REKT - Chapter 28
M.I.A.
I am all too aware that I am in Miami. Not only am I here, but I am in a creepy part of town. It’s a few miles from downtown. They are clearing out the warehouses and replacing them with a ‘district’. This hotel is the first completed building on the block. Out the window the skeletons of uncompleted construction loom in the tropical sun, already rusting, ready to be devoured by this climate before they are even completed.
Why build it here? This place will be lost in decades, underwater as the ocean marches inland and reclaims dominion over swamp and sand. The streets in Miami flood with every rain, every king tide. They overflow and become impassable when storm and moon converge to push tides up, to bring water onshore. Everyone can see what is coming. It is obvious, it is clear as day. Yet, no one stops. No one hits pause on the construction boom. There are condos and hotels and shopping districts to build. There are pedestrian friendly plazas which can be anchored by luxury fashion brands and Maserati dealerships. There is the con of money to continue on with. It is linked closely here to its sister con, real estate.
Offshoring is onshoring when it comes to Miami. Everyone talks about how we are shipping jobs, factories, futures out of America, but no one talks about what we are taking in. How we are the world’s biggest laundromat. How we create markets, consume contraband, and then the money from that is used to build temporary cities like Miami. Cocaine construction in the face of climate change. Money laundering magnet. The profits from every illicit activity south of here sucked up into Miami. This is why they build in the face of such foolishness. The money is discounted. It needs to be cleaned and cycled out. There’s no future here. There’s just a giant shell game. Miami is its very own bubble. That must be why we keep getting sucked back in here. We are bubble people drawn to bubble towns and bubble money. We are pop stars, taken in by flashy new things that are not meant to last. We are global bubble citizens.
Somedays I feel that the entire world is going to come apart at the seams. All the news is bad news. No one tells me the good news. No, they just tell me about who is being victimized. What war in what outpost province is bringing a people to the brink of ruin. We argue about what America is supposed to do, then we argue about what we as woke citizens are supposed to do. What am I to the Rohynga? Do the Uigurs know about me? How should South Sudan respond to my worsening mental state? Will Nigeria bring my mind back after we bring their girls back?
I feel like a piece of shit for thinking that way. I’m not sympathetic, no empathetic, to the plight of the world, but there was a time when I didn’t know about the entire fucking world in all its gory, dehumanizing detail. It wasn’t popping up on feeds, it wasn’t being flashed across chyrons in urgent alerts. The nineties weren’t turning some poor pathetic boat person into a terror threat to my way of life. I didn’t even have a fucking way of life. I had a bike I rode around on. I had friends’ houses to play video games at. I could fly as an unaccompanied minor and have my folks meet me at the gate. I’m not even online that much.
That’s a lie. I’m online all day, all the fucking time. I’m scrolling news, I’m watching videos, I’m getting caught up in hot takes about the starting quarterback for football teams I could care less about. I’m trying to keep up with memes. I’m worried that I won’t understand the latest dance, challenge, and craze. My emoji speak is shit. I’m losing my edge. I’m losing my edge. What if I can’t laugh at someone’s casual quip because I missed a joke online? What if I cannot express the proper level of concern for a flightless fucking bird being devastated by an invasive lizard species from Asia that pet owners are turning loose in sewers?
Why do they keep building so many fucking buildings in Miami? Why am I here? Who left me alone in this room with myself? I can’t be around myself any longer, but THEY won’t talk to me about the money anymore. They are worried that all this fake magical money isn’t good for me. They are worried that I cannot handle the level of flow through the bubble, and they are right. They are so fucking right. Yet, I am in Miami. I am holed up by myself in a hotel room in some tropical goth district filled with exoskeletons of cranes attached to the frames of glass and steel con jobs being built so a bunch of assholes on the edge can park their money in something safe like an empty, useless, luxury building whose lobby is going to be a fish tank for piranha or whatever ecological nightmare invades this con fucking town when we stop pretending climate change is not real and do something about it.
Also, it’s called global warming. The planet is getting warmer. It’s going to burn up, melt all the fucking ice and flood Miami.
