Are you Curtis?
Curtis Lambert. That’s his name. Lambert Developments LLC. Curtis had inherited his father’s real estate development firm four years ago and had since outpaced every other development company in Sarasota County and Manatee County. He was soon attempting to build a 4,500 single-family home subdivision in Charlotte County, east of I-75, through Lambert Land Developments LLC, a new subsidiary. They faced constant pushback from the Sarasota Historical Society, the city, and local environmental groups, which tried to prove that land developments in the marshlands would lead to more flooding in the area. This proved to be correct, but somehow, someway, LLD and other land development firms still managed to clear massive plots of land and raise the ground. It was a story that had played out time and time again throughout history: despite obvious warning signs and outcries for sensible building, big money wins. Many suspected corruption. Max had even heard talk about all of this through roundabout ways on job sites from guys who lived out east near Myakka and down south in North Port. People complained and knew where it would eventually lead. With each year, new developments sprung up like invasive weeds, and each hurricane season, the flooding grew progressively worse. As for the fast-changing cityscape, there were no immediate discernible threats to safety, only a slow, gnawing acknowledgment that Sarasota would eventually become a new South Beach on the west coast.
“Can I get you another?”
“Of course.”
Daisy approached Curtis and took his order for an Old Fashioned with Woodford Reserve and a Campari and soda. Paige leaned toward Max and held out her hand.
“It was nice meeting you.”
Max shook her hand in good faith.
“You too. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
She smiled. “I hope so.”
Paige and Curtis took the table closest to the front door. Soon they were laughing and getting along. Occasionally, Max would notice her glance at him in the reflection of the backsplash. He wondered if it was because he was trying not to look at her, but he was certain he wasn’t being that obvious. He picked up Cowboy’s lighter and lit a cigarette.
“She likes you.”
Max pointed at himself and shook his head in mock astonishment.
“Well, she must prefer ol’ Twinkle Toes more.”
“Don’t be such a martyr, Max. You can’t hold a prior engagement against her. It’s just bad timing. Besides, you made an impression face-to-face, in the world, not on the computer.”
Max knew what he meant, but it was almost hard to imagine her even owning a laptop or driving, for that matter. A girl that naturally attractive and genuine shouldn’t partake in such trivial, regular things. She should appear like an apparition from place to place, looking hot, charming men, then vanishing.
“Whatever, life goes on.” Max stamped out his cigarette and lit another one, not even realizing how fast he’d smoked the first. Cowboy watched Max smoke and drink while staring at the TV, the look in his eyes showing his mind was elsewhere. Without telling Max, Cowboy knew she’d be back at this bar tomorrow night, hoping to run into him. Cowboy thought he’d let Max experience this blow for all it was worth and relish the future payoff. Some things should run their course.
It was almost 10 p.m. Rudy texted Max and said he was about to pull up and to meet him out back. Rudy said, “I got a surprise, buddy. Well, two, actually.” Max responded, “Yes, sir.”
Max smoked another cigarette in the alley while he waited. He was five beers deep and had been stoned practically since his first breath that morning. When he finished his cigarette, he stuck it under one of the feet of the wobbly table his beer sat on, then checked its stability. It was time for a replacement. The shiny black coating was beginning to separate from the cheap cork, all those days of being smashed with rain and cooking in the sun.
He took off his jean jacket and tossed it on the table. Down the alley, he saw a guy helping a drunk woman in heels as they walked to another bar. A palmetto roach dashed from a dumpster to a puddle, then back to the dumpster.
The back door to RG’s swung open, and Rudy stepped out, holding a tall glass of rum and Coke. He had an expensive set of wire-rimmed shades on top of his head, his jet-black ponytail pristine. He wore some type of long-sleeve designer shirt—beyond Max’s scope of style—with the top three buttons undone and a pair of binoculars around his neck. He looked like a Yakuza gangster on vacation.
“What’s up?”
They cheered.
“What’s good with the bow-knocks?”
Rudy lifted the binoculars and inspected them, as if he’d forgotten, which he clearly hadn’t.
“Oh, these? I snatched ‘em from Felix. That pussy owed me 50 bucks.”
“Those shits are probably, like, $200.”
“Yeah? Probably. Fuck ‘em.”
“Who’s Felix again?”
“That Puerto Rican communist dude who dropped out of New College, like, five years ago. I sell him Ritalin and Addies.”
“Right, I met him at the Ringling Underground one time. Wannabe Zack de la Rocha, nigga.”
“He’s got that huge mole in the center of his forehead he probably thinks is the mark of his third eye or something.”
Max laughed. “What a faggot. Let me see those shits.”
Rudy passed him the binoculars. Max held them up with his right hand, a beer and cigarette in his left. He looked down the alley and saw a group of drunk girls passing and scoped their bodies.
“Pretty sick, dude. I feel like an Army Ranger.”
