There is no job. There is no apartment. There is only the Venezuelan and bags and bags of cocaine. Hugo is this guy's name. He's the closest thing to the Devil that I've found on Planet Earth.
Hugo speaks in a deep spanish accent. I understand half of what he says. I've known him for ten years and his English is the same, if not worse. He's talking to me about the situation. The situation is this. He is living with his family--mother, brother, sister, and a two year old niece in his mother's one bedroom apartment. He has no job, but is waiting for a new bar to open, which should be in a couple weeks. He tells me I'm welcome to sleep at his place on his mother's floor. I tell him to take me to a hotel on the beach and to find me a fucking sandwich.
The following CD can be used as accompaniment to the rest of the blog...
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We find a hotel-- some dump nowhere near the beach. The room is $500 for three nights including deposit. When I ask Hugo if he can chip in at all he pulls a crinkled $10 bill out of his pocket and says, "Mike Mike iz ok... I makes sum moonie diz wecan an u get jobs nixt weeks." This fuck. So I have to throw down the entire $500. After the screwdrivers, transportation from the airport, and a sandwich, I barely have $100 left in my pocket. I'm fucked. Fuck Hugo. Fuck his family and their floor.
Hugo is talking and talking. He talks like a poet-philospher conman. He's a combination of a coked up Borges and Bernie Madoff. I understand every third word. It's almost unbearable. If I didn't have severe ADD there's no way I could be his friend. He is talking about the jobs we're going to get and the two bedroom apartment that he already has on lockdown that's beautiful and in the perfect location. He's talking about all his IDEAS and all the connections he has to make his IDEAS happen. He's promising me lots of money and lots of fucking ass. With the depression and the $100 in my pocket I almost believe him. Fucking Ponzi schemes. This fuck. How do I get him to shut the fuck up?
Five hours later Hugo (he went home for lunch-- sandwiches hand made by Mom) shows up with a backpack full of his shit. He's gonna stay with me then kick me some cash next week. He promises this. I make it very clear to him that I'm going to be broke by Monday and that this has to happen. "Mike, Mike no worry iz Ok," this fuck says. It's Ok? It's Ok? God I hate this fucking guy.
I call The Mayor. The Mayor is my old man. He was the mayor of the town I grew up in pretty much throughout my entire childhood and teenage years. What a pain in the ass that was. It's taken me ten years of therapy to forgive him. The Mayor asks me what the hell I'm doing in Miami-- I never tell my family what I'm doing until after I've done it. I feed him all the bullshit Hugo's fed me and ask him if I can borrow a few hundred dollars. I tell him I'll pay him back once I get back on my feet-- which will happen because I'm all fucking set up over here! He's on board and I go find a western union to pick up the cash. The fucking Mayor. The best.
I get the cash and send $200 to Costa Rica. What the hell else am I supposed to do? I have no job and doubt I will anytime soon. I'll be out on the fucking street on Monday--or worse--on Hugo's floor with the rest of the Venezuelan's. I have to run this up to at least a thousand to get through next week. I have to make this Miami bullshit happen. If I don't I really don't know what my next move could be. My only other option at this point looks like an institution of some sorts--or worse--my parents davenport. Fucking Ponzi schemes.
Hugo actually has a shitty bartending job, so I'm rid of him for the evening. I pick up the paper (those days I still got my lines from the fucking Post... no internet bullshit) and get to handicapping the Friday card in the NBA. It's early in the season so I don't really know what the hell's going on. My boy Max (my Italian friend in New York who is my NBA and horse racing kindred) loves Toronto this year because they have Andrea Bargnani, a 7 foot power forward from Rome who bombs three's. He's got game similar to Dirk Nowinski, who's quite simply, the best. Max thinks the team is gonna put up 60 in the first half tonight against the Nets. I decide to put the $200 on the first half over. Fuck it. If it loses I'll go deposit another $100 and spend the entire weekend in the hotel room.
Bang. The over hits. I double up. Now I'm fucking dangerous. Let's go. No more bullshit. Bet smart all weekend and on Monday I get out of this shit hole and get a suite on the beach with a balcony. A fucking balcony baby! And fuck Hugo. I'll tell him I'm leaving town.
