Going Broke

by Trista Russell

  The temperature, water, and its movement felt so good. Nat was right; it was soothing.

  I don’t know exactly how long I was floating around and bobbing up and down, but boy, did I cry. I still hadn’t forgiven myself, and I wasn’t sure if I should.

  Since Tremel left, all I had managed to do was beat myself up. It took me up to now to realize that if living meant living without him, then that’s what I had to do. I was never the victim, but I fooled myself into thinking that I was, nursing invisible wounds and taking medicine for a heart that I had broken on my own.

  Finally, I started thinking realistically and not selfishly. Damn, what was in this water? It was like my tribulations had solidified and were floating on the waves. Though I could still see them, they didn’t seem so great anymore. Someday soon they’d crash upon a distant shore, and I prayed that they would never find me again. A white flag was waved, and the battle between my heart and mind was done.

  I plunged beneath the surface and returned to the top, like I had just been baptized. I ran into peace of mind somehow, and was ready to throw away the bottle of cologne that I used to fool myself with at night. It was time to let go. It was also time to stop Billie Holiday’s “Lover Man,” “Solitude,” “Them There Eyes,” “Crazy He Calls Me,” and “Good Morning, Heartache” from being the soundtrack of my life.

  The ending of a relationship is a lot like going broke. First it hits you, but you don’t believe that your funds could really be that low, so you call your bank’s automated system to confirm the balance. You’re more comfortable dealing with the computer, too embarrassed to talk to a live representative.

  Second, you hang out with your friends and pretend that all is well, but you’re really counting every penny, every drink, and hoping that the gas in your car will take you where you need to go.

  Third, by the time you decide what to do to help your financial situation, you have a negative balance and a bunch of overdraft charges, which means that whatever you do, any deposit you make will still go toward mistakes you made in the past.

  Nat and I had a very meaningful weekend. I couldn’t say thanks enough. It was exactly what I needed—time away from mourning. We had facials, massages, ate at ritzy restaurants, and had our hair done in the hotel’s salon by an old white lady, who turned us into a “black Laverne and Shirley.” We went in only for a wash, but Margaret insisted that she curl us too.

  On the elevator, we laughed and sang, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Sclemeel, schlemazel, Hasenfeffer incorporated.”

  Our dreams came true when we shook, combed, and hot curled those grandma curls out of our hair back in our room that Sunday afternoon. We reflected on our trip and agreed that it was the best time we had spent together in a very long while.

  During the two-hour ride back to Miami, we discussed the wedding. Nat and Nick were planning a winter wonderland, Christmas-themed wedding, set for Christmas Eve, one year from their engagement date. Nat asked me to use the drive to look through a bridesmaid’s catalog and tell her which of the seven I liked the best.

  Wine and black were her colors. I thought it was a great combination and knew that wine would work with my complexion. I turned the pages and found a dress that made me not want to turn anymore. It was a European satin, strapless, three-quarter-length dress with a two-inch ribbon tied at the natural waist. It was ivory, and the tie was black, but for Nat’s event it would be wine with a black tie.

  “This is the one.” I hit the page.

  She kept her hands on the wheel and looked over. “Great, that’s my favorite.” She focused on the road again. “I think I want y’all in those shoes too.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I looked at them. “But I can see me in that dress.”

  “Me too.” She smiled.

  We both went quiet long enough to hear the radio. I didn’t know what station she was listening to, but it had to go. Elton John’s “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” was playing.

  “Oh, hell naw.” I reached for the knob. “We need some soul up in here with another hour on the road, sistah.”

  I flipped through station after station, until I got to 99 JAMZ. A song had just started. It sounded familiar, and as the intro played, I told myself that it absolutely couldn’t be. My heart accelerated. I stared at the radio and waited until Tremel started to sing “Forgotten.”

  It’s been a while since I’ve been in this boat, but the one thing I remember, lady, is how to stay afloat.

  I tapped Nat and pointed at the radio repeatedly.