Meanwhile, I’m alone in this room because my partners are off trying to get something over on Erskine before he blackmails the only man in crypto with principles. I don’t even know what getting one over means because they’ve stopped talking to me about it. After I lost my fucking shit on the plane because, well because everything is all too much, they flew me here and arranged for help to arrive. Doctor Hector Vargas or something to that effect is supposed to be coming by for a mental health consultation. He was supposed to be coming by three hours ago. I called his office two hours ago. No one answered. I called again, an hour ago. No one answered. I’m on the phone with them now. I have a live human at the doctor’s office. She has no record of my appointment. They don’t work with the app that Andy used to book the appointment. They’ve never worked with that company, only heard of them because people having a crisis like myself have called flipping the fuck out when help never arrived.
Is there any chance Hector Vargas can come by and see me? No. He’s not in the country. He doesn’t really practice here. He doesn’t practice much at all. In fact, he’s here for the real estate. The doctoring thing was just a front. The most expedient way in the door. Immigration you see. A plus is that there’s a big overlap between people seeking concierge level mental health treatment and looking at real estate opportunities. The doctor has some great investment properties if I am interested in diversifying my portfolio. If I want to get out of embezzlement and into property speculation. If I want to buy a plot of land that’s soon to be beachfront adjacent property. I need to take a longer-term view of the market down here. I need to make global warming work for me.
“Are you paid hourly or on commission?” I ask the receptionist/inside salesperson in the employ of Doctor Hector Vargas.
“Both. I also have a downline,” she answers in a very chipper Venezuelan accent. I now know what they sound like because of the crisis in their country. They have no power. They have no food. Inflation is out of control. I hate to say this, but we investigated the arbitrage opportunity of bitcoin in Venezuela. See there’s a premium because their money is worthless. Their money is so worthless that they can’t pay printers to print more money. I’m getting lost, I’m getting carried away in the problems of Cartagena or Curacao or Caracas. I can’t remember.
“What’s a downline?” I almost regret asking, but I’m looking for someone to talk to. If I cannot get Doctor Vargas then I will get his receptionist/inside salesperson/downliner named…fuck, I forgot her name. Isabelle something. It’s too late now to ask. I’ll look like I don’t care if I ask now, and I don’t. I just want someone to talk to me.
“Funny you should ask. I’m recruiting new representatives for my sales organization as we speak.” This is MLM, pyramid scheme shit. Cons within cons within cons. Hang up. Hang up before you find yourself on a deeper level of this story. Keep talking and she’ll have you worried about her brother in Cancun…no Cancun is definitely in Mexico. It’s Cartagena or Curacao or Caracas. Hang the fuck up or you’ll be turning fake money into US money to wire into worthless Venezuelan money for a brother who probably doesn’t even exist.
I’m getting out of here. I cannot do this shit. I should have never come to Miami. Where the fuck are my partners? Why did Niko leave me alone? Let’s get out of here. Let’s go to Phoenix. Let’s go to Maui. Let’s call that referral Dr. Wendy gave you five, six, ten weeks ago or whenever all this shit started to get away from you. He’s a real doctor. He doesn’t want to sell you timeshares. Get the fuck away from here. Take your own life back under control. Fuck these guys. Get out before no one can put the cracked-up shell of yourself back together again.
Where am I going? Maui or Phoenix? Maybe Phoenix then Maui? This place is not safe. This whole fucking town is in on it, and they can smell the sucker on you. Get out of here before someone blackmails you again. Get out before they lock you back up. Maybe they left you alone here so someone can kidnap you again? Who leaves a guy that was just kidnapped alone? UNLESS YOU WEREN’T KIDNAPPED. UNLESS THEY ARE GOING TO KIDNAP YOU AGAIN. Get out of here. Go to Atlanta or Houston and figure out your next destination from there. You won’t even need to leave the airport. Just get out of Miami and then book the next leg when you are safe. This place is not safe. Erskine is out there. Andy is out there. Niko is out there. Oh Niko, why did you leave me again? Why did you hold my hand if you were just going to leave me again?
Get out of here now.
***
I am in economy comfort on Delta. I am on my way to Atlanta, no Houston. I almost went to Atlanta because they fly non-stop to Honolulu and that’s close to Maui, but then I checked, and I missed the flight for the day. I’m on my way to Houston because it still has flights to Phoenix or Los Angeles. I can get to Maui from LAX.
