More Fear and More Loathing in Miami

By: Nick Bitzis

May 26, 2014

Preface

            This piece is the second installment in a series of absurdly true tales inspired by an assignment from my freshman English 1101 course examining the writings of Hunter S. Thompson.  The first piece, Fear and Loathing at Bonnaroo, is a happy exposé chronicling my adventures with my best friend Amine Rouchdi at the aforementioned music festival; I’m afraid this story, however, has much less happy outcomes, despite many a similarity.  Still, as was the case with the first, everything I have written here is designed to reflect as much detail and authenticity as possible.  Every detail is true as I remember it.  It may be shocking, or even appalling, but it is true.

Friday, October 12 (Pt. 1)

“We were less than 30 minutes away from the city and on the cusp of the most insane weekend of our lives.”

I normally didn’t wake up on a Friday before noon, not even for my 10:00 AM Calculus class, but this was far from a normal Friday.  “7:00 AM” the clock read.  Hungover from the night before, I grabbed my pillow and cheap suitcase to throw into my car; almost everything else was already packed.  Before I left my college dorm, though, I had to hide my “goody bag” in the spare tire compartment of my car.  Within the drawstring Nike bag was an assortment of illegal substances that would have delighted Thompson himself.

Suitcase?

Check.

Pillows?

Check.

Tickets?

Check.

Music?

Check.

Drugs?

Check and double check.

Everything was there, except for my best friend Amine who I was scheduled to pick up from the Ft. Lauderdale airport just before reaching Miami later that day.  I couldn’t help but notice the splendent smile on my own face at the realization that in a matter of hours we would be seeing Bass Lights – Bassnectar and Pretty Lights – in what I anticipated to be the most magnificent show of my life.  And the best part was that tomorrow night we would be doing it again.  For now, though, I had to push that to the back of my mind as I began the daunting drive south.  My GPS said it was about 12 hours from Atlanta to Miami, but I knew I could surely make that shorter with my typical opportunistic driving. 

“Why on earth was I driving,” you ask?  Well, therein lies a vital piece to this tale…

A few months earlier, upon the news of my two favorite artists performing together in what I thought to be the Mecca of EDM (Electronic Dance Music), I bought two tickets for Bass Lights in Miami, as soon as they went on sale.  One was for me, and one was for Amine, who promised to pay me back.  My parents, however, were less than thrilled with the news, especially when I told them that I was going with Amine, whom they justifiably despised.  My dad’s hatred came because Amine sold him weed once, and my mom hated him because my dad did (ironically the only thing they ever agreed on).  Their disapproval meant very little to me, though.  After all, I was 18, though they felt that didn’t matter, and spending my own money, so what control did they really have over me?  There was one source of leverage for them, and they knew it.  At the time, the question as to whether my parents were willing to pay for my college education was already up in the air because of my illicit behavior, and they promised that if I did choose to go to Miami, then I would have no chance of getting a penny from them to pay for Georgia Tech.  That was a consequence I wasn’t ready to face, so I scrapped my hopes of going to the show.  That is, until about two weeks before.

My parents had long since forgotten about the concert, which I had agreed not to attend, when I saw an opportunity.  I devised a plan to go to Miami without my parents knowing, trying to cover all my bases.  That weekend I was supposed to be in Athens at UGA staying with my cousin Maria – who I had gotten to cover for me just in case my mom texted her.  This was the apparent reason why I wouldn’t be seeing my mom at the Georgia Tech football game that weekend as originally planned.  I already had the concert tickets still, and I would drive so that my mom couldn’t see the plane ticket on my credit card statement or our joint SkyMiles account.  Amine, who was flying from Rochester, NY where he went to school, would meet me there, we’d see the shows and I’d be home to give her the car on Sunday night before she knew I was gone.  Because I had been selling drugs lately, I even had enough cash to bring so that she wouldn’t see my card being used in Miami.  She is a vicious sleuth when she wants to be, but a nosey mom and cop step-dad taught me to be sneaky and smart about being stupid. I prepped Amine for complete and total secrecy, which included no posting on Facebook, Instagram, or anywhere else.  At least, that was the plan, and to us, it seemed like it was crazy enough to work.