  Please don’t swim away, there’s something I have to say. Baby, you don’t have to respond, just don’t stop feeling our bond. You are something I thought only dreams would let be. I can’t remember my life prior to you and me.

  Right before the chorus I cried, “That’s Tremel!”

  “What?” Nat’s eyes grew big.

  “That’s Mel.” I was out of breath.

  “Are you serious?” She turned it up.

  “Yes.” I was smiling from ear to ear. “He did it.”

  I knew the words, but I was too excited to even sing the song.

  For a split second, I thought we were still together. I reached for my cell phone, but there was no number to dial. As I listened to the song, I remembered that it was written for and about me.

  After the song went off, the female radio personality spoke. “Yes, ladies, we have in the studio with us the newest addition to the Jump Records family, Tremel.” She paused. “How you doing today, sweetie?”

  “I’m all right. Thank you, guys, for having me.”

  “The pleasure is all mine. Believe that,” she flirted. “This song is tight to death. We played it for the first time three weeks ago, and now that’s all they want us to play. Congratulations, boo.”

  He had to be blushing. “Thank you.”

  “Did you write ‘Forgotten’?”

  “Yes, yes, I did.”

  “Okay, you know you just opened up a can of worms, right?” she asked.

  “Oh boy,” he responded jokingly. “Naw, what’s in the can?”

  “Since you wrote it, we ladies want to know—Who is it that you can’t forget?”

  There was silence, and my heart almost stopped.

  “Well, I actually wrote it for a friend of mine that was contemplating asking his girl to marry him.”

  “Did he ask her?”

  He laughed. “No. Things didn’t quite work out with them.”

  “Well, forget him,” she joked. “It worked out for you.”

  “It did, it did. I got a hit single out of it.”

  “You sure did, and I can’t wait to see the video.”

  “Is that right?” He sounded like he was flirting back.

  “That’s right,” she said in a sexy tone. “Actually, can I be the chick in the video? You know . . . the one who’ll give you something that won’t be forgotten.”

  “Whoa.” Tremel laughed. “Sure. I don’t see why not.”

  “Oh mama, I’m gonna be in his video.” She giggled. “What you doing after the video shoot, though? You wanna go half on a baby?”

  Her laugh sounded like a donkey. I was so annoyed.

  “Let me behave,” she continued. “I was told to ask you this by every woman that called the station when they heard you were coming. Are you married, engaged, or in a relationship, and are you accepting booty call applications?”

  “Wow.” He cracked up for a while then answered. “No, no, no, and it depends on how big the booty is.”

  I dashed to turn the station, but Nat intercepted and shot me a dirty look.

  “Ladies, if you think he looks good on the CD cover, you’ve got to see him live. You’ve gots to see what I’m seeing.” She took a deep breath, sighed, then continued, “Now I feel like Nelly. It’s gettin’ hot in here, Lord have mercy.” She changed the subject. “So how are you enjoying the South Florida weather?”

  “Well, I’m no stranger to Miami. I w
as living here until December. I lived here for two years.”

  “And you never called me?” she asked. “My booty is pretty big.”

  “It sure is.”

  She giggled. “Is there anyone here in South Florida you’d like to give a shout out to?”

  “Ah . . .” He thought for about two seconds. “I’d like to give a shout out to the Marlins, world champions. Job well done, guys.”

  There was a bunch of clapping, cheering, and shouting in the station for a few seconds.

  When everyone calmed down, he continued. “I’d also like to say hello to everyone at Northern Miami Middle School. Go Panthers.”

  “All right, Northern Miami Middle, y’all represent fa ya boy.”

  I could do a better job than she was doing. Why wasn’t I working there?

  “So I hear you’re going to be at Vocalize tonight doing your thing.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there doing some poetry.” He plugged himself. “Miami, come out and get into some spoken word at Vocalize on the beach.”

  “What time you want me there, baby?” she asked.

  He snickered again. “Doors will be opened at eight, and the first poet goes on at nine.”