The flight attendant is avoiding me. It’s amazing how good people are at avoiding eye contact when you want their attention. I’m on my second round of Woodford doubles. This is why she is avoiding me. This flight is not long enough for me to have a third round of doubles. I know this. I was going to order a Miller Lite and nurse that for the rest of the flight. I’d feel better with a drink in my hand. There’s a comfort there that I need right now. There’s nothing to comfort me. My Klonopin is making me fuzzy, but not buzzy. The fuzz is reminding me that I am losing my edge. That I am not in control and not sufficiently out of control. I’m on the edge. I’m on the edge of the bubble. I’m on the edge of my life. I’m on the edge of control.
Kelvin called me three times on my way to the airport. I did not answer any of them in the hopes that he would leave a voicemail or send a message clarifying what he was calling about. He didn’t. He was cryptic, cagey, like he didn’t want the nature of this conversation captured on tape. I’d forgotten about MercuryOne’s $36.9 million. I’d forgotten about all the money Kelvin was supposed to get on Monday. They said they paid Kelvin, but what if they were lying? I have no idea if we paid Kelvin or not because I was locked up in nowhere waiting to be ransomed for fifty million dollars. Only I don’t think the fifty million ransom was real and I’m getting worried that we didn’t pay Kelvin his enormous amount of money.
Did I notice that I was whisked off to Miami before I could even think about filing a police report? Did I notice how I turned up in a parking garage at the airport and there was a jet conveniently waiting for me? Did I notice how quickly they all agreed it was Bull God, then introduced a bigger crisis with this Erskine blackmail shit? Why didn’t they take me to Phoenix like I asked? Why did they leave me alone in that condo waiting for a doctor who was never coming? They were setting me up. They were going to finish the job.
A different steward comes to my row, turns off the light and leans in. He’s the one who's been chatting it up with a guy three rows back. I’ve been unable to tune their conversation out for the last five minutes. All quick and flirty, a couple guys who don’t know each other landing on a shared connection a minute into the conversation. That instant comfort they have once they find common ground. The flight attendant has no idea I’m on my second round of double Woodfords.
“Can I get you something?” His face is bright and friendly.
“A Woodford and a ginger ale.”
Yes. The ginger ale is a good cover. It makes sense too. You are going to need it. We can’t be flying on five Woodfords on our first leg without something else to water that down.
“Pretzels, chips, nuts?” He’s on to me. He sees I’m a bit fucked up. Yes, snacks make sense. Snakes are good too. Snacks, not snakes. Snakes are fucking bad. Snakes are in Miami. Snakes are everywhere. They even made a movie about motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane. We are going to Maui. They don’t have snakes in Maui.
“Yes,” I answer.
He’s looking at me blankly. I did that wrong. What did I do wrong?
“Sorry, it's been a long couple of weeks. Pretzels and nuts please. Thank you so much.”
“Coming right up.”
Snakes on a plane. Snakes on a mother fucking plane. Don’t think that. Don’t think that. Let’s go to Maui. You are not in a state for anyone to see you. Don’t freak your parents out with this sort of shit. You haven’t been home in almost a year, don’t show up all crazy. Go to Maui, get that little cottage. Go see Dr. Wendy’s friend. Where’s the card for that? Where is the card for that?
These little trays are too fucking small. Why do they make everything on these planes so fucking small? I’m putting money, vouchers, dry cleaning tickets, loyalty rewards cards on the tray. I cannot find the folded-up piece of scrip pad Dr. Wendy gave me. I put it, put it, put it in the wallet. Shit, I just knocked the last of my Woodford over. There’s watery bourbon ice on my pants. The mean flight attendant is looking at me. She’s giving the nice flight attendant dirty looks. Please, I just want my bourbon ginger Dr. Wendy referral. Please, let’s not be snakes on this plane. Maui has volcanoes. Volcanoes won’t end up underwater. I can live my life on the side of the volcano. There’s no bubble in Maui.
“Oops, let me get you some napkins,” the steward says.
“Wait, wait.”
“Yes?”
“Can I have my drinks please? I’m sorry. I know this doesn’t look good. Please, this will be it for me. I’m just having a really hard time. I just need a little kindness,” I beg him.
He smiles at me, “We’ve all been there.” He pours the ginger ale into a cup and slides a little bottle of brown into the pocket of the seatback. “Let me get you some napkins. We’ll get you all cleaned up. Whatever you are looking for, it can wait.” He points at the inconsequential pile of my life. The trash heap of my wallet, missing the one ticket that can get me well. I smile and start folding. No snakes on this plane. No snakes on this plane. We are going to Maui.