Chronicles Of a Miami Memorial Weekend (Final Part): Recovering Crackheads And a Filthy Cockroach

Remember when I said I'd finish the last part of my Memorial Weekend saga in five days?

Well... that was ten days ago, so I’m obviously a liar. Or not good at keeping my promises. Either way I have failed to deliver the goods and I'm giving you permission to punish me as you see fit.

***Let me just point out that I think the worse possible acts of punishments come in vodka or cupcake form, because those things are awful and no one else should have to endure them, except me.

There's no sense in beating around the bush so here’s the end to the weekend that turned me into a vampire and made me lose all faith I had left in nighclubs, rehab, cheap vodka, ghetto men and their ability to kill cockroaches.

Whatever. Just read.
The fact that I even remember any of this is proof enough that I am beyond mortality. I'm on a whole other level right now, or at least my liver is.

After Saturday night's toilet paper and Taco fiasco, I slept a total of four hours and was awoken by the sound of my house phone (that fucking thing is going to drive me to drink) telling me there were two vampires in training waiting for me downstairs.
10:30 a.m. Lola and my buddy Sad are rushing me along to get ready for a day of "eating and drinking" somewhere in South Miami. I'm dragging some major ass all the while trying to make my hair do something that doesn't defy gravity, but once again, I fail. I throw on the first wrinkled dress I find, change purses and dash out the door to greet the troublemakers.
10:55 a.m. I ask Lola to please drive to McDonalds so I can buy ten cheeseburgers for my dogs, as it is obvious that today is not off to a good start and God knows when I'll be able to feed them again. Ten minutes later I'm upstairs handing out burgers when I realize those jerks at McDonalds gave me two cheeseburgers without meat! I can't just feed my dogs bread and cheese! What kind of a heartless person would do such a thing? I call bullshit.11:42 a.m. We arrive at Cheesecake Factory with the intentions of eating lunch and killing last night's major hangover with a carb overdose. Instead, we each have three drinks and munch with little interest on a few chicken quesadillas.

2:32 p.m. Knocking back some beers at a quaint little beer bar in Sunset Place called Cervezas. The walls here are covered with cheap cocktail art and signs that I just know are reading my mind. It's totally creeping me out.
6:10 p.m. I arrive home in a rush to shower and "un-cavewoman" myself before bursting through my door once again to go to Sunday happy hour with my buddy Elly.


7:22 p.m. Sitting at the outdoor bar of RA restaurant with Elly, drinking the most delicious mango margarita ever made by man. Only five dollars, y'all. Good til' midnight.



8:25 p.m. I seriously don't even know how I'm alive and kicking by now. You would think that by this point I would be peeling myself up off the floor and asking someone to bury me at the nearest grave site. But alas! That isn't the case. As I sip my second margarita, I'm completely clear headed and my thoughts are like needles, sharp as all hell.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.


9:05 p.m. My phone is ringing off the hook and people whose names I don't know just pop up randomly on the screen. There's a dude named Sidekick that keeps calling and terrifying me. Every time he calls, I picture the Karate Kid coming to beat my ass with num chucks.
I don't answer.
I just ignore, ignore, ignore.
9:30 p.m. My Blackberry alerts me that the best friend is calling.
Me: Hey hey!
Olivia: Oh my God I am in Vegas right now and you so have to get your ass up here.
Me: I have a job honey, remember?
Olivia: Why?
Me: Because some of us don't spend all our time traveling and partying.
Olivia: That was the most hypocritical thing you've ever said to me. Take it back.
Me: Okay, fine. But I work because I have bills to pay and three mouths to feed.
Olivia: They're dogs! They don't need to eat that much.
Me: I'm hanging up now...
Olivia: No wait! I called because I wanted to tell you something. Guess who I ran into?
Me: Jesus.
Olivia: No, that's you. You're the one who works in a church, not me. Guess! Guess!
Me: I don't have time for this!
Olivia: You're ex-boyfriend. Rafa! And we're all here at Rehab and this pool party is crazy and I've had like ten shots of tequila and you should see all these skinny bitches walking around here with their six packs, it's disgusting. Hold on a second he wants to-
Rafa: Why aren't you here?
Me: Because I hate Vegas.
Rafa: Who hates Vegas?
Me: Vampires.
Rafa: You should be here.
Me: I know. I would've been there had Olivia told me she was going.
Rafa: She said you hated Vegas.
Me: I do. Anyway I gotta run. I miss you. We all have to hang.
Rafa: We will. This isn't the last trip of the year I'm sure.
Me: I'm flat broke, but we'll see what we can cook up.
Rafa: That's the spirit! Olivia's drunk. I'm hanging up now. Talk to you later.
Gah... is it really only nine?

