2.

Miami was too big to wander on foot and South Beach was a much nicer place to be during the day. I had no need to explore – being there was just more box-ticking. I walked Ocean Drive in the sunshine to the faraway sounds of waves crashing into sand. The bars made their trade at night. If they were open during the day, it was to cover the lease, and they took what they could get by offering cheap drinks. I stopped at each and had one or two. I floundered past a homeless man who asked me for a cigarette. I took one out for him, one for me, lit them and we smoked together. He complained about America, as most Americans do.

‘All I’m sayin’ is,’ he said, dragging through the cigarette and putting his other hand on the hip of his shit-stained camouflage pants in a very sophisticated way, ‘if you’re gonna wear your Nazi uniform, then you have to wear it above ground as well as below ground, ya know?’

‘I think so.’

‘What’s the use in wearing an ideology half of the fuckin’ time?’

‘There isn’t one. You’re damn right.’

‘People just got no class; changing their values to suit a crowd like they change clothes. Bunch of animals if you ask me.’

‘Amen.’

We parted ways. I liked the guy. He may have just been the sanest person I’d ever met.

I returned to the motel that afternoon after another tour of the bars. I struggled up the stairs to my floor and heard music echoing from a room, and the laughter of girls. The floor’s bathroom door was open and two Latinas were doing their makeup with a portable radio on the sink.

‘Hey there. Are you gonna be much longer?’ I asked.

One of them froze with a mascara wand to her eye while the other looked at me, chewed her gum and sulked.

‘Okay, I’ll come back in five.’

I went into my room and closed the door. It didn’t block out the music. I thought about Hannah. Did she sit on that couch with her legs crossed, waiting for me to come back until reality seeped in? What did she do then? Did she flip the mattress back onto the living room floor, beat her fists into it and use it to muffle a scream? Or did she pour herself a drink, turn on some music and dance through the apartment? Leaving like I did was rotten, but I was rotten; so maybe leaving her was the least rotten thing I could do. Shit. I didn’t know. Where was my homeless friend with the camouflage pants? He’d know.

I needed to piss. I walked back to the bathroom and got the same reception of repulsion.

‘I really need to use the bathroom.’

They looked at each other and whispered something in Spanish. I couldn’t understand a word but the tone said enough.

‘Hello? I need to piss. Me es, ah, need’a to piss’o. Pronto.’

They ignored me and went back to the mirror.

‘Alright then.’

I stepped past and lifted the toilet seat. One of them started yelling and the other screamed when I pulled it out.

‘Sorry, me no comprende,’ I said over the noise, opening my tap onto the floor and steering it back towards the bowl.

They screamed in disgust and ran from the bathroom. A moment later, one leant back in, grabbed their radio off the sink and spat on me.

‘Gracias, really,’ I said.

I went back to my room, locked the door and listened to the sounds of the street below as the sky turned dark.

The next morning, I walked back to the parking lot. The booth was manned now by an old security guard. He had black skin and a white beard. He watched as I passed him and headed towards the lifts. There was a sign with a list of rates. A lost ticket was $15. Still less than the cost of the two nights I was there, but $15 I couldn’t spare.

‘Hey,’ I said, turning to him. ‘You look like you could use a coffee.’

‘Do I?’

‘Absolutely. Must get boring sitting in that booth all day.’

‘It does.’

‘Come on, let’s go get you a coffee around the corner then.’

‘I cannot leave this post during my shift, sir.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Even to shit?’

‘Even to shit.’

I started the Miata, dropped the top and negotiated ramp after ramp. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I reached the bottom. The guard was still in the booth. I pulled up and he looked down at me from his window.

‘It’s the darnedest thing, but I think I’ve lost my ticket.’

‘That’s alright, happens all the time.’

He reached behind him towards a clipboard covered in registration numbers and dates. He struggled with it until the clip cleared the head of the nail in the wall it hung from.

‘Reckon we could let it slide this one time?’

‘No, sir, that’s not possible.’

‘Come on, man. Look at me. I’m not asking you this from a Porsche.’

‘Not happening, sir.’

He wasn’t budging. That’s what happens to a man’s humanity when he’s not allowed to take a shit. He gets filled to the brim with it for five bucks an hour and then there’s no room left for an imagination or a soul.

‘Oh wait, I know where it would be,’ I said, fidgeting through the glovebox and my pockets.

He blew out air between his lips and turned to face the wall behind him. The clipboard tapped against the head of the nail a few times until it found its way through the hole. I pretended to search a little longer, then threw my hands up and slapped them down against my thighs.

‘No luck. Well, shit, I guess those are the breaks. Write me up, sir.’

He turned and reached back for the board again. I pushed the shifter into first and rolled forward a few feet. The head of the nail caught against the edge of the clip like it had before. I reached past the windshield and pushed against the exit gate. It lifted. Not as much as the other, but it lifted.

The guard turned back. I brought the revs up and let the clutch out. The arm banged against the Miata as I forced my way under. ‘Hey! Stop, now!’ he yelled, opening the door of the booth and running out after me. I turned onto the street and punched it. Another driver slammed their brakes and horn as I took off down the street. The guard made it all of forty feet before he stopped, panting, and threw his hat to the ground. I swung a right through a red and was gone.