Their journey to the condo was four blocks. As Max and Rudy sleuthed by Classico “Modern Italiano,” there was a family eating dinner at one of the tables outside, an alcove encased in vines. There was a young man at the center with a cupcake in front of him and candles that were lit and said “21.” Aside from the young man, who was wearing baggy sweat shorts and an oversized designer T-shirt and foam slip-ons, the rest of the family were in business casual for the occasion. Max couldn’t let it slide. He leaned in, patted the young guy on the shoulder and said, “It’s not sleepy time, pal. Happy birthday.”
The music thumping out of the restaurant had a quality and depth Max had never cared to listen for and often resisted.
He said to Rudy in a hushed tone, “I think the globalists are subliminally programming us to eat shrimp alfredo… and it’s working.”
The last movie that Max and Jerm had watched together was They Live, immediately followed by Jerm VJing Alex Jones highlights on YouTube. Everywhere Max turned in this moment he saw sheeple in expensive perfumes and colognes, decked head to toe in fast fashion. He didn’t know whether to pray at an altar or strap dynamite to his chest - not from disdain, for their own good. The synthesis bred in him a manic, nihilistic euphoria. He thought, Charles Manson, the Unabomber, Osama bin Laden, the Trench Coat Mafia - if only they’d had a sense of humor.
Thinking out loud, Max said, “Trench Coat Mafia would have been a good name for a wigger-goth rap group.”
Rudy tried to laugh, but what came out was a menacing, breathy dismissal through clenched teeth.
Rudy was not digging the outsider trip. In fact, something had warped his sensibilities on their way down the stairwell of the parking garage. It was probably the 50 mg Adderall he’d crushed and snorted off his center console before he walked into RG’s, now fully synergizing with the acid. An uncanny feeling came over him that all these people around must be holograms, or sleepwalking, or - even more eerie - paid actors living fake lives in a small city on the west coast of south Florida. Everything was predictable and yet totally novel in this intoxicated time trap of rapid speed wobbles and the loitering eternity of LSD.
They continued down Palm. The crest of the unfinished condo loomed on the horizon like a shrine as they passed through the strange lands of geriatric cultural molestation - boutiques, cafes, restaurants, hair salons. There was nothing for them here, until they passed by Caragiulo’s “American Italian,” stated with pride in gold on the front door. Max ogled the atmosphere: dark, warm lighting from sparsely placed lamps, tables collaged with old movie posters and ephemera. Max pointed to an old man eating dinner with his wife at the Bad Lieutenant table and gave the man an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Next door was Grainer’s Fine Men’s Clothing. Max stopped to window-shop the tweed coats and dress shirts with sophisticated patterns that took a trained eye to appreciate - which he did not, but would like to. He always thought it would be cool to show up to the pool hall dressed like an Ivy League professor and run through a few racks of 9-ball.
They continued, past the Church of the Redeemer, through the roundabout on Ringling Boulevard and one more block until the large skeleton of a structure stood tall above them along with the other condos lining the street. They were all bone white, with windows sporadically lit and would remain so until the snowbird invasion begins in early winter. Not a car, nor a soul walked the street. The traffic from Bayshore Road, just one block west, echoed through the corridors between the buildings, sounding almost like a waterfall.
Max stood in the middle of the street admiring, for the first time, the overwhelming might of the buildings, with their stoic neo-modern facades. Not feeling resentment or envy, just being impressed. These tall shafts of concrete had always represented literal ivory towers for himself and Jerm.
“Check it out,” Rudy said, holding up an unlocked padlock and chain.
“Perfect,” Max said and jogged toward the open gate in the long chain-link fence that concealed the first division of the building with a green tarp. Among the placards for construction contractors, concrete specialists and other specialties was a sign that said Lambert Developments LLC.