I end up running the account up to $600. It's 11pm and I've been drinking the cheap rum I picked up on the way back from the western union. I'm in fucking Miami! I've to go make this night happen. I've dreamt about bangin broads from this town ever since my first nut. I put on a black linen shirt and my flip flops. Let's go get em! I walk two miles down to the beach and kick of my flops and stick my feet in the sand. I light up a fucking cigarette and look at the stars for a bit. The stars, the ocean air, the rolling waves... I've got a nice fucking buzz on.
Where am I going to start my mission to bang a broad? Hotel? Hotel bar? The fucking Delano! That's where I'll fire this up. The fucking Delano. I walk down Ocean Drive toward the Delano Hotel. Halfway there it hits me. I'm broke. The hundred or so I have in my pocket might get me two drinks. Fuck me. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I had such promise. I was a quarterback for christsake. What the hell happened? I turn around and head back toward my hotel. I realize I have only one place to go unless I want to spend the rest of my night in my shitty hotel room.
Eternal Return far from Caracas...
"Hugo" I say. I have act really excited to see this guy all the time so as not to fall to the ground in agony. He introduces me to his brother, Olivier. Olivier is older... older and darker. Smells more of sulfur than Hugo. Olivier's been in the shit apparently. From what I can understand from Hugo, Olivier's kind of a Henry Hill type figure. He just got out of the cling a couple months ago after taking the fall for some cartel shit. This fall has made him the fuckin man. But all that cartel shit is behind him, Hugo assures me, and he's in a much better place now.
"Ju wan to jwink someting?", the fuck says. I tell him to pull me a Stella. I sit down with Olivier and proceed to have the same awkward, incomprehensible conversation that I end up having with everyone I meet in this town. Thank Christ he leaves after he finishes his beer.
When Hugo gets done with work we bang back some key hits then head someplace to go "mee sum peepil". This is what we end up doing every night. We go from bar to bar to "mee sum peepil." It's at our first stop that I meet the broad that will possess me for the rest of my stay here in hell. Her name is Pilar... and she is fucking gorgeous. She's not Giselle, but she's pretty fucking close. She seems actually sweeter... nicer than Giselle... and I like that. Giselle can be kind of a bitch sometimes.
Pilar... Pilar. I like them cute and nice Pilar. She may be just what I had in mind back in the 4th grade when I got that first nut out. The problem with Pilar is she speaks very little English and is always with this musician dude she may or may not be fucking. How am I going to make contact? After racking my brain the best idea I can come up with is to buy a notepad and scribble in Spanish, "Are you fucking this loser? If not would you like to fuck me?" That's what I'll do. I'll go get a little moleskin and a pen tomorrow.
This is the business we have chosen...
Fuck Hugo. Fuck Pepe. Fuck me. I spend half the night in this cafe trying to understand what the big deal is with this music (all I hear is "Fuck Castro" over and over again) and staring at Pilar trying to figure out how to fuck her without a moleskin.
We leave the cafe and go over to the Rico's. Fucking Rico. Fucking Charlie Mansons. He sits there holding court as he whiffs a line of cocaine off one of his CD's then wipes up the blow and rubs it all over some chica's teeth. Pilar is watching and she has perked up. Yes! This is it! Maybe I have a shot here. She's got to get sick of this asshole bangin other broads all the time.
Round and round in my head. Pilar... Hugo... Evil... Death. What am I doing here and how the hell do I get out? Talking talking is Hugo with his IDEAS-- "De philosophicical" "De Esthetica is dis" "We do sumtin in Noo Yoke then take it back here"... More Words-- "Poetik" "Ediology" "Meetephisical"... on and on. Fucking Rico is playing the guitar squinting and shaking dandruff of his head. There is Pilar, quiet, alone. She's like me. She has no idea what any of these people are talking about. I've noticed all along she's said little this whole evening. A deaf, mute Pilar. How wonderful that would it be! Fuck. My heart is pounding. Perfection. Pit of nausea. Fuck. I'm having a fucking heart attack!
I tell Hugo we have to go... STAT! He recognizes my situation. In times such as these Hugo always steps up. He actually doesn't want me to die-- which is not a bad trait in a friend.
We get back to the hotel room. Hugo wants to go back out to this bar around the corner that's open 24 hours. I give him the key and tell him not to bring back any whores. He eventually reconsiders and decides to go to fucking bed. I get in bed and lay there, heart pounding, for what seems like days. I wonder. I wonder. How did I get here? I try to retrace the steps. I find no path. There is no how or why. There is only this. There is only me scared for my life. There is only me and this profound discomfort. There is only me, in this hotel room, with fucking Hugo snoring and picking coke balls out of his nose in the bed next to me.
