05: MIAMI

 People sometimes speak of energy and aura as characteristics of physics relating to personality. You may be skeptical of such things. In uncertain circumstances, I would be too. But I have always had an interest in the mystical, and prophecy and the occult I am no stranger to. So when a man sitting next to me at a sandwich counter in Santa Monica offered to read my Tarot Cards, I looked twice before finally deciding to indulge him.
 This particular seer was an old hippie-- or, more accurately (as he put it), an original hippie. I didn't doubt it, he looked like a familiar sight from the nearby Venice scene. He had years of hard weather beaten upon his face, evidence of decades of exposure to the sun. I gathered he must have been a mature man when the Age of Aquarius was in it's infancy, and it was he and his vanguard peers who helped to foster it along.
 He had a youthful energy that encircled his frail body, which sometimes made him seem like a stuttering fool. Other times he was a venerable king from an era long lost harboring sacred knowledge, struggling to survive in underground secrecy. He was a true hippie, one of a movement before it became a social trend of hairstyles and fashion. Those things were worn for protest, to not be a part of a group. He made it clear how the time got misconstrued when it became a public arena.
 Having said that, he asked if he could read my cards.
 "I was minding my own business, and then you came and sat down, and I could feel your energy. You have a very strong aura."
 "Really?" I replied, flattered. I had heard that before, from some other "attuned" people, but I wondered if that was just a come-on they use to get you in the seat.
 "Do you mind, may I? Would you care to cut the deck?"
 Seeing he had no financial interest in it, and finding him quite articulate, I agreed. So I cut the deck and he laid the picture cards out before me and studied them with intensity.
 It started rather routinely as we touched on the material and daily issues such as career, and the state of my relationship with Amanda. It was all hinted at and provoked upon the way the mystical sciences cause introspective thought to the insightful of it. He even alleged to Yvette, the temptress, from what he witnessed in the portraiture. In this foreplay I judged him to be as accurate a reader of the symbolic representations that I might find. I watched and listened closer as he turned over more cards to delve deeper into the spiritual.
 Surprise registered on his face as his eyes darted back and forth. He stopped and looked into my eyes, to confirm what he had now seen in the cards. He was suddenly beholden to me as he stopped to speak.
 "You're going on a long journey," he said, "and you have a great message to tell."
 "Really?" I got excited at the prospect of what he hinted at. I loved to travel, and with Amanda on her way to Mazatlan I could be open to anything. But I didn't know I had any pending travel plans. I knew not to expect a fully intelligible answer, but I had to press for details. "Where to?"
 "Lots of places. Take just what you need, leave the rest. You'll know it's over when you get..." eyes squinting, he searched deeper in the mire for the answer, "...Someplace where... You won't need to talk to anyone. Your message will be heard, but your words will not be spoken."
 Sounded more like a riddle than a trip. Maybe he was speaking of my film; that was a long journey, with a message to tell. I liked what I was hearing, so I didn't debate the matter. It was way better than him telling me I was going to a face a watery death, die in an airplane crash, or something scary like that.
 "Sounds great, when do I begin?"
 He looked at me, throwing the ball back in my court.
 "Whenever you're ready," was all he said, with a wry smile like he had my bags packed and in the car, and he was going to drive.
 Only it wasn't he who was driving, it was Craig, my film editing buddy from the Morrison. That's the funny thing about predictions, which mars their credibility; the lack of temporal definition. A few weeks had elapsed now since I had my fortune told, and the encounter with the old hippie was dismissed as nothing more than an entertaining lunch.
 The cast was recently taken off my leg, and I was undergoing rehabilitation at a facility in Venice. The last of my things were out of Amanda's garage, and I was holed-up with Steve-O and Willie-Mac now. I could feel change on the horizon.
 I had been in contact with Welder through his global paging system. He was based out of New York, but flying back and forth to California and all over the country doing jobs. He called me from a hotel in Nashville, where he was shooting a country music video with Rudolfo. I told him what had been going on.
 "I got my cast off, if you have any work. You coming to L.A.?"
 "Not anytime soon, as far as I can tell. If you can get yourself to Miami, I have a music video Tuesday and Wednesday. You can come on as a local."
 I thought about it for a moment, didn't say anything. Working as a local meant absorbing all costs of travel and expenses, not making the production liable for them. I did want to get out of town and make a clean break, and was due for a stop-over back east. Craig had been asking for a volunteer to make a cross-country road trip with him; he had a job as a production assistant on a film in Tampa. If I could synch the timing, I might be able to make it work.
 "You gonna do it?!" Mark asked, excited. He couldn't believe I would, but he knew me better than that. So he dared me to.   
 "I'll tell you what-- you think about it. If you can get yourself there, the spot is open, and you can crash at my hotel. I can probably get them to pay you cash."