9:32 p.m. I'm sipping on something yummy and fruity when I hear a loud commotion a few feet away. Girls are shrieking loudly and pointing at a dark shape on the floor when I spot it, the biggest fucking roach I've ever seen. This was like, the Arnold Schwarzenegger of roaches, guys. It was just chillin' there on the floor, while four ghetto guys stood around it looking stupefied, as if they'd never seen a Palmetto bug before in their lives.Once I gain my composure and am able to utter words that don't sound like, hmph crrsk killim, I frantically yell at the guys to please kill the roach and put us all out of our misery. They just stand there, the pussies.
Taking matter into my own hands, I jump out of my stool and march over to the stupid roach, fueled by the courage that is Jose Cuervo.
I ninja chop the roach with my heel and the crunchy sound that follows assures me that yes, we are all safe.

I look up at the ghetto guys half-expecting to see relief on their faces, yet all they give me are indignant looks that scream, how dare you? They proceed to put a napkin over the roach and slowly step away from it. I was seriously hoping they'd hold hands and say a prayer, begging Jesus to please take this roach's soul into the eternal gates of heaven, but they didn't.
Twenty minutes later my friend Roxy calls and begs me to join her in South Beach for some salsa dancing. If you didn't read Part I, then all you need to know is this: South Beach is off limits on Memorial Day weekend. Even for me, that's too much madness. Roxy lives out of town and I have a hard time declining her invite, so what's a girl to do? On the way south, I make sure to pick up Lola and two flasks of cheap vodka, the only sidekicks I'm happy to see flash up on my phone.

11:12 p.m. It would be a futile effort to try and describe the madness that is South Beach once we arrive. If aliens landed on earth tomorrow and the apocalypse was taking place meanwhile vampires, ninjas and zombies all roamed freely, that's how it is right about now. Only that everyone is drunk. And happy. And possibly on drugs.

11:37 p.m. We arrive at a latin bar we love called Macondo ready to attack our flasks when...

Fackkkkkkkkkkkkkk.

Lola asks me if I'd like to take a few shots of our Exxon Mobile gasoline flasks prior to entering Macondo. Does she even need to ask?
And so we hike it up back to the car and brace ourselves for a few shots of the jet fuel needed to brave the night. Had we known where it would later take us, we would've never swallowed the poison in the first place.

Inside Macondo the music is jumping and there's Latin energy to spare. We dance for a few hours until the crowd is unbearable and way too many people have stepped on our feet and the bartender who's in love with Roxy has given us way too many rounds of free drinks. My mind is no longer sharp as needles. I can honestly say that at this point it's pretty dull, like pre-school scissors. Or something like that.
2:05 a.m. We've just left Macondo and are on our way to calling it a night when we pass Heathrow Lounge, a rock-star mega-club in its heyday that now only hosts VIP parties once in a blue moon. As we walk by the now empty club and it's glass walls, I spot two guys on the inside and smile, glad that in less than an hour, traffic permitting, I'll be in my bed. Once again I got a little ahead of myself, as those are not the plans the party gods have intended for me on this fine night. As we walk by, one of the guys behind the glass waves at me and beckons for us to come inside the club. I motion with my hands what I can only hope translates my confusion, meanwhile he continues to wave us towards the door. Lola looks at me and says, "Why not?"

