Max got dressed at a quarter to seven. He put on a black T-shirt and tucked it into his black jeans with no belt. Then he put on a well-worn black denim jean jacket with a small tear on the right elbow. He slipped on his motorcycle boots, slid open the closet door, and grabbed his helmet off the shelf—open-faced, sun-beaten black with scuffs and paint chipping off it.
In the back of the closet, there were two unfinished oil paintings, both 3' x 6'. The painting facing him was a realistic scene of his bedroom corner from outside: worn yellow wood paneling shrouded in fauna—big elephant ears, clusters of bamboo, and weeds. He moved the first painting and looked at the one behind it: the birdbath in his mother's front yard in Venice. It had been three months since he'd worked on either of the paintings. He set his helmet back on the shelf and slid the door closed.
Jerm had moved from the couch to his bedroom at the back of the house and had been playing Chief Keef; the bass was making the old wood-framed windows buzz. When it stopped, Max knew Jerm was working on beats, so he approached Jerm's door and knocked.
"Password?" came muffled through the hollow-core door.
"Ruffles have ridges."
"You may enter."
Jerm was sitting at his desk, experimenting with drum samples on FruityLoops on his gaming PC. His left hand was on his MIDI keyboard. A fresh Monster JAVA was perspiring on his desk.
"I'm going to the bar; not sure when I'll be back."
"I'll be up."
Jerm swished a gulp of his beverage and never looked away from the screen.
Max walked out to the rusted metal shed and slid open the undented door. Inside, his 1984 Honda Magna VF700C was parked in first gear. He swung his left leg over the sissy bar, grabbed the handlebars, squeezed the clutch with his left hand, leaned right, kicked back the kickstand, clicked up to neutral with his left foot, let go of the clutch, and reverse-walked the heavy bike into the driveway.
Shells crunched under the tires. He cut the handlebars left and positioned the bike for exit. He removed the key from the breast pocket of his jacket and turned on the bike. Unconsciously, he checked his opposite breast pocket for cigarettes but realized he was out, then put on his gas station speeder shades and kicked into first gear. A candy-red Cutlass rolled by, blaring slowed rap. He took a right out of the driveway, heading south, and gave it gas. He kicked into second, then third as he sped down Central Ave. A pitbull thought about chasing, then sat down and licked its balls. He turned left, then took a blind right turn around an overgrown lot. Straight ahead, canopy and jungle on the right, train tracks and open skies to his left. He gave it full throttle for the length of the block, then let off and eased into the line of traffic turning onto MLK. A small brigade of YNs on ATVs and dirt bikes cut off traffic going east on MLK. They shouted street names and nicknames to a group of younger YNs turning down Central Ave on bicycles. They popped wheelies on BMX and mountain bikes, threw up hand signs, yelling abbreviated street names and block numbers. One called Max "cracker" when he looked at them.
Max turned right on MLK, heading west. He passed FOOD STORE. After a block, the buildings went from rugged to ultra-modern as he approached the art college. At a traffic light, he caught the look of a Korean girl—he stared at her stone-faced through his shades. She looked away. He looked her up and down one more time and took off behind a black convertible Scion piloted by an old barfly. The old dude took a right at the intersection of MLK and Tamiami Trail, heading north towards Memories Cocktail Lounge. Max ran the yellow across the intersection and turned into the Shell gas station. He left the bike idling out front while he went in to buy a pack of smokes.
On Bayshore Rd, two-story homes ran along the right-hand side, a blur tucked away in private jungles as he sped by. A canopy of mossy oaks displayed a fractured mosaic on the asphalt. He slowed and took the curve right along the small park by the bay—high tide, waves crashing, small as they may be. The storm clusters out over the Gulf past Lido Key broke sun rays into golden columns; the sky was a gradient of pink to purple as dusk approached. He passed the benches where the Mud People gathered—an eclectic group of misfits, alcoholics, failed ravers, pseudo-crustpunks, a man who stole Desert Storm valor—all flimflammers welcome. Their red, slack-jawed faces, framed by stinky dreadlocks, turned as Max rolled by slowly, revving loud. The square-headed woman with a missing front tooth yelled something his way. Max honked and said, "Your pussy stinks like a grease trap." The crowd stepped forward, shouting. Max laughed and peeled off. The old woman yelled, "Nice boots, faggot!" He made his way out of the neighborhood and headed south on Tamiami. At a roundabout, he snaked a white Tesla and flipped off the driver like it wasn't his own infraction.
He savored the ride over the Ringling Bridge back toward Lido Key, where he had been working hours prior. Afternoon runners and walkers crossed the bridge. The air was still hot and thick. After his descent, he made a U-turn and headed back towards downtown, this time cranking the throttle in fourth gear. The sun was descending; golden rays reflected off the windows along the skyline. Retirees drank wine on their balconies; construction cranes were frozen mid-pirouette.
Max took the Gulfstream Ave exit off the roundabout on Tamiami. Old men stood on the corner chatting, holding little dogs on leashes, like mirror images of one another dripped head to toe in Tommy Bahama regalia. He took a backstreet walled in by two high-rises; the reverberating engine made a hypnotic, heavy racket. He made two more turns and parked on the bottom floor of a parking garage next to a Triumph and a Ducati.
There was a missed call from Rudy. Max called him back and set it to speakerphone, then placed the flip phone in his left breast pocket upside down and lit a cigarette.
"Hello?"
"What's up, man? I just parked on State Street, about to walk over."
Max heard pill bottles rattling in the background.
"I'll be there in a little bit; just gotta make a drop-off at this dude's house."
"Sounds good."
"I think Damien and them might be there."
"Alright, maybe I'll say what's up," Max said, not having any intention of actually doing so.
"I shouldn't be long, just making one stop. I'll see you there."
Max hung up and walked to an alleyway behind Main Street. He stepped over a roach that was skittering between puddles. The transformers overhead protruded wires like spider legs to buildings on both sides of the alley. A short Guatemalan was throwing trash into a dumpster. Max said, "Buenas noches." Halfway down the block, there was a circular standing table next to a glossy black metal door with the letters "RG" hand-painted on it.