 Craig was willing to help accommodate my plans. We had become quite familiar, bonding on the film issues and such, though we came from diversely different backgrounds. He was a tinseltown baby, the unwitting product of his environment. He grew up in L.A., and his parents were both prominent actors in the business. Dad was a big-screen heartthrob of yesteryear who had more recently graduated to episodic television, finding continuing success there. Mom made her name on the stage, and now also was doing TV.
 That kind of upbringing has a lot of perks; especially if you're interested in a career in Hollywood. Being born into a showbusiness family has a certain legacy, which translates to "in-roads at the ready." There's also a downside, that isn't always apparent. For Craig, as a child, he was tossed around like a bean-bag between his parents divorce. Nothing unique, except he couldn't remember ever seeing his parents happy together, save for in a movie; it was the film that they met on and fell in love.
 We all had issues, maybe I was there in Hollywood because I didn't see my family on television. I think Craig was troubled because he did. I liked Craig and felt that we had a lot in common. We had similar goals with different ideas about how to get there; the contrast would make for an interesting trip.
 We left California early the next afternoon. By the time I arrived at Craig's, the car was already loaded. It looked like he was moving for good. How he got everything into a 1982 Jaguar coupe including a futon, and still had room left over for me is still a mystery. When he said he was only bringing the bare necessities, I didn't realize that that included over two-hundred compact disc selections. That was one of the typical, obvious differences between Craig and I-- our definition of "bare necessities." He made my eccentricities seem normal by comparison.
 It wasn't long before we were joined by Christina, our one-woman tailgate party. We were going in convoy-- she would follow a few car lengths behind us for our journey, or so we hoped. The little Geo was giving everything it had to keep up with the white Jag. Why she had joined us, I had yet to comprehend.
 Craig filled me in on her details. She was headed back to Orlando, from where she left for California only months ago. She had driven out with a friend, who decided to make L.A. her home. Christina had gotten a taste of the lifestyle, and opted to pass on it, and leave before it really affected her. I thought it was a very wise move, maybe the best decision she would ever make. This place does something to people that has the potential to make them ugly.
 She was an Ivory girl, a pin-up centerfold, all-American. Radiant, with a wholesomeness. I fantasized about her, but with her I was not doing the reprehensible things the other girls did. No, with her I would be doing generic American dream things, ideas we saw in Norman Rockwell paintings and heard about in the President's Address every year.
 She and Craig had dated recently, and it was said that the interest didn't really develop to any extent. She seemed too smart and simple to get mixed up in Craig's perplexing affairs. Nevertheless, she was along for the ride, and would prove to be a welcome relief from Craig's sometime occasion to be overbearing.
 Viciously, Craig would riff on her as we watched her bop her head to some unheard beat through the rear-view mirror, always a car length behind.
 "Let's see if the little Geo can keep up with this!" he'd say as he punched the pedal, and the retrofitted Chevy 350 under the hood responded with enthusiasm. The white Jag propelled forward swimmingly, even with the encumbered weight of our cargo.
 Craig had a speed thing. I could see the sparkle in his eye as he watched in the rear-view mirror as the little blue blob a few paces behind turned into a tiny speck on the horizon. A broad, toothy smile stretched across his face the whole time. When she finally disappeared from sight, he would let out a hearty laugh as he half-interestedly sought my approval. I refused to condone the action, but I laughed, as I could not deny the humor of the situation. Then sure enough, as we regained our breath, the little speck would soon be pulling up alongside us, Christina casting a "ha-ha funny" glance and a twisted, yet forgiving smile.
  It was like this the first 1500 miles as we blazed a trail through the deserts of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, and Bono wept his way through Achtung Baby every 300 miles. Despite the fact that there were 199 other verifiably eligible selections, there was not a thing I could do about it.
 Smoke streamed from the tires as they met every inch of asphalt from here to Dallas. All we saw was roadside signs and changing landscapes, like photographic panoramic trans-light backgrounds found in the studios. I was glad to be moving away from there. My senses came alive as the topography unfolded, and we traversed geographic changes, and "talked of things that we can't explain, as we moved in mysterious ways, and tried to throw our arms around the world."

*****

 I later came to find myself alone in a diner in Texas, searching the menu for a vegetarian selection. I was surprised at how easy it came-- not eating meat. Surprising, since Amanda wasn't around to bother me about it. I just found it less and less appealing, and felt better about it because it was my choice.
 I was waiting for Christina, and dearly hoping that she would find room for me in her agenda before she pressed on to Orlando. There wasn't a whole lot I could do in Lubbock with forty dollars in my pocket. Craig had left for Shreeveport early this morning, where he had some personal business to attend to. I left a message at Christina's mom's house that she could find me at the T-Bone Diner on Highway 109.
 That was how we planned it. Craig would detour to Shreeveport, and I would finish the ride with Christina.