  “All right, Miami, Y’all heard that? Give it up for Tremel, y’all. Go out and get the CD, TreMelody, at a music store near you. Also, get to club Vocalize on the beach tonight where Tremel will be going back to his poetry roots, so represent, Miami.” She paused. “It was very nice meeting you, Tremel.”

  “Likewise, I look forward to seeing your face in the place.”

  “No doubt.” She seemed to get louder. “All right, Miami. It’s five o’clock, which means I’m bouncing up out of here. See ya.”

  A commercial came on, and I felt like I wanted to feel on Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day. Although he wasn’t speaking directly to me, hearing his voice did something for me. There was a tiny part of my heartache that didn’t drift away in the Gulf of Mexico. I still missed him.

  Back at my complex, I traveled alone on the elevator and allowed myself to flirt with the idea that there might be a message from Tremel on my answering machine. Best-case scenario, he’d be waiting upstairs for me, willing to take me back.

  Everything I thought I had given up to the ocean flooded back into me as I turned the key to my apartment and walked in to find things just as I had left them. My messages? Two. They were both from Savion. He was doing okay and was just calling to say hello.

  “Damn, I can’t go back into this feeling-sorry-for-myself shit.” I was seeing the strength I built over the weekend melt away like snow. “I can’t stand this.”

  I sprung up from the sofa and walked over to the mirror. “I don’t even recognize you.” I really felt like I wasn’t myself anymore. I was a puppet, not of Tremel but of myself. I was allowing my emotions to pull my strings. “I have to get out of here.”

  After some fast ironing, a shower, and a sit-down makeup job, I did just that. I got the hell out of my apartment.

  It was 9:00, when I started driving the streets of Miami, looking for a place to go.

  At 11:00 I still didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do. The radio station made my search seem endless by choosing this hour to be their Whitney Houston hour. At the moment they were playing “Didn’t We Almost Have It All.” The song was a slap in my face, but I didn’t change the station. I toughened up and took it like a woman.

  Trying to avoid where I obviously wanted to go, which was club Vocalize, I traveled in the other direction. I feared that going there would make my lonely situation even worse.

  I drove around and around, trying to find a place to go. I was stuck in traffic on Washington Avenue, when Whitney sang that there was something on her mind. When Whitney asked where broken hearts go, I threw caution to the wind and made a U-turn. I knew where to take my broken heart. I was through denying it. I had to see Tremel in order to block the doorway to the insanity in my life.

  As I walked through the doors of Vocalize, Tremel’s face was the first thing I saw. He was on a poster outside the second set of doors. Seeing him made me nervous. I was trembling.

  I continued into the club, skipped the bar, and was glad to see the crowd of people. I wanted to see him, but I didn’t want him to see me.

  I asked a man if Tremel had performed yet, and he said, “no, Tremel is the last act.”

  I smiled and surprisingly found a vacant spot on a couch. There was an older man on stage reciting a poem about sex after age sixty. That’s exactly what everybody came to hear—Yeah, right.

  A few acts later, Twalik “Leroy” Abdul came to the stage draped in clothing from the Motherland. “All right, the next performer is probably the reason we don’t even have standing room in here tonight. You’ve had the opportunity to listen to his entire CD, TreMelody, before the show began. It is on sale at the front door as well.” He grinned. “If you don’t live under a rock, you’ve had to have heard the song “Forgotten” on the airwaves.”

  All the ladies screamed.

  “He may be a stranger to America, but he’s no stranger to us here at Vocalize. He’s come a long way, and we’re extremely proud of him.”

  My heart was beating like he had just said that Dr. Martin Luther King was found alive.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, sistahs and brothas, queens and kings, I present to some and introduce to others Mr. Tremel Colten.”

  The crowd went wild.

  “That’s right, y’all. Give it up. He deserves it.”

  I clapped my hands wildly, but I was too afraid to stand.

  When the crowd calmed down and took their seats again, I was staring hopelessly again at the love of my life. He looked better than I ever remembered he could—smoother skin, goatee trimmed, hair cut very low. His upper body looked even firmer; the black fitted shirt said it all.