And with this, we enter the emptiness that is now Heathrow Lounge with our two new friends, Christian and Stanley.
2:21 a.m. Heathrow is one of those rare places in Miami where the decor isn't overly trendy or tacky. In fact, it's grandeur is so breathtaking and its theme so original, it boggles my mind as to why it's not one of the most popular nightclubs in South Beach. Nevertheless tonight I get a private tour of a club I've wanted to come to for months, even if it is super dark in here and Roxy and I bump against robots and knights as we explore and take pictures, meanwhile Lola and our new friends mix free drinks behind the bar.
3:05 a.m. We've made the rounds of introductions and background checks over a few spiked energy drinks. It's becoming apparent that tonight I will get no sleep and tomorrow will be a sea of regrets and forgotten memories. Our new friends, Christian and Stanley, both work for this lovely establishment and have proven themselves to be quite the hosts. At this juncture it's obvious that Roxy has the hots for Stanley and Christian, has the hots for me.
As the conversation progresses, we learn that Stanley is a recovering crack addict who has just celebrated his 10th month sober. I give Roxy a look that says "project" but she pretends not to notice, giggling at his every word and nodding giddily when he asks her if she'd like a tour of the upstairs lounge. This leaves Christian, Lola and yours truly to our own devices. By this point Lola has picked a couch in which she's snoring blissfully, dreaming of unicorns and rainbows I'm sure (her two favorite things when under the influence).

Christian is sitting on the couch next to me and as my exhaustion washes over me, I ask him if it's okay to lay my head on his lap, to which he has no opposition. We talk for what seems like hours and the conversation flows easily, I allow my guard down in a manner I only do with close friends. It feels nice to just be able to talk to someone of the opposite sex without any expectations or hidden agendas. The conversation eventually flows in the direction of friendships and I ask him to tell me about his best friend.
"You promise you won't freak out if I tell you," he says, shifting a little under me.

"I promise," I assure him.

"My wife. She's my best friend."

I smile and squeeze his hand reassuringly. He says he would've tried hitting on me otherwise but he's a "one woman man." I tell him it's nice to know a normal person with values in this hell of a city and sink deeper into his lap, the roof above me shimmering with glow-in-the-dark stars. We continue talking with a newfound respect for one another and it dawns on me that it's been a long time since I've relaxed like this with a man, even if he is a married stranger. I lay on his lap and close my eyes as I revel in the comfortable silence, stealing a rare minute of relaxation in this whirlwind of a weekend.
A few minutes later, the sudden smell of marijuana permeates our space and I ask him if he knows where it's coming from, worried.

Christian: That's just Stanley. I'm sure him and your girl are having some fun up there, no big deal.
Me: I thought he was sober?
Christian: Yeah, from crack.

Oh. Well that explains it all.
6:07 a.m. We all emerge from the club and into the sunlight, drunk off our lack of sleep, new friendships, second hand marijuana smoke, and alcohol. Seeing that Lola's daughter is with her grandparents for the weekend, she drives us all to her place where we crash for the remainder of the morning. I am assigned Little Person's bedroom as my sleeping quarters and I think I get into bed after a few glasses of water.

11:35 a.m. I have a pretty strong aversion to the color pink, especially cotton candy pink, which reminds me of Paris Hilton and Pepto Bismol. It's only right that this morning, I wake up surrounded by a thousand shades of that same exact pink, wondering where in the hell I am and how I got here.
I groggily stumble out of Little Person's bed and check my phone, which only doubles the magnitude of my jumbled thoughts as soon as I focus on the screen.
I don’t even know what to say here. Who are these people?

And with this confusion I end my weekend. Partly because it’s morning time, but mostly, because I need to drink some blood before I die.