 "Leave a message at this number," was what she said, so I wrote the number down twice. Would she even still be going to Orlando? Who knew. I certainly didn't. What I did know, was it was noon already, I had been ejected from my room at the motel across the freeway, and Craig was long gone. If I didn't get moving soon, I would never make my deadline, I would miss the job in Miami, and If I wasn't stuck here I'd be stuck there.
 Thank God, it wasn't long before the familiar blue Geo appeared with a friendly "toot" upon seeing me sitting in the window. I was so relieved, I left money without receiving the food I ordered, poured back the last of my coffee and left.
 Riding with Christina was a welcome change from Craig. Her giddy aloofness countered Craig's self-importance. She was a stranger offering me a ride, even overextending herself to help get me to Miami by deadline. It was good to be out of Craig's world finally, so I could stop being at his mercy for his graciousness, stop hearing his troubles, and get back to my life and my mission. Although his tribulations made my life seem manageable, I did have work to do. So off we went.
 Did I mention how beautiful and pure Christina was? If I did, it's worth mentioning twice. She had a way of making me forget who I was and where I was going, and more importantly, where I was coming from. So chaste, she made me question my intentions, like I was a criminal with a conscience. I wondered if I could ever have a girl like this-- if I did, what would I do with her?
 I was indebted to Christina, for she was determined to deliver me on time. All things being equal, we would probably make Miami sometime tomorrow night. When we finally pulled in to South Beach, the place was lit up like a neon sign; colors trailed everywhere, beautiful people strolling through them. It was intoxicating to behold.
 We found the hotel with no problem, it was one of those beachfront deco properties that gave South Beach it's flavor. Neon, palm fronds, and ceiling fans greeted you everywhere you went. It was untamed and daring, this hot southeastern tip of the States. It had that unpredictable, outlaw quality you might find in a Mexican Western movie, like traveling through a third world country.
 I found Mark right away, having phoned, and he was expecting me. I said good-bye and thanks to Christina, for the last time I would see her, though I wouldn't forget her. She never returned to Hollywood, and I was glad, I was sure it would have spoiled her. Nonetheless, some time later, word eventually got back to the coast that she had married, moved to Alabama, and been born again. Maybe she wasn't so right after all.
 Work the next day went at a much quicker pace than what I was accustomed to. That's the way it is on location, experiencing new people and places. People are interested in what you are doing; we, the moviemakers become the attraction. It's not like in Los Angeles, where there's a movie filming on every corner, and everyone in the crew is a budding screenwriter or producer with advice on what should be taking place.
 It was invigorating to be working in a town where filmmaking hadn't elevated to the big-business status that it held in Los Angeles. The presence could be noted down to the lowliest peon in the pecking order; here it was more of a team effort. I was encouraged by the enthusiasm around me, and many of these folks thought it was a big deal to be working on one of these California-based jobs. Everyone pitched in, not like the L.A. attitude I was noticing more and more, where you stand-by, defend your own, and criticize the others. But I hadn't even seen the worst of that yet.
 I met a guy on the Miami crew who was a production assistant, and interested in the technical crafts. Zach was a local, and we hung out and he showed me around off-production, and I showed him the ropes at work. After the two-day job ended, he invited me to crash with him as long necessary, knowing full well my situation and travel plans (or lack thereof). I decided to take him up on it.
 I wound up staying more than two weeks with Zach, crashing on his humid South Beach floor every night, staring at the ceiling fan. I told him a little bit about the Hollywood experience, but I wasn't even sure for myself then. I had moved out there to make movies, but I was getting sidetracked into a career as a technician. Wasn't I? It seemed to me that the knowledge I was garnering was transferable; but still I wasn't sure if perhaps I should be chasing movie deals and swapping politics over lunches and power-breakfasts.
 For the time being, I was content to pursue leisure activity. Far from home, I was a stranger in a strange land. This was just what I needed as reprieve from the dearth of experience my injury condemned me to. Zach proved a very gracious host; he was present long enough to show me around, fun to be with, and then he would disappear with some engagement to attend, cutting me loose with a set of keys to find my way back.
 The South Beach area he resided in was contained enough that I could limp around freely, and stop and sit down for a tropical drink or a Cuban coffee when the need arose. It is similar to Venice in many respects, yet completely different on the other hand. Both are prime beachfront real estate, developed and commercial, hot-spots for tourism and local flavor. The similarities are obvious; it is the differences that are striking.
 Where Venice is uncomposed and Bohemian, Miami is posh and standoffish. Venice has the look of a vagabond shantytown, unmanicured palm fronds against painted bright colors, alive with activity all day long. At night it is sleepy and quiet, save the occasional passing drunk. Miami is deceiving and deco, dressed in neon, waiting for darkness before it's seduction ensnares you. And seduce me it did, unsuspecting and available as I was.