That very plan was flashing through my mind as I embarked on my lengthy journey, and the looming danger was both terrifying and that much more thrilling.  Despite being impeded by Atlanta’s morning traffic, I was zipping down the highway with uncontrollable excitement.  My speakers were blasting the new GRiZ album, Rebel Era, which I was slowly falling in love with.  The music and anticipation made the time and the miles fly by.  Before I knew it, I had grazed through GRiZ’s entire discography, and was trying to brush up on my Bassnectar with the Immersive Music Mixtape Side 2, a composition I was eager to listen to for the first time all the way through. 

Car after car flashed by as my truck heaved itself at 95 mph down the highway.  With my eyes on high alert, I hoped I wouldn’t catch any cop cars.  With my goody bag in the back of my car, I knew jail was almost certain if I was pulled over.  Even with that in mind, my eagerness for that night’s show kept me pushing forward at speed, hour after hour.  As I pressed on I refused to stop for anything but gas, which I eventually got from one of the sleaziest gas stations I’ve ever been in.  It was so gross that I almost bought a souvenir just to remember it by. 

About 3 hours into my trip, my GPS said I was less than 7 hours away, so I knew I was picking up time.  Not that I really needed to, but the less time I had to drive, the better.  I could already feel by body stiffening up, but the ride and the music, my only company, crept on.  More Bassnectar; then Pretty Lights.  My excitement was overflowing as I danced ridiculously in the driver’s seat.  I didn’t care, though, because the music was powerful.  

Soon, I was in Florida, speeding down the turnpike.  With so little traffic and the longest stretch of straight road I had ever driven, I floored the gas until my car hit 120 mph.  There was no place now along the road for any cops to be hiding out so I pushed my 5,538 pound Nissan Armada to its limit for the next few hours, slowly picking up time as I went.  For hours it went on like this, when I got a phone call from Amine that he had landed in Ft. Lauderdale and was waiting for me to arrive.  By my extrapolation, I would make the drive in about eight and a half hours.  Not bad, I thought to myself.

As I neared Ft. Lauderdale, my speed didn’t slow up much, despite accidentally getting a ticket for missing a turnpike tollbooth.  I could see my gas tank getting low, but my excitement and the satisfaction of making the trip in such a short time, kept me from stopping to refill it.  Not a smart move on the turnpike.  My gas tank light appeared as I began searching for an exit just six miles from the airport.  As I rolled off the interstate, I saw the nearest gas station was three miles away but I was seriously concerned I wasn’t going to make it that far.  My car meter that displayed the “Distance to Empty” had already given up and read “****” instead of a valid number.  I could feel my car slowing as the last drops of gas sloshed in the tank until I finally reached the pump.  By this point, I was sorer from driving than I had ever been and more grateful for a gas station than I knew was possible.

Almost there, I thought.  After looping around the airport three times because of construction, I finally found Amine waiting outside baggage claim.  I hadn’t seen him in months while we were away at college, so of course we were both ecstatic to see each other. 

It was finally setting in.  We were less than 30 minutes from the city and on the cusp of the most insane weekend of our lives.  Before we knew it, we had arrived.

Friday, October 12 (Pt. 2)

“Soon the lights began to flash and the live band appeared, only to be followed by the man himself…”

We had “arrived”, but where we were arriving wasn’t entirely clear to us.  Another part of our ever so flawless planning, was that we would save money by sleeping in my car and not booking a hotel.  But it was a few hours before the show (thanks to my ambitious driving), and we weren’t sure where to go.  We were in Miami, so we figured the beach was the most logical option, of course. 

After aimlessly driving around what I believe to be the most confusing city imaginable, we found a public beach, and it was time to open up my goody bag.  A quick inventory check revealed a ¼ ounce of weed, 1 hash brownie one Gatorade bottle full of fireball, a 20-year-old whiskey I had found in my Panama City condo the week earlier, about 40 hits of LSD, four grams of Molly, assorted pills, and four points (0.4 grams) of pure MDMA which I had paid $200 a gram for but never actually tried.  We took the weed and alcohol down to the beach and our pregame was under way.  

