heroes, volume IV
The South Beach Edition
On Washington Avenue exists an independently owned record shop; it's the type of crowded, dusty shrine to underground music frequented by young hipsters. On this particular day, upon entering, I heard immediately a voice, heavy with foreign accent, issuing forth an unclear rant. As my eyes adjusted to the hazy light, I saw that an older woman facing the boy working at the counter was responsible for this confusing slew of words. The baffled young man appeared incapable of, and uninterested in, understanding or helping the woman. Angrily, the woman turned to me. She had long, dark hair in a ponytail and a tan, leathery face-- gypsy, would be my guess. She approached me, asking what sounded like the same unintelligible query, and I replied-- totally at a loss-- "WHAT?" She made one step and was now holding her face inches from mine. She repeated the question in a low, dark voice. I stared at her horrible eyes, barely visible behind dark sunglasses, and they were burning into mine, two hot coals like satan's own. "Beash," she spat at me, a single hard syllable cast with chilling fury. At first, I thought she had said "beach." It was after she walked out the door, as she stood on the sidewalk and conferred another obscenity onto me-- "Fuck you"-- that I realized she had called me a bitch. I couldn't look at her face as I said it, so I stared at her middle-aged knees, gone bad the way all knees eventually do, and (I'm ashamed to admit) replied, "Fuck yourself!" She went on down the sidewalk, with that eternal question, and I stared after her, wishing I could answer.
----------------------------------------------------------
Two old men are inching along Alton Road. One is your typical, lovable geriatric model-- pants hiked up to crumpled waist, paisley polyester shirt tucked into pants, baseball cap pulled tight over ancient skull, brim obscuring vision, hunched back, arms dangling down at sides of body like a caveman's. The other man appears slightly younger-- although at their age, a decade or more is a drop in the bucket. He was more sporty, with a white polo shirt tucked into black shorts, a black hat, white sneakers, and an impressive ring of keys swaying from his belt loop. I turned just in time to catch this pair walking silently, and I was touched-- two friends, one obviously in poorer health but still cared for by an old pal, out for a leisurely stroll in Miami Beach. I barely had time to register this glowing fuzzy thought before I heard a crotchety, somewhat nasal and extremely old voice declare, hurriedly, with shock and complete disgust, "There's no hope for you. There's just no hope." Aghast, I looked over my shoulder and saw that the younger man was speaking these words to his companion. The older man was shuffling along a few feet behind him; his wrinkles were melted downward into a sad frown, and the disappointment and hurt he felt were embroidered on his face. Clearly unable to go any faster, he continued shuffling as best he could, his tired old eyes fixed in a steady, unseeing gaze. His friend still hustled along, shaking his angry, decrepit little head, speeding towards deadlines and death.