 The intrigue lured me, as I followed the fluorescent trail through the night to the host of dalliance the city offered. The Broadway, The News Cafe, The Marlin-- it seemed there was something for everyone, presented in one word nomenclature, preceded by an article, tailored to the high-profile cosmopolitan on the rise.
 I walked down the row of nightclubs, peering in to each looking for something besides the casual drinking and trivial conversation. They all seemed the same, only bathed in a different phosphorous glow-- one pink, the next blue, followed by green-- until all the spectrum has been satisfied, and you could find a color to support your mood. Today I was feeling red, like fire, like something had been ignited by the stifling Miami heat.
 I had been there a few days now and was getting to know the town, the local haunts and the back roads. I even made a few friends in my travels, acquaintances of Zach's and other local personnel I had encountered in my short time of residence. As I stepped into The Whiskey, alone, I saw her there, a familiar face I had been introduced to through Zach.
 "Marlena..." she said, offering me her hand in response to my query. "You're Zach's friend--"
 "--Jack."
 "Right, Jack. I should have remembered; Zach, Jack, you know."
 I smiled. Her Spanish accent made the pun more lyrical and amusing. I remembered meeting her earlier that day at one of the poolside bars on the strip that she worked at as a waitress. Her disposition reminded me of Amanda, overwrought with drink orders and a hectic pace. Zach pretty much dominated the conversation, he was real friendly with her. As we walked away, he told me what a crush he had on her, though I could pretty much tell by how he edged me out.
 Zach was a player, good looking, and got lots of girls. I think he liked Marlena because she was so hard to get, that challenge thing. Me, well, I was just looking for a friend.
 I thought of Amanda as we sat there and talked, though only fleetingly. I hadn't heard from her since before I left, and I wondered if she even cared where I was or what I was doing. Soon she disappeared in a rush of Smirnoff and fluorescence, as I became enraptured in the alluring charm of this Latin siren.   "Marlena..." Her words echoed through my head as we sat staring into each others eyes, doing a dance spoken in simple speech. The language barrier seemed to help more than hurt-- carefully choosing words, then searching for the answers hidden behind them.
 She was a smart girl, and alluring. Long, dark hair, and creamy skin, flawless, with legs that never seemed to end. She wore horn-rimmed glasses, and went to great lengths to disguise her beauty. I later learned this as I witnessed her naked perfection.
 We rode double back to her place via her bicycle, me pedaling and her holding on and giggling, not making it any easier (not to mention a few drinks). She kept a nice home, modest and empty, save those few bits that make a woman's touch. It seemed something was missing, not just furniture, though I couldn't quite place it.
 We talked into the night, sharing thoughts and dreams. She read to me a poem that she had written, in her native tongue, "La Tombe de la Muerte Amor." She struggled to translate the thoughts of "The Tomb of The Love That Died," and though I don't think I literally understood many of the Spanish references, I somehow perceived what she was saying. I knew she wasn't talking about someone she loved that she lost, but rather something that had died within her.
 Marlena was deep, and even at times dark, certainly too much for simple but sweet Zach. But we, we had made a connection. She was lost and looking for something in Miami, kind of like I was back in Hollywood, but neither of us knew what to say. Nor did we have the capacity to express it to the other, should we know, but that didn't matter because we both knew the feeling and didn't have to say anything. So we just sat there, not saying anything, but feeling so much.
 And it was beautiful, that one hot, balmy, Miami night that I fell in love. I fell in love in a different way, though, like I tripped and fell, and got up and didn't know where I was anymore. But I did know where I was-- I was in Miami. And I was with Marlena's endless sprawling body before me, sweat clinging to us, reluctant to leave our bodies, held up in the sticky tropical bog.
 It was passionate, we clung onto each other that night like two people who didn't want to let go. If I could master time, that would be one of my favorite places to go. Back to that mattress on Marlena's floor where we lay intertwined, exhausted, yet with eyes wide awake. Watching the window speechlessly, our two bodies wishing that the day wouldn't break to shatter the silence that said so much.
 If I could go back, I think I might tell her that I loved her. But the more I think about it, I don't think I have to.

*****

 Morning eventually came, as it always does despite the wishes of the individual. No long good-byes, just a heartfelt kiss, and one last look into eyes I would surely miss. One last look into a life I could have had, if I dared to break the silence, and she dared me to. But I couldn't-- I had a life to return to, the one I was here escaping from, betwixt the two should not meet. So I kept my mouth shut and one last time my eyes spoke for me, and I felt like I might cry I was so stupid to leave.
 But I knew what had to be done, and I knew I had to press on soon. I thought about the tarot card reader I had met what felt like an eternity earlier, and his elusive hints of this journey I was taking. Everything he had said had seemed to come true, even a great message that wasn't spoken. Now, I had already made my destination in time, but somehow I felt the trip had only just begun. Did the wise old fool know more than he was telling me?

*****