I didn't feel like running, went for a walk tonight instead.  Down to Lincoln Road, tourist lane, they were setting up tents for the Super Bowl, lights, cordons.  Not as many people out as usual.  Kind of chilly, mid-seventies, sea breeze.  The natives stayed home with their dogs. Everyone out smoked cigars.

Passed a transient fellow with a big white beard, twisting a corner of it over and over.  Said in my head, "Frederick Douglas, you were young once.  Tell me what it was like."  He shuffled on, never made eye contact, so the thoughts made words on exhales, different places midsentence while I was waiting on a light to change.  Young once.  What it was like. Tell me. Walk.

I make a round trip, all the way down Lincoln to the new mall where the movie theater usually spills out standing room only.  Empty space tonight. Saw they're opening a Y-3 at the end, stood looking in the window, Japanese guy inside arranging style. Became conscious of my old zip-up and left.

On the way back, a black Jetta's open front window says "You gonna stay up all night, buddy?" Back window replies, "I just might." Verbal high fives. Doors open and they step out with luggage. I was almost home.

Dear Journal,

I went running and kicked my ankle.  I bled on my sock.  That wasn't the worst part of the day. This morning someone I work with called me. They started screaming at me. I put them on hold. I've worked in a call center. Over the phone, I am untouchable.

Dear Journal,

They found the lottery winner.  Abraham Shakespeare was under a slab in Plant City. The sheriff made statements to the news. "Somebody put that body in that hole." And, "This isn't by any means just where we find someone on the side of the road." Adding, "Somebody has obviously put him there."

Dear Journal,

I'll never forget the time I lived in a city with no weather.

 

*actual weather report for Miami Beach.

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