Monday, July 26, 2010
The State of "Eh" Chapter 7
Chapter 7 - Miami (pt 10)
I'm sorry New York, as much as I love you, Miami became my favorite city a few years ago.
If it helps your feelings at all, NY, part of it is the flying time between the two of you. I can be in Miami for breakfast and still get to Brooklyn for, well....BREAKFAST.
If I was a cheating, double life leading woman, this would come in very handy indeed...to thwart my two families from ever finding out the horrible truth and destroying everyones lives.
Not that I've thought about doing that.
I only use the short distance for good. The beach, the food, the nightlife, the general Miaminess of it all.
I love that I don't have to be a driver to enjoy the city.
That I can lead a 24 hour life (us New Yorkers are so spoiled) and not have to readjust my tempo.
That I can go sit on the beach at 3am and walk back home, kicking sand all the way.
That I don't really have to put on any damn clothes.
I love Miami.
I've taken countless last minute flights out. The 9:45 to Fort Lauderdale and then the short, gorgeous ride in.
Did my round of the boutique hotels, The Raleigh becoming my favorite, but the Shore Clubs penthouse bonanza was exquisite.
Rented condos, stayed a while...rented delicious townhouses...
This story fell on an eve where the townhouse I had rented, suddenly seemed not as exciting as crashing a hotel.
Had I only just gone the 8 extra blocks...this wouldn't have happened.
I blame the mojitos.
I blame Tyson (not the actual Tyson, Tyson...)
This starts with people watching. As I always did, making my way to a different restaurant every night, kicking back at a street table, having a dinner, drinks, scrawling in my giant notepad.
I got to know all the waiters because they all asked me the same question, "What do you do?'
Always in the same terribly confused sweet tone.
"I see you come here all the time, never with anyone, you're so quiet! You just. Write!"
Maybe I write stuff.
"I write stuff". I would answer.
"Are you writing a book?"
"I hope so, otherwise all these extra pages are just completely useless" I would lick back quickly with a smile.
I didn't really pay for much. I really liked that. I'm pretty sure no one spit in my food either. That's a good thing. I used to work as a waitress and I used to--- that's another chapter...
One of those writing nights, I was enjoying an amazing salad at ..(I won't say the name of the place, but it rhymes with, "Shmews Shafay"...) when a God, made of God like material, walked up, pulled out the chair next to me, sat down and lit my cigarette.
Incidentally, I always have a cigarette hanging out of my mouth when writing. Like a truck driver. Or a moll (thanks for the vocab, Guy.)
I did what normal people would do (I've met some of them and picked up their habits.)
I jumped back, alarmed at first, then, upon looking up and seeing Jesus' halo, lean in and accept the flame. Of my new burning desire.
"You're jumpy." he said, laughing.
"I'm not-ack, ack, ack, ju-hum-ack--" I responded. His presence had made me forget the importance of separating the inhalation of smoke from talking. I just mashed them together with crap results.
"First cigarette?" said Black Jesus.
Oh, he's quick. This was going to be a problem. Too quick. I don't know how to... wait...yes I do.
I threw a side glance combined with a quick head nudge towards the cigarette burial grounds in the ashtray before replying, "Yes. Firsteen thousand cigarette. I almost got it down. Almost."
Ha, ha! POW! Right back at you! BAM! BAM! Whaaaataaaw! Take that joke! Take it! Uh, uh, uhhhhhhhhh....
He smiled. No verbal response. Just a smile. Oh, yeah. He's really good. If you can't defeat a joke, OR you know you could dismantle it's vertebrae, that's the right response. I had a feeling he was a joke chiropractor. Oooh. Chills.
I smiled back.
"I'm Tyson," he said.
"Jean." I held out my hand to meet his, happy to not receive the "kiss on the hand" crap, or the "limp fish" handshake. He greeted me like a normal person, with normal hand and arm muscles, that you would shake hands with. This is a big deal to me. Especially in my business, men tend to freak out at the introduction segment. 90% of them have no idea what's offensive or lame. He was spot on.
Good job Tyson.
"Can I sit?" he asked, touching the chair back gently.
"I don't know. Can you? How's your flexibility? I hope you don't have trouble sitting. I can't really.... we could ask for some sort of assistance, if you can--"
He was already sitting by the time I got to "flexibility."
We talked for hours...drank...talked... talked some more...drank some more...talked less...
The best part of it was the non awkward silence. We sat...and drank...and smiled. I smoked. He lit my cigarettes.
As romantic as this seems, let me say this...
We were fucked... up.. FUCKED. UP.
There is "fucked up" and then there is "fucked....UP." In that state, you're far beyond flashing people in a spring break moment. You're far beyond throwing up on a strangers shoes. Well, if you are a professional drinker. I consider myself a professional drinker. I know that I'm right in this sentiment, because other people consider me a professional drinker. It's not an actual job, but if it were, I would get hired and head up The Drinking Company. I would be The Drinking CEO. I would have board meetings and arrive late. They would understand. It was, after all, The Drinking Company.
I considered him a professional drinker. We were about 17 drinks in. Neither of us were sloppy. Again, impressed.
Around 4 hours later we came up with a terrific idea. We should go get a hotel room.
Now, like I said, I HAD a place I was staying. I had rented my regular townhouse. It had three separate floors. With three bedrooms. Clearly this was not enough space for us to stay in.
We should go to the... errr. It rhymes with "Shmagamore."
I chose this place for the poolside rooms. I would normally say something else, like the Delano, with great bungalows as well... but I was drunk. I didn't normally stay at the SHMAGAMORE. I think the one brain cell that may have been left, playing singular non ending "Pong" in my head, had come up with this idea. It figured that something stupid was going to happen and suggested a place I didn't necessarily have a need to go back to. Good job, lonely cell. Good. Job.
It was the only good decision I made that night.
to be continued.....