Pre-paid debit cards...
I have in my possession five or six pre-paid debit cards from companies such as Accountnow... Western Union... and Netspend. I opened all these accounts to have checking accounts to write echecks with to offshore, evil, sportsbooks and poker rooms. None of them are loaded, or even activated for that matter.
Eventually, after a bit over a week, Hugo and I run out of cash. I gave the hotel manager a debit card to hang onto and convinced him to let me stay an extra couple nights. After two nights I go downstairs in the morning and the guy tells me he tried to run my debit card and it was declined. I'm quite aware of this. I tell him it's not a problem and that I'll go get the cash and come back and pay him. He's slightly pissed and tells me he needs cash for the last two nights and then I have to go.
My plan is to come back and tell him I'm waiting for a wire, then sneak out of the joint. When I try this he tells me I can't leave the hotel unless he holds onto my luggage and if I do try to leave the hotel with my luggage he's calling the police. I head back up to my hotel room to contemplate.
Over the next few hours I go downstairs repeatedly to see if he's there. All this time he is calling the room breaking my balls. I finally realize that this bastard is not leaving the fucking lobby until he gets his money. I need a plan B.
I go downstairs and ask him if I can use the phone to call my friend who's bringing me the cash. I call Hugo. I tell him to come over here and I'll be waiting for him. I tell him when he walks in the door I'm going to run past him and when I do to grab my suitcase--which I tell him will be on the top of the staircase that I came from--and to get the hell out of there. We come up with a meeting point which is a bar on the beach 2 miles away. I figure the guy is either going to react by running after me or he'll get on the phone and call the cops, then go outside to wait. He laughs and says, "soopa Mike es crazy... ok... ok... i be there in 20 minotes."
So I wait fifteen then head down to the lobby. I leave my suitcase at the top of the staircase, walk down, and wait. I can see the door, but the bastard manager cannot see me. When Hugo walks in all smiles and says, "hey how u doin man?", I immediately start running and hang a hard left as soon as I get through the door. There's an alley that get's me off the street and out of sight. I head straight for the bar and don't look back. It turns out the guy's initial reaction was to come after me. I could hear him yelling fucking "policia!" but luckily I didn't see any fucking policia. Hugo walks upstairs, grabs my suitcase, and walks out of the hotel. Fucking Ghost Dog. He meets me fifteen minutes later and we head up to mom's to drop it off on her floor.
This is Saturday. We go out that night same as other nights and sure enough I end up sleeping on that fucking floor. After three hours tops I get up and tap Hugo on the shoulder. I'll see him later.
Debit cards cont...
It's Sunday and at this point I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with the next week of my life. I'd like to avoid the institution, or the davenport, but things just aren't looking good. I still have a hundred dollars in my sportsbook account so my only other option is to run it up to a thousand and get another hotel room for the week. Thank God for the NFL.
So I spend all day bar hopping. I hit the first bar at noon and give them my debit card. These bars always take these fucking things without asking for a licence. It's pretty genius. Now time for the fucking games. I get a burger and drink a half dozen pints of Stella while I watch myself win a few hundred on the early games. Then I walk out. I go to the second bar for the Four O' Clock games and do the same thing-- sans burger. I drink another half a dozen beers and when the games are over and my account is a bit over $500 walk out. I go to another bar for the night game and do the same thing-- fucking burger. Another half a dozen beers and when I've lost it all I walk out to go meet Hugo.
The davenport...
It's eight in the morning and I'm sitting in a recliner, alone, in some guy's house who I just met a few hours ago. He and Hugo just went out to the 24 hour bar to try to find some whores. I declined and told them I was going to sit this one out and get some sleep. I grab my phone and call my parents.
"Hey Dad... can you a... drive to Miami and get me the hell out of here?"
Hugo comes back and I tell him the deal. We go back to his mother's and wait for my folks. They arrive and are happy to see me. I didn't tell them anything about anything. I just told them Miami wasn't for me.
We grab lunch and head back. I sleep the entire ride back. I dream. I plot. I plot while I dream. I see my next bet. I see $10,000 in my account. I see a fucking 2000sf loft in Brooklyn. I awake a few miles from home... a few miles from the green davenport. I check my phone and see I have a new message. It's from a girl I just met in Los Angeles. It's from Annie. She asks... How are you?
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