“Check this out.”
Rudy pulled out a Ziploc bag with four hits of blotter acid. The image on the paper was a corner of the album Aoxomoxoa by The Grateful Dead, which Max instantly recognized but felt no need to mention. His eyes were wide and eager, like a dog that knew he was about to be tossed a biscuit.
“Want a hit?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Rudy tore off a tab and placed it in his palm. Max’s hands were full, so he leaned forward and inhaled the tab off Rudy’s hand, making oinking and snarling pig sounds. Rudy tore off a tab and stuck it on his tongue.
“There’s a hot chick at the first table in there. She’s with some dude, though.”
“I seen her. We talked for a minute, but then that dude she’s with showed up.”
“You got cucked?”
“I was ‘bout to cuck him, nigga. Had her wrapped around my dick like a stray hair, but I guess they had a Tinder date or some shit.”
“Gay.”
“Yup, she’ll see how whack he is, though. Fuck ‘em.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
“You still going with Isabella?”
Rudy flicked his cigarette into the gutter; it crackled and sizzled.
“She came over the other day, and we watched Alien.” He lit another cigarette from Max’s pack on the table.
“My dad came over, so they met.”
“Oh shit, how’s Johnny? What did he think?”
Rudy shrugged. “Good, I guess. They got along fine. He hates tattoos, and I tried to tell him every chick walking around now has ‘em.”
“What’s he driving now?”
“He pulled up in an ’89 Mercedes convertible. It’s mint as fuck. Some Japanese dude already bought it; he’s going over there in a couple days.”
“Classic Johnny, so classic.”
“Alright, you want to buy me a beer?”
“Yeah, then let’s go to Monkey Business. I need a sandwich before this stuff kicks in.”
Paige and Mr. Magnificent must have left since Max and Rudy had been kicking it in the alley.
Max wasn’t sure if he was happy to not see her sitting there. He decided to shut any of those thoughts down as they were about to exit the bar - I’m on my on my own trip now - OM MANI PADME HUM - or what the fuck. He left Daisy a nice tip and gave Cowboy a salutary half hug before they left, he’d never done that before.
Max and Rudy walked two doors down, passing Pho Cali and a fusion restaurant neither of them had ever bothered to notice, then entered Monkey Business. The banh mis were $8. Max paid, and they each drank another beer. Max told Rudy about an old friend who was now in a touring band. One night, after getting hammered, the friend got into a verbal altercation with the woman behind the counter because she said she didn’t like the Beatles. Then Max shared another story about the same friend getting kicked out of Munchies 420 for repeatedly calling their “water pipes” bongs. Max was nearly in tears reminiscing. Rudy hadn’t seen Max so enthusiastic before. They left and continued their stroll down Main Street. A band was playing classic rock hits at Mattison’s City Grille on the corner of Lemon and Main. A group of boomers was on the dance floor, cutting a rug. Max did a jig on the corner and shouted to a couple dancing:
“You guys were the fun generation! You get it! Yeeeaah!”
Rudy laughed and dragged Max along.
“Yo, let’s go to the parking garage by Art Ovation and use these bow-knocks.”
“Yes. I like that idea.”
When they made it to the top of the parking garage, Max was holding the binoculars and said,
“I love acid, dude. I feel like that Great Gypsy, or, Grapsby guy. I run the show.” He jabbed a thumb into his chest.
“And I feel like John Rambo holding these binoculars, ‘bout to ambush these motherfuckin’ gooks.”
He held the binoculars to his face and took on a serious, inquisitive demeanor, as if scoping out enemy positions in the valley of a Southeast Asian jungle. On the rooftop below, a bunch of handsome, well-to-do fellas and pretty ladies were fraternizing around a pool and rooftop bar. Max passed the binoculars to Rudy.
“Take a gander. Over yonder.”
Rudy studied the scene.
“Imagine if we had a couple stink grenades. We could nail ‘em from here.”
Rudy rested the binoculars around his neck and yelled, “Get in the pool, pussy!” and ducked behind the wall.
Two guys turned around and saw Max staring at them, slack-jawed. The two guys barked back some incoherent insults. Max started shadowboxing to taunt them; the two guys got rowdier. Rudy peeked his head over and watched with a big grin on his face. Max threw a clumsy Muay Thai spin kick and more jabs, then stopped, caught his breath, and said,
“Wow, they’re so retarded. They’re so easy to get riled up. Maybe I should start taking steroids.”
Rudy was sitting on the ground, leaning against the parapet wall, looking through the binoculars.
“Dude, let’s get into that condo they’re building over there. The view is probably sick.”
Rudy was pointing at a twelve-story condominium that had been under construction for the last year, sitting on Tamiami Trail overlooking the bay. No exterior walls had been put up yet, essentially a hollow skeleton—the exact sort of place Max was in the state of mind to explore.