  He adjusted the microphone stand. “What’s up, Miami? What’s up, Vocalize?”

  The crowd yelled back.

  “It’s great to be back. I’ve missed you, I’ve missed your energy, and I’ve missed the love that you have for me.” He looked out over the crowd. “Thank you for all the support, thank you for the support, and thank you for the support—I can’t say that enough. Thank you.” He smiled. “Y’all are probably tired of hearing me on the radio, so tonight I’m going back to my other love, poetry.”

  As the crowd clapped in appreciation of whatever he wanted to do, Tremel cleared his throat and took a sip of his water.

  Two tears in a bucket . . . and fuck it.

  Real women don’t do things that result in an apology.

  Even if they do, there is a proper methodology.

  My mother said, “If you make your bed hard, then lie in it.”

  Enough of your tears, your explanation, fuck that shit.

  Lies, lies, and more lies; I don’t need that shit.

  Stood by you, behind you, and in front if you wanted me to.

  Treated you like a queen, did things nobody else would do.

  I didn’t deserve what you did and how you did it to me.

  Left you ’cause you were keeping secrets from me.

  Left you ’cause you were sleeping with men that weren’t me.

  Left your ass ’cause you were making a damn fool out of me.

  Once! You only get to do that one time.

  Very convenient for you to confess to a crime everyone but me knew that you were committin’.

  You didn’t swallow, did you? You should’ve been spittin’.

  Oops! Did I offend you? Ask me if I care.

  Understand that I don’t hate you; I just don’t want you near.

  Still, the thought of you makes me upset.

  And I have to sing that song, so I won’t soon forget.

  Remember how I kissed you? Remember how we met?

  And remember how I said that you I’d never regret?

  I’ve changed my mind, and yes, this is my outlet.

  Everything I feel for you is no
w off of my chest.

  My mind is finally cleared, now my heart can rest.

  Even if you don’t hear me, I have just one request.

  Remember that this is the way you wanted things to be.

  You’re the one that really walked away . . . not me.

  He knew that I would show up, and once again he used the microphone and stage to humiliate me. His intention was to make me feel about as big as a mustard seed, and he had exceeded that.

  As the crowd roared and stood to their feet to praise Tremel, I stood too, but not to worship Mr. Colten. I walked toward the exit.

  Before I made it through the first set of doors, I was already in tears, so I dashed through them and into the bathroom. I landed in a stall, where I quietly let out my frustration.

  “I hate you, Tremel.” I wept and whispered to myself. He had just told about two hundred people all of my business, and I couldn’t appreciate the “art” in that.

  I was looking for closure, and I found it. I wanted nothing more than to slap the taste out of his mouth. The line between love and hate was on a diet. It got so thin that I hopped over it and ran.

  “I can’t stand you.”

  I wanted to punch the tile, but I’d look pretty dumb walking out of the restroom with a broken wrist. It took me fifteen minutes to count to one hundred, dry my tears, and contain myself enough to make it to my truck.

  As I walked down the sidewalk, people were staring at me like Tremel showed a poster-sized picture of me and told folks to avoid the whore. I sucked up my paranoia and almost ran to my truck when I saw it. I just wanted to get in, go home and call Nat to tell her that I wouldn’t mind if she collected the $200 loved ones received for turning in someone to the insane asylum.

  For a moment, I wondered if they’d give me the $200 if I presented myself as I walked in. “You’re so stupid,” I said to myself with a laugh.

  I deactivated my alarm, looked back at the club, knowing that it would probably be the last time I would ever see Tremel. I smiled and said, “It was nice knowing you.”

  When I opened the door, there was an assorted bouquet in shades of purple flowers on the driver’s side seat. My hands covered my mouth, and I let out a muted cry. I picked up the arrangement and read the card—I’d like to call a truce. Please meet me back inside to negotiate the terms. Tremel. They were the exact same words he captured me with.