5:48pm, rush off the phone. “Dude, I’ve gotta be there before they close.” I’ll make it, he assures me. I wonder if Mayday, sitting in the cubbyhole corner between the living room and the bathroom, computer monitor glazing his face, is playing solitaire or checking stocks after close for the day.

Scooter to 11th, left to Alton. Print shop just ahead. Lettering on the door informing me of their Mon-Fri hours: 9:00am – 6:30pm. Half an hour to spare. + 3 minutes.

It seems like I’m forever running at the limits. Three minutes to close, one week to launch, twenty minutes till we meet, four miles to go. Still, I somehow get things done and the results usually come out well.

Silver, the gray Chinese Crested of child of Giselle, is running in front of me now. Chaz, her stepdad, is following behind.

I have to code tonight. Code for tourism stuff. I have to work on site layout tonight for another site. I have to go through more photos and begin processing. I have to do some work on photos. I need to do invoicing.

Stop. Chaz is here reminding me of Cesar, the drunk Italian, who was here the other night at 3am, calling Jaqueline’s dog Barnaby “Vagina”. In the breezeway, we sat and Cesar would belt out, “Vagina! Vagina! Look, he comes!!” Barnaby would timidly walk towards Cesar.

Ashtray is full again. Dishes in the sink need washing. Need to put up my lights from yesterday’s shoot.

“Definitely, we should be going to conventions together,” I say on the phone. A fantastic idea and one of the many reasons I like working with her; she thinks about things that don’t cross my mind.

…..

As a matter of tides and current, I see I’m going to reach the buoy first. Chaz is five feet behind me, Giselle three behind him. But I’m only thinking about reaching it before Chaz; Giselle is just there for the swim. I’m nearly there. I look over my shoulder and he’s gone. He’s underwater somewhere swimming toward the buoy. The race is on.

I turn around to grab the buoy and just as I’m about to reach it, Chaz splashes out of the water and slaps his hand on top.

Bastard! There’s always tomorrow.

…..

Giselle, sticks her head out of her door: “Scott, you’re not coming?”
“No, I’m coming.” Chaz had just told me we were invited over for dinner.
Chaz just tells me it’s ready now again.
“I’m going to smoke this cigarette first and then I’m all about it.”

A long time ago, before I ever had this addiction of taking thousands of photos a month, I use to use this website to simply talk about the life around me. And whatever I wanted. I’m at a point now where it kind of makes sense again.

In part, it’s due to the fact that I’m living in the old building where I lived when I first moved to South Beach, Club Meridian, as it’s known to the residents of the second floor. It’s a classic South Beach building, two stories, with twelve units on each floor. There’s a nice breezeway, the communal area, running between the units. And it’s lush with palms and other such greenery. It’s a comfortable little building.

It’s like a little family here. You’ll actually hang out with your neighbors. They’re your friends. On a Friday/Saturday night, everyone might be hanging out on one neighbor’s patio, sipping on their beverages. And then the party might kind of migrate over to someone else’s place. Or maybe everyone is just doing their pre-game drinking before going out for the night, socializing when they come outside to smoke a cigarette. It’s pleasant. Not every weekend, granted. But it’s nice. And of course, who you hang out with changes over time as little spats and all out wars occur within the family. For example, Penelope and I used to be best of friends. But then we had a falling out. Now we don’t speak as much even though she lives right across the hall (in the unit I first lived in when I moved here.)

Anyway, this is now the third different unit here that I’ve lived in here. I love this place. I know there are nicer places to live on the beach, and I’m sure there are places equally pleasing and probably even more fun than this one, but it’s really, really comfortable here.

When I wrote about this place before, I had given all of my neighbors different names, to protect the innocent. Even the dogs had fake names. Nevermind the fact that I’d post photos of them. Secret identities still existed! I think I’m going to keep that plan in place. So I’d like to introduce (and in some cases re-introduce) you to the people in my immediate life. What better place to star than with my roommate, Mitch.

Mitch has lived in this building for a few years now. Cool guy. Nice. Down to earth. Good people. Like myself, Mitch is an older local. But he’s got me by six or so years. This dude is just bursting at the seams with personality. Very outgoing. But one of the things I particularly like about Mitch is that, from time to time, he’ll bust out something completely out of nowhere and then, voila, he’s got a new hobby. Lately, it’s been Tae Kwon Do. Up until a few days ago, I wouldn’t have imagined that there was even a magazine named “Tae Kwon Do Times.” Of course, it may no longer be in print. Mitch’s copy IS twelve years old.

But he’s been working on his “forms.” His moves. Getting it back. He’s got a folder and everything. He used to practice martial arts, I guess. He told me, but I’m kind of bad about paying attention when people are talking.

It’s cool, though. He’ll stand in the breezeway, and be all karate-like. I’ll smoke my cigarettes, work on my “porn.” Good times. I won’t lie: it can be a little awkward. But whatever. It’s cool. Everything’s good up until the first time I get punched in the nuts. Then… well, then it’s on.