have to finish this review and answer some emails at work. I think you’re gonna like MVII when it opens next week.
Brian text messages back.
Cool. I can’t wait. See you later, man. I already emailed Ted. He’ll meet us after his Deco Time taping tonight.
How do I explain Brian? Where do I begin? He’s the craziest and hottest of our trio and the youngest at twenty-eight. He was born in North Carolina and dreamed of becoming a full-time singer, à la Josh Groban. Brian still dabbles with his music and occasionally produces demos when he can focus. (He has ADD.) He has light, sandy hair combed up with a matching goatee and dark blue eyes that remind me of the blue found only in rolling storm clouds over the Everglades. He’s 6’1” (about three inches taller than Ted and me), with an average build, yet he manages to nab all the Latin cuties. (It’s those piercing mysterious cobalt blue eyes, I tell you.) He has a wealthy Israeli entrepreneur partner that he’s been with for seven years. Brian doesn’t work because Daniel prefers that he oversee the renovations at their waterfront McMansion off the Venetian Causeway or at their condo in Chelsea. Brian also doesn’t work because he can’t stay focused on one thing at a time (the ADD, remember?). That may explain his boy craziness.
Daniel and Brian have this understanding that Ted and I have never understood. Daniel and Brian have an open relationship. They don’t have sex with each other (they lost that connection a long time ago), but they can have sex with other guys as long as they stick to one simple rule: no seconds with the same guy. And it works, they say.
With Daniel flying back and forth between Miami and New York, Brian gets to play on the side at their beach house. I guess I’m more conservative, like Papi and Mami and Racso with his college sweetheart Cindy. Our thinking is that if you’re going to want to be with someone else, then don’t be committed to your partner. Set him free and be single. Brian and Daniel seem happy, but Ted and I can’t help but think that one day, Brian is going to fall for one of his tricks, when he truly feels a passionate connection. When that happens, will Brian be able to leave his life-partner and all the good things their life together has to offer, like that slamming Land Rover and his Rolex watch? It’s almost like a gay version of Unfaithful.
It’s 6 p.m., and I have just filed my Miami Vice review. I decided to go with three and a half stars instead of my original three. The movie grew on me on my drive back to the office as I mulled over Michael Mann’s hypnotic use of his high-definition lens. He’s a cinematic virtuoso who uses rock-and-roll action shots to dazzle the viewer in this dark reupholstered version of Miami.
“Hey Patty, have a good weekend,” I tell my Arts editor as I pass her grand office. It’s down the hall from my tiny cubicle, which is covered in mini-mountains of DVDs under posters of the Godfather and Winona Ryder flicks. I grab my messenger bag and swing it over my neck as I head down the hallway, passing the mostly empty cubicles that sit under rows of ultra-bright fluorescent lights. I’m not surprised that most of the Arts writers are gone for the day, leaving the newsroom a ghost town on a Friday afternoon. The only people left here are the over-caffeinated and overstressed copy editors and designers who are getting to work on tomorrow and Sunday’s pages as well as our Web site.
“You too, Ray. I’ve only read the top, but nice Vice review. If I have any questions, we can deal with it Monday. Take it easy,” Patty says, returning to her computer screen. I finally get to leave this place for the weekend. I walk out of the building through the front entrance and hop back into my Nissan. I’m about to turn onto the Venetian Causeway with Miami’s small forest of skyscrapers filling my rearview mirror when I hear my cell phone playing the theme song to 2001: A Space Odyssey. I check the caller ID, and I see that it’s Racso, probably wanting to bug me about something.
“Hey, little brother! How was Miami Vice today?” he asks in his butch guy’s guy voice, which I don’t have. Mine is a little more sarcastic and whiney.
“Well, you’ll just have to read the review next week.” I approach the white Spanish-style tollbooth at the causeway and fly right through, thanks to my SunPass.
“Oh please! If I focus hard enough, I can probably sense what you thought. Let’s see. Hmmm. You kinda liked it. You thought it was entertaining, but you didn’t see the reason why it needed to be made, right?”
Damn it! My brother is good, really good at reading me, even from across town. I hate how he knows what I’m thinking. It’s like he has this twin telepathy thing that gives him a secret access to my thoughts and emotions, but it only works one way. He can sense me, but I can’t sense what’s going on with him. Why was he born with that ability and not me? Because of that twin ESP, he always knew when I was lying when we were growing up. It’s just another thing that makes Racso more special to our parents.
“Close but no cigar,” I tell him, passing Brian’s majestic house with the grand black gates on San Marco Island. I see that he’s home. His silver Land Rover sits in the driveway.
“Yeah right, Ray! You know I’m right. You just hate admitting it when I am. Listen Miami Movie boy, I need to know if you’re gonna be able to pick me up from the dealership tomorrow. My car is acting up again. Cindy is tutoring some students in the afternoon, and I think Papi and Mami are going to Abuela’s house in Kendall.”
“Yeah, I can pick you up. Call me when you get to Miami Toyota,” I tell him, passing all the island estates. “I still think you should get a new car. That Toyota Corolla is nine years old, chico.”
“Well, when I make the money that you make at the paper, then I can afford something nicer, but for now I’m on a teacher’s salary and I might as well be paid in magic beans. This Corolla will have to do. Thanks for giving me the ride tomorrow. Talk to you later,” Racso says
“No problem,” I say before flipping my cell phone closed, crossing the last island on the causeway, and hanging a right on West Avenue.
It’s 6:20 p.m., and I’m only a few blocks from my condo. I’ll have plenty of time to walk Gigli, my rascally black mutt of a dog named after a really bad J. Lo movie (admit it, you read my review and decided not to see it). I’ll have just enough time to drop by Puerto Sagua restaurant on Collins Avenue for a media noche sandwich and mamey shake and then take a disco nap before tonight. Once I walk inside my one-bedroom apartment and toss my keys on my kitchen bar counter, I start to think that maybe I should have given Miami Vice three stars because it really wasn’t all that good—but I know tonight with the guys will be.
2
Ted
“And now we leave you with the newest video by Paris Hilton shot in our very own backyard. See if you recognize the bar in the club scene and spot, ahem, a certain dashing Channel 7 reporter. For Deco Time, I’m Ted Williams.”
“Oh Ted, you’re so modest. Not!” my co-host cuts in and turns my way. She squints and sticks her tongue out while shuffling a fake script in front of her. We ad-lib this so much that our producers never know what’s going to fly out of our mouths anymore.
“And I’m Trina Tucker. See you next time on Deco Time.”
The producer cues the Paris Hilton video, and her computer-enhanced vocals starts to play. My producer gestures that we’re about to go off the air in 5…4…3…2…1.
I flash a smile as wide as I can, keep my gaze locked on camera one, and wink at Trina, who sits to my left. She turns to me and then to camera two for her farewell closeup. We playfully hit each other with the unnecessary script as the picture fades into the Hilton video with the show’s credits rolling over it.
“And you’re done!” Sheila, my producer, says into my earpiece, which I gladly start unhooking, but I’m not going to let Trina off the hook that easily.
“You bitch!” I tell Trina as she takes off her earpiece and tucks her Beyoncé un-be-weavable straight hair behind her ears. She also detaches her mini-microphone, which is amazingly nestled out of sight between her bodacious boobs. I’m surprised we don’t need to call Miami-Dade Fire Rescue to excavate the darn thing