I was out of the door early and over the bridge within minutes of my phone going off – it was still dark. I jogged through Little Havana past dark coin laundries and cafeterias and climbed the hill that leads up to the Flagler bridge since last night’s junkies still occupied the stairs. To the left of the bridge a condemned turn-of-the-century mid-rise was perched on the river; to the right the raw beams of an unfinished condominium high-rise. Within a few months the mid-rise will be leveled and replaced with similar beams.
The city’s skyline appeared as I reached the top of the bridge. It was just like the glamorized shots of the city on TV. Down the bridge and under the expressway – I entered downtown. I approached the courthouse and the Starbucks. Both were still closed but would spring to life in a couple of hours.
In front of Starbucks a day worker was passed out on his back middle of the sidewalk still reeking of alcohol. One of his legs rested on an overturned black crate – probably what he sat on before succumbing to exhaustion and smacking on the ground. I wasn’t sure if he was alive as I approached in a slow jog until he licked his mustache and belched, moving the dirty black cap still firmly attached to his head. I trotted around him trying unsuccessfully not to breathe in the funk.
Flocks of homeless sleep on downtown’s covered sidewalks in long, neat rows. Even when the nighttime temperature hovers in the 70’s they still wrap their bodies in layers of dirty blankets, like rows of corpses hiding from an omnipresent winter. As I jogged past one of these rows of corpses the sight of chunky skater shoes made me stop. A boy around was lying in the row of bodies. Unlike the others he was not wrapped in a blanket. He laid on the sidewalk relaxed, legs crossed, with his head resting against the marble façade of the bank. He shifted his weight a little, but kept his dirty orange cap over his face. Who is this boy, my age?
– A few homeless people watched me as I crossed Biscayne Boulevard.
– An old Cuban guy who was almost-speed-walking around the fountain shot me a glare. I bet he thought I was another wino.
– There will be a day when I can’t do this anymore.
– Daylight escorted me over the bridge and through Little Havana. Four elderly Hispanic men waited impatiently outside of a coin laundry with large white sacks. One wearing short slacks and dress shoes began singing something in Spanish.
– The neighborhood was awake – people stood outside of houses chattering away in Spanish, a young man stumbled past me probably returning home from whomever’s house last night ended at. As I approached 6th avenue a stocky guy in his mid 30’s asked me if I had a pipe.
On 12th Avenue old women with short curly hair opened up Café con leche stands and dollar stores. The sun had almost risen. I crossed into Allahpattah by the 12th avenue bridge. As I went down the stairs on the side of the bridge, the bridge attendant opened his door and shot me a nasty look. He probably was convinced I was another bum trying to camp out under his bridge. Why am I always mistaken for homeless people?
I smiled at him and passed the gate with a bit of a skip. He scoffed and slammed his door.
I didn’t go to my apartment, I went to my car.
The sun rose over Miami as my tiny, old Celica zipped over the expressway. I was bound for the Hialeah Wal-Mart. (e-yeah!)
– The faint clunk of Reaggeton from some distant speaker could be heard. The day had officially started. Welcome to Hia-leah!
