*slang noun in relation to physical beauty in place of a "perfect ten"
By Westmoreland
15. Go!
When she burst through the front door, I was already too close and too slow to react. Her tears were rolling over the bridge of her nose and descending the crease between her nostril and her cheek. Her eyes were puffy (Take that, take that), and blonde hair matted against her damp forehead. I would have guessed, if asked, that she was of German/Italian heritage. She had broad shoulders and stood about an inch taller than me. Imposing. Her bosom was the only part of her torso that had any shape other than rectangle. If I had been the center of her attention, I guarantee that it would have ruined my buzz.
���M---y! I think I���m going to go!��� (The
Wet Willies ���Call A Cab��� I had previously been peer pressured to drink has corrupted my recall of the guy���s name. But we are going to use Manny. If that is his real name, all the better.)
This woman���s tear-soaked shout over the Ocean Drive pedestrians impressed Manny - not. Nope. Not even close. He was seated at an outdoor dinner table, with another extra from the second season of Sopranos. His left hand was holding a fork and he was chewing. Before I could look back at the lady linebacker, Manny raised his arm, pointed up the street with his free hand, and punched his finger into the sky. And through a mouth full of whatever he had selected from the menu, Manny shouted back:
���Go!���
Your correspondent, the chaste champion of choice chicas, armed only with charm and chump change, recently changed cities.
Um, the Internet lacks sufficient storage for me to share, with you, the entire log of my weekend in Miami. I won���t be able to get through it. So I will run it on two legs. This, here is leg one. Suffice to say, me ha encantado**.
Birthdays
I inherited Treva. She and
my editor were Law School classmates at
Allen Iverson���s Alma Mater, Georgetown University. I trust Treva and I love her. Since I am deeply mistrustful, the trust is rare. She was wearing the red tennis court Puma sneakers, and she looked fifteen, when I was introduced. Cute kid. That was in 2003. She a woman, now. And she is also an accomplished attorney who, like Batman, has a photographic memory. She protects my American Express Card against my epicurean consumption campaigns. So, for her, I committed to attend her Birthday on South Beach.
Beaches Air Tran flies into Atlanta to connect to MIA. The flight was four hundred bucks. A week before the flight, Treva texted me my Amex numbers, and I booked online. I could have gotten a better price, but I procrastinated.
I got a call from Annapolis while I laid over in ATL. I frowned at the Go Phone���s display, and let the low-end Motorola vibrate. She seems to coordinate her calls at times of peak personal stress. This trip was going to pressure my savings plan by an entire pay cycle. I would have paid anything to get to Treva���s birthday, but every $1000 output becomes a deferment of my goal.
The Treva Party-people were all staying on South Beach. Me? I figured I could save a few bucks booking a hotel in the projects. Consistent with a cheapskate���s rollerblading to wealth, I made reservations at the
Beach Place Hotel on 86th Street. The rate was $67. Hotels.com ranked it as a two star hotel. It was a yellow tenement building with an outdoor pool (queue ���Good Times��� Theme Song). It also had some pretty unappealing, potentially oversized girls bobbing around in that outdoor pool. I avoided eye-contact with the big bathers and acknowledged that I would not be making use of that outdoor pool. Yeah. I looked down at my flip-flops and I sighed. I walked down to the BankofAmerica ATM on 75th and waited for a thin man in his mid-twenties (wearing a pair of children���s gym shorts) to complete his transaction. Once he had safely sashayed South, I withdrew $100 and headed further down Collins. I looked hard at what I learned was North Beach. I thought I was saving myself some loot, but I had taken on some hidden costs. In about an hour I was gripped by a panic. Tourism, everywhere. Treva would not be arriving until the next morning. I called her about my American Express Card. It was imperative that she not leave home without it.
Bottles The next morning I checked out of the Beach Place (queue ���Jefferson���s��� Theme Song) and met Treva and Mike at Jerry���s Famous on 14th and Collins. Treva handed me My Precious. (I ran my hands over the bumpy numbers that rose up from the face of the plastic card. My Precious.) We ate some breakfast, promised to meet up later, and I checked into the Marriott, like a grown man.
An hour later, I met the birthday girl in front of the Loews hotel. We were going to the (real) beach. We found Mike under an umbrella and a bucket hat, ordered drinks and I was formerly introduced to South Beach in Miami, Florida. Chastity, yes. Sobriety, no.
I split my time between the sand and the Atlantic Ocean. I ignored the topless sunbathing Latinas. I don���t care for peeled fruit that I can���t eat. Plus, Treva has lovely friends that deserve to look good in bikinis. One young woman runs marathons. I know what you are thinking: she must be emaciated. She has got to be a boney two-by-four without enough flesh to tie the bikini down, right? Um. No.
Parabolas. Everywhere. The deep, rich coffee colored kind. Plus there is a bonus. In spite of her physique, she manages to be a wonderful person to be around. Nice smile, too. I am lucky. Treva has lovely friends. Not just good looking, but good.
Anyway, I took an inventory of what I had packed and decided to buy some linen pants and a pair of loafers. I enlisted my editor because she has good taste and would delete any shopping ideas she felt the slight bit inappropriate. I had packed tropical weight wool (which should rhyme with fool). I dragged Neonu through the shopping district where she demonstrated a complete indifference. I copped a pair of slacks that would have made Tubbs feel a little more comfortable, and headed back to the hotel. Gorgeous editor in tow.
I got back to my South Beach hotel, did a lazy shave, showered and jumped into the linen slacks and leather slippers on my way to dinner.
The dinner was good. Everyone looked wonderful. It was me, Mark, Michael, Carla, Lindsey, Shelly, Rene, Thomas, and Neonu in Miami to celebrate Treva���s milestone birthday. There was a band. The band was too good to describe. There was a bachelor party, and the guest of honor was too drunk to describe. We got it together, paid the bill, and moved onto the club.
Read more in Dub Does Miami
** ���I was delighted.���
The guests were both beautiful and fashionable. Brasserie Ruhlmann's glamorous Art Deco design exudes luxury. A line of staff stood at the entrance to offer guests premium specialty cocktails, champagne, and wine. The hors d'oeuvres were exquisite. Models adorned this year's hottest fall fashions from a platform as a centerpiece to the room. And to top it off it was a perfect summer Chicago night and Brasserie Ruhlmann has an enormous outdoor lounge patio.
