving, but I frowned on being so tacky.
I walked to the front of the building and was delightfully surprised to see Tremel leaning up against a newer-model silver Ford F-150.
He met me with a smile. “You look very nice.”
“Thank you,” I said.
He too was wearing jeans and a white polo shirt.
He rounded the truck and opened the door for me. In the seat sat a vibrant bouquet of plum and purple flowers: daisies, mini carnations, Monte casinos, and more.
I was in awe. “Thank you, Tremel.” I picked them up and turned to him, remembering that I told him my favorite color was purple. “Should I go up and put them in water?”
Going Broke Page 13
