The Boeing 707 thundered down the runway at Miami International Airport, and as its retro jet engines fired and the brakes were applied, the aircraft swayed, and all the passengers leaned forward and grabbed for stability. Then it slowed and there was a murmur of relief, a brief sound of clapping, as the passengers prepared to collect their belongings for disembarking.
Trudi and I were stopping over for a little shopping, and funnily enough we met our childhood friend, Michael, and had a good chat about old times over a few drinks on the aircraft. Michael happened to have a tragedy in his life: His wife of 10 years had died of cancer, and he was just coming home after placing his son in boarding school in England with his sister to watch over the boy. So he had tied up his responsibilities after some tumult, and was fresh and ready to make a new start. He was telling us now that he was going to give the work on his farm his full attention, and was full of plans as to what he would do, including a new love.
As we left the airplane and were heading down through customs, he said to my wife, Trudi, "You know, I have no hotel room booked in Miami; where would you recommend I stay?"
"We are staying at the Dilido on Miami Beach. It's a decent, moderately priced place to stay, and moreover there is a lot of shopping and entertainment nearby," Trudi replied.
"Well I am not doing much shopping," said he, "But the entertainment sounds interesting." Did I mistake the gleam in his eyes, when he said that? After all, Michael would be looking for companionship now I thought, and Miami is full of fabulous women and places.
"Let's share a taxi and talk about it," I said to him. "There are a few places where a single man like you might go," I laughingly commented, "though you will have to forgive me for not keeping you company as Trudi might not like it!" She gave me a stern look, as if to say, you better not go out leaving me alone in a hotel room!
The cab ride was quick, and we unloaded and checked in at the lobby, where Michael found the rates much to his suit. The Dilido had seen better days clearly, but all around us were signs of renovations. The lobby was being painted, the chandeliers were clean and bright, the carpets were already changed to a deep red in contrast to pink tiles, and the air conditioning worked.
This hotel was situated at the corner of Lincoln Road Mall and Collins Avenue. It occupied almost the entire southwest corner. Collins is the main road moving north from 1st Street to around 168th Street, traversing the length of Miami Beach in all its grandeur, from south to north. Lincoln Road Mall is a shopping area between 12th and 13th streets, and as its name suggests, had numerous shopping localities on both sides. Lincoln Road and Collins Avenue then was a central point in the geography of Miami Beach, being near its starting point. Today, it is on the fringe of the now famous South Beach area, which is noted for its restaurants and entertainment.
We moved up to our respective rooms, with a promise to meet for dinner at 8 p.m. Michael said he was not too tired and he might take a little walk and do a little scouting, giving me a wink of his eye, which I am sure Trudi saw. He walked away heading outdoors.
Trudi started to give me a lecture. She said time should be allowed to pass before any fun or pleasure is contemplated. I heard her out patiently then pointed out: "Trudi, Michael's wife has been dead for six months and she was sick and dying for almost a year before that. Michael had to see that suffering through, and now that's the end of it. He loved her, but she is no more; so what can he do but try and forget? He will probably never forget, but he can perhaps buy a little time and distraction!" Trudi seemed somewhat mollified but not quite convinced.
I had a nap for around two hours and headed out with Trudi, while she browsed the well-known shops of the mall. We returned around seven, just in time to meet Michael for dinner.
Over a meal, I asked him where he went in the four hours of travelling up and down the beach. He seemed a bit agitated and said there were a number of places that seemed promising, but the place was so diverse he didn't know where to go. I suspected there were a number of adult places up and down the strip, but it all depended on where you were looking, and besides, all the singles bars opened after 8 p.m.
"There is a nice restaurant on Arthur Godfrey and Collins Avenue", I told him, "And they have a nice bar to one side where there may be a little action. Just take a taxi later and have a drink, you might find it interesting." He begged me to go with him. "I can't leave Trudi here alone," I responded. He turned to Trudi and asked whether she would come with us. My wife looked at both of us cautiously and said, "Well, both of you can go out as I am tired. But Ray," here she looked at me, "Come home early and don't leave Michael by himself." A difficult request, I thought, as Michael was straining at the leash.