I remember thinking that the public beach entrance looked like some cheesy opening set from a Bang Bros video (it definitely was).  And the beach was even more cliché.  It was littered with trash and seaweed, and dotted with families and just the type of stereotypical gaudy people that give Miami a bad name.  We didn’t care, though.  This was more than just a vacation for us.  It was, by all expectations, supposed to be a momentous part of our lives, and we both thought about that as we smoked my good old red, white and blue “USA” bowl on the beach. It was the first smoking piece I ever owned and I still have it 15 years later.

As we watched the crimson sun set, we figured it was time to get ready for the concert.  No words could convey the excitement I felt.  I hadn’t seen Bassnectar in months, and this was the first time we were getting to see Pretty Lights’ revolutionary new performance style with a full live band that he called Analog Future.  Not to mention, KOAN Sound, another one of my favorite music groups, was opening.

After drying off and changing for the show, we ventured to find a Chic-fil-A in the baffling city limits.  After the GPS took us to a nonexistent restaurant location we decided to go to a McDonald’s instead, which appeared to be just over 25 minutes from the venue.  Still, I wanted food badly enough that I was willing to drive there.

After scarfing down my first meal all day, it was time for us to actually get ready for the show.  And by that, I mean do drugs.  We had to find a good place to park so that I could reach the goody bag in the back of my car, but a cop in the adjacent parking lot where we pulled in forced us to return to the McDonald’s.

I knew that the LSD that I had was weaker than my normal dose, so Amine took four or five hits and I took six, still a significant amount, and I hid the tiny MDMA packet in my wallet for later.  With the purple printed acid tabs on our tongues, we decided to go to the bathroom at the McDonald’s before we left.  As I stepped out of the car, I noticed a two strip of acid that had fallen onto the lid of my cup, so I figured “Why not take it?”  After a long wait for Amine in the dimly lit bathroom, we headed out, ready for Bass Lights.

During the 30-minute drive to Bayfront Park, the same venue where Ultra Music Festival was held that year, I could slowly feel the LSD kicking in as we searched for a place to park.  We could see the brilliantly lit sky and hear the faint bump of bass as we pulled up to the open-air stadium. 

“Hurry we’re missing KOAN Sound,” said Amine.  But the only parking to be found was a gloomy looking parking deck for $30 a night.  It would have to do.  Of course, Amine didn’t throw any money for it, so I was stuck with footing the bill.  At the time I couldn’t care less, though, because the euphoria was rapidly welling up inside me.  We parked far enough away that I had to drop a pin on my phone’s GPS to find the lot later (I still have this pin saved 11 years later), so we briskly walked toward the faint music in the distance.

By this point it was no later than 9:45 PM, relatively early for us to go to a concert in Atlanta.  As we had our tickets checked at the door, though, we could see that the opener was going off stage.  “Dammit we must’ve missed KOAN Sound,” I sadly exclaimed.  Once inside the venue, we quickly found out that we needed different tickets to get close to the stage, but we were 18 year old degenerates so naturally we just hopped a small railing instead to enter the center pit near the stage.  A security guard dressed in black caught me and said something, but by this point I was tripping my ass off and simply couldn’t understand him.  He didn’t seem to care much, though, because he let us proceed forward.  Weaving in and out of the crowded pit, we pushed to the very front.  I even schemed my way into a spot against the front barricade, no easy feat.  On stage, we could see that the crew was setting up for Pretty Lights’ set. 

“I thought Bassnectar was opening tonight?” I said, knowing that one night Bassnectar would go first with Pretty Lights headlining, and the other night they would perform vice versa.

“Guess not,” Amine replied.

“Damn, well I’m so excited for Bassnectar! Ahhhh!”

I remember the girl next to me looking at me funny when I said that.  Eventually we were talking to the people around us and telling them that we had come all the way from Atlanta and Rochester just to see these performances. They were surprised, with a look that all but said “You came all this way…JUST for Pretty Lights and Bassnectar?”  They didn’t get it, I thought, but then again, I considered the fact that they get to see great EDM performances like this pretty regularly living in Miami, a fact for which I was a bit envious.

