|
|
|
|
July 10th, 2005
The week: Visting the trailer park with Martin, - Chickens, Goats, a Quarry, more trailers and horses than one can care for. Saw War of the Worlds and Dark water at Dolphin with Jose. - Why is my mother going to parties that even I have enough sense to avoid? - Chinese dinner in Gables, and and and… July 3rd, 2005
I’ve spent lots of time in the country near Pembroke Pines in the middle of the night. A soda machine at cemetery ate my dollar at 2am. Snaps. Other nighttime adventures include creepy houses in suburbia (you know who you are) and warehouse districts (with dog chases, seriously) Long, Long, midnight walks and discussions at FIU, Gables, and Little Havana. Oh, and bad movies. Oh, and impromptu parties on the expressway because it was shut down for a hour due to a rather nasty accident. June 26th, 2005 Roland: how was it June 19th, 2005
We carried our shoes and had our pants rolled up to our thighs and slushed down Alton Road. We all exchanged stupid grins – yes, the water was knee high. The girls tried to walk along a wall, but that didn’t work – we were late to the movie. - productivity (Somewhat) June 12th, 2005 It’s official. I’m a recluse. I haven’t seen anyone all week and haven’t gone out save a few more past-midnight adventures/walks through Little Havana, Riverside, and Downtown. (and even those are deplorably rare) I’m going to get mugged hardcore one of these days. I finished Ayn Rand’s “Atlas Shrugged” which is definitely one of the most important books I’ve ever read. So I’m halfway through summer and I’ve managed Atlas Shrugged, (1169 pages mind you), Truman Capote’s Biography, John Grisham’s “King of Torts”, and some short stories by Kafka. June 5th, 2005
- Two men slept on a faded yellow mattress in the breezeway of a shopping center on 17th Avenue. - A homeless man, who swore I spoke Spanish followed me a bit of a distance from 16th Avenue to 12th, shrieking. I stopped and glared at him. He stopped, stared, and continued rattling off in Spanish. - An old Ricky Martin song could be heard from the closed metal screens of the dollar store. When I passed it again a half hour later they were playing Reggaeton. (impromptu party?) - More drug deals and prostitutes going around the neighborhood than I care to remember. Why to prostitutes always ask for a cigarette? - this week: work, no exercise (alas!), Coors nonalcoholic May 29th, 2005
While driving through Rosewood: “Arguments can be endearing and I’m thrilled beyond belief,” he said. We all looked at him like he was a moron. (At that moment he was). “So anyway,” I said, “Taco Bell right?” The fire taken from his speech, he pouted in the corner. Everyone else in the car was laughing. “Right.” May 22nd, 2005
Linda, JHR, and I left the club in silence and got into JHR’s car. He nervously turned on the radio but didn’t say anything. He sensed the tension. We all did. She sat in the front and I sat behind JHR in the back. No one talked. Ciara’s “Oh” was on the radio. After about five songs she adjusted her top, tossed her pencil-straight brown hair out of her face and turned back to me. “I forgive you,” she said. I hadn’t said anything and I didn’t now. I responded with a smile. Ciara’s “Oh” came on again on another station. We all danced in the car and sang. O– never makes sense when she’s drunk. May 15th, 2005
I was out of the door early and over the bridge within minutes of my phone going off – it was still dark. I jogged through Little Havana past dark coin laundries and cafeterias and climbed the hill that leads up to the Flagler bridge since last night’s junkies still occupied the stairs. To the left of the bridge a condemned turn-of-the-century mid-rise was perched on the river; to the right the raw beams of an unfinished condominium high-rise. Within a few months the mid-rise will be leveled and replaced with similar beams. The city’s skyline appeared as I reached the top of the bridge. It was just like the glamorized shots of the city on TV. Down the bridge and under the expressway – I entered downtown. I approached the courthouse and the Starbucks. Both were still closed but would spring to life in a couple of hours. In front of Starbucks a day worker was passed out on his back middle of the sidewalk still reeking of alcohol. One of his legs rested on an overturned black crate – probably what he sat on before succumbing to exhaustion and smacking on the ground. I wasn’t sure if he was alive as I approached in a slow jog until he licked his mustache and belched, moving the dirty black cap still firmly attached to his head. I trotted around him trying unsuccessfully not to breathe in the funk. Flocks of homeless sleep on downtown’s covered sidewalks in long, neat rows. Even when the nighttime temperature hovers in the 70’s they still wrap their bodies in layers of dirty blankets, like rows of corpses hiding from an omnipresent winter. As I jogged past one of these rows of corpses the sight of chunky skater shoes made me stop. A boy around was lying in the row of bodies. Unlike the others he was not wrapped in a blanket. He laid on the sidewalk relaxed, legs crossed, with his head resting against the marble façade of the bank. He shifted his weight a little, but kept his dirty orange cap over his face. Who is this boy, my age? - A few homeless people watched me as I crossed Biscayne Boulevard. - An old Cuban guy who was almost-speed-walking around the fountain shot me a glare. I bet he thought I was another wino. - There will be a day when I can’t do this anymore. - Daylight escorted me over the bridge and through Little Havana. Four elderly Hispanic men waited impatiently outside of a coin laundry with large white sacks. One wearing short slacks and dress shoes began singing something in Spanish. - The neighborhood was awake – people stood outside of houses chattering away in Spanish, a young man stumbled past me probably returning home from whomever’s house last night ended at. As I approached 6th avenue a stocky guy in his mid 30’s asked me if I had a pipe. On 12th Avenue old women with short curly hair opened up Café con leche stands and dollar stores. The sun had almost risen. I crossed into Allahpattah by the 12th avenue bridge. As I went down the stairs on the side of the bridge, the bridge attendant opened his door and shot me a nasty look. He probably was convinced I was another bum trying to camp out under his bridge. Why am I always mistaken for homeless people? I smiled at him and passed the gate with a bit of a skip. He scoffed and slammed his door. I didn’t go to my apartment, I went to my car. The sun rose over Miami as my tiny, old Celica zipped over the expressway. I was bound for the Hialeah Wal-Mart. (e-yeah!) - The faint clunk of Reaggeton from some distant speaker could be heard. The day had officially started. Welcome to Hia-leah! |
|
Copyright © 2012 Dennis Jansen – The Official Website - All Rights Reserved |
|