The Hearth was a fine restaurant at the corner of Arthur Godfrey and Collins, just past 43rd street, and I had been there before. They had a disco bar right next to an excellent five-star restaurant. So Michael and I sat there at a table in a half-filled lounge; after all, it was only Tuesday. The only interesting face was that of a fine-looking brunette who was sitting by the bar by herself. Looking in her direction, we saw that she had no companion.
At Michael's urging, we sent her a drink and she turned around and smiled an open invitation. I walked over and introduced myself, learning in the process that her name was Debbie.
Debbie was stall and statuesque, long straight nose, blue grey eyes, and dressed in a long black dress that hugged her body. She was not modest, and moved confidently as she walked, fully aware of her sensuous figure. "Would you like to join us at our table," I asked, "My friend has been dying to meet you."
"Surely," she said, in her southern Georgia accent, walking over to our table virtually on my arm. I introduced her to Michael, and he was eloquent with his compliments and subsequent conversation. I could not participate too much, nor did I care, for this was Michael's move, and the music was above voice level. They seemed to get along famously, with many a kiss on the hand, tinkles of laughter, and smiles. They got up to dance, and I ordered my farewell drink. She went to the restroom, while Michael sat with me telling me how smitten they were with each other, and how glad he came to this place. Then she returned and Michael went off in the same direction leaving us alone, and she moved closer to me.
"Is your friend for real?" she asked, "He seems to be romancing me in the most serious way, doesn't he know I'm a working girl?" She said to me with a frank, direct query.
Well, I had suspected as much, and I said to her, "Let's put it to him and find out!"
"I hope so," she said, "because even though I'm happy for the nice way you boys have treated me tonight, unless you are doing business I have to move along. I have to pay the bills at home, you know," in her soft Georgia drawl. Michael then returned to our table and sipped his drink.
I said aloud to him, "Mike, Debbie wants you to know she is in fact a 'working girl'".
"Really," said Mike, turning to face Debbie: "I am about to do a spot of work myself, as a farmer; what do you work at?" She lit a cigarette and looked up at the ceiling. How could this guy be so naïve? I chuckled.
"Mike," I said, "She's a prostitute, and turns tricks for a living! That's what she's talking about." He was bewildered. I guess he thought it was his personal charm that was holding her attention. In a way I felt sorry for him, but then I thought maybe that he needed an awakening.
I excused both of us from the table and walked Mike over to the bar. "Mike, it's not as bad as it could be, she looks like a nice person and both of you were getting along. But, it's up to you, if you want to pay, just go over and ask her in private, how much it costs! Don't forget to go to a safe place, and arrange the cab fare that goes along with the ride. If you don't, then let us say goodnight, we have elsewhere to go: I have to get back to Trudi."
"How, how, much should I pay?" Stammered Mike.
"I suppose the going rate is $50-$100, but since there does not seem to be many patrons left in this place perhaps she will give you a deal!" I said, somewhat sarcastically, annoyed at being dragged into this confusing situation.
We went back to the table and I thought I heard him say, "Why, did, um ... sorry I did ..."
Then came a fierce conversation while I sipped my drink in silence. Then he got up from the chair, sheepishly, and said, "Ray, I'm sure you are tired and want to get home. It's been a long day."
I bade them good night, and went out looking for a taxi. I started to walk up Collins Avenue; the night was clear and cool. Dean Martin had a song about, "hey, Brother, pour the wine." and I remembered a line, which went:
"What is life, what is spring?
What are all the stars that shine?
Love, my friend, is everything,
And love will soon be mine."
- Ramesh Sujanani
"There is a nice restaurant on Arthur Godfrey and Collins Avenue", I told him, "And they have a nice bar to one side where there may be a little action."