While we waited, I decided to take some of my pure MDMA, thinking that it would kick in during Pretty Lights and I would be “rolling face”, as promised, by Bassnectar.  I took about a point or two, but it was hard to really judge because I was tripping so hard and was trying to be discreet in front of the venue’s security guards, which I probably was not.

Soon the lights began to flash and the live band appeared, only to be followed by the man himself: Derek Vincent Smith, AKA Pretty Lights.  Screams erupted as a soulful new jam played.  To tell the truth, I don’t remember that song, “The Love You Left Behind”, a song I now know well, ever being played at that show, but according to setlists I have seen, that was the new opener he dropped.  I guess I was just too fucked up by that point.

He dropped five bangers back to back, and I remember the combination of the acid and the glorious new sounds of the live band moving me in ways I had never felt, both literally and figuratively.  I was dancing harder than I had ever before, and I was literally feeling music.

Synesthesia is defined as the production of a sensory impression relating to one sense or part of the body by stimulation of another sense or part of the body.  That was exactly the sensation that I was beginning to feel.  The music had form and shape to me in ways I never knew before.

Then Derek began “Let’s Get Busy” with a jammy vibe that quickly dropped straight into the potent heRobust remix that was new to me at the time.  The sounds and their accompanying feelings were indescribably beautiful.  The distortion had its own dimension and each note was instantly felt throughout my mind and body.  I was on a lot of acid, 8 tabs at this point, and I could certainly feel the MDMA kicking in.  It was absolutely incredible.  I was experiencing Pretty Lights in ways I never knew possible, and my normally animated dancing was at its peak.  The girls next to me seemed annoyed by my excessive flailing, or maybe I was just conscious of it because I was tripping.  I guess I’ll never know, but I remember thinking that no one in Miami went as hard as us. 

“D” and the band went on into more songs from his most recent album, A Color Map of the Sun, and I decided to take another point of MDMA because I didn’t think I was feeling it quite enough.  As “More Important Than Michael Jordan” began I realized that I had been mistaken because like a wave crashing over my tingling skin I felt the full effect of the first two points.  It was nearly overwhelming and I knew then why it had been so expensive. 

To clarify for a moment, molly and MDMA, or methylenedioxymethamphetamine, can be two very different things.  “Molly” is a made up word for bullshit concoctions cooked up with similar effects to MDMA, an empathogenic.  The truth is no one knows what’s in most molly, despite it being branded as MDMA, but what I had that night was pure. 

It was without a doubt the first time I had experienced something that pure, which was great at the time, but I have come to realize that the health risks accompanied by the almost certain feeling that I am going to die of dehydration (which I was undeniably feeling at this point of the story) make molly or even MDMA not a drug I enjoy enough. 

Still, the dehydration and fatigue from the day’s drive couldn’t stop me when “I Can See It In Your Face” came on.  The peak of the MDMA overlapping the copious amount of LSD gave the song a synesthetic sensation unlike anything else.  That moment held a lot of meaning to me, and to this day, I would say is the reason I truly fell in love with Pretty Lights (considerably more so than I already was).  That song is, and may always be, my favorite Pretty Lights song because of that moment. 

It was as though it opened a door to me that I never even knew was there.  “Feeling” music is something I can say I do regularly now, though not always as intensely, and since then my obsession with Pretty Lights continues to grow.  I realize now that thanks to acid, I could feel music, I could feel Pretty Lights, and that is something no one can ever take away from me. 

What I was feeling is a sensation so powerful that I thought for many months it could possibly be universally felt, that I could share or reveal it to others.  I have come to recognize, however, that it is far from it.  The word “arcane” was used to describe it to me.  Meaning “understood by few; mysterious or secret”, I feel no better word could portray the full picture so well. 

Amongst the thousands of people who share a love of Pretty Lights with me, my own love for it is uniquely mine.  And to each of us, it is the same in that it is so powerfully unique.  Even Amine, who I believe shares an appreciation and love for music as deep as my own, experiences it in a way that is similar but ever so different.  That is what makes the music so beautiful to me.  That is, indeed, what makes it arcane.  I have tried in vain to spread this sensation, but I know that many will never understand it.  And I’m okay with that, because just feeling it and knowing, in a world where I am uncertain of so much, that this arcane awareness is real is enough for me.  It was, in fact, during a very recent acid trip that I came to find this, and though I have done my best to convey it here, even my own epiphany holds depths of an arcane nature that likely can’t quite be understood by others.

Of course, not one of these thoughts could have formed in my mind during the show because I was too busy “loosing my shit”, as I like to say.  I could feel the next three songs almost the same way, but I thought that if I didn’t get water soon, I didn’t know how much longer I could make it.  The small squirts from Pretty Lights’ team of water caddy’s called the “Illuminators” wasn’t nearly enough.  Finally, Derek closed with “Yellow Bird” a song about love – even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined with the live band – and I was actually grateful for the break.

Amine and I reeled at how incredible it was, then I screamed again, “Holy shit, though!  I’m soooo excited for Bassnectar!”  Again strange looks came my way.

“Look people are leaving! Move closer to the center,” Amine suggested.

“Why the hell would people be leaving before Bassnectar?! What the actual fuck? Miami doesn’t go hard at all,” I replied as we made our way front and center.  But more people were starting to walk away.  We looked around, confused, and a security guard began telling us we had to leave.

“What? What about Bassnectar?” I asked.  He rolled his eye at us and continued pushing us to leave.  We looked around and the venue was starting to clear out.  How hard were we tripping, I thought. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Yo,” Amine said as he approached a group of oddly dressed people sitting in the venue seats. “Isn’t Bassnectar supposed to play tonight?”

They looked back at us, puzzled, and replied, “Yea, he did, right before Pretty Lights…” I couldn’t possibly understand what was happening at that point. 

“WE FUCKING MISSED BASSNECTAR?!” Amine cried out in disbelief, kicking the seat beside him.  We had to be tripping, I thought.  There was simply no way that the concert could be ending before 12:00 AM in Miami, a supposed all-night party city, and that Bassnectar had finished performing before we were even there. My shock and disappointment began to set in as we gradually accepted that it was in fact true; we had missed Bassnectar. 

Saturday, October 13 (Pt. 1)

“It was starting to feel like we were in the twilight zone.”

As we continued to question people about Bassnectar to combat our own denial, they explained to us how the city of Miami had a 12:00 AM noise ordinance that never allowed late concerts, but we still could hardly believe it.  We still had several hours to our respective trips and I was hyped up from the MDMA, with the second intake now kicking in.  We decided we had to find something else to do, but what?  I thought perhaps we could ask the other people that were leaving the show.

With the mood having shifted quickly, I looked around for a group of people to ask.  Soon, though, I found the disappointing faces of people who Amine and I agreed were not “our” people.  These were Miami people, not the fun, accepting family of Pretty Lights fans we were used to.  Their clothes were ostentatious, their faces were harsher and their attitudes seemed arrogant and all around less pleasant.  This was the polar opposite crowd from Bonnaroo, without a doubt.  My distaste for Miami was taking shape already. 

Finally, I gave up and we decided to try to head back to my car instead.  Despite the pin we had dropped earlier on my phone we strolled around aimlessly as the GPS twisted and turned, doing nothing but confusing us.  We laughed at how ridiculous we must’ve looked wandering around saying, “This way…….no, wait……no, yeah, no that way……aw shit I don’t know!” 

Eventually we found my car in the now empty parking deck and ended up unintentionally dancing for a few minutes to nothing but the music in our heads while we batted around what had just happened.  Pretty Lights had been so good, but missing Bassnectar was presenting so many conflicting emotions.  We knew there was still tomorrow night, so we tried not to linger on our disappointment. 

We considered staying in the deck; after all, it was paid for, but I also thought we could easily get into some after hours club down on South Beach.  Finally, I decided I could handle the 20-minute drive, as long as there was no music or distractions, so we headed out, fighting to not let our night end.  The larger part of me wishes we had stayed there that night.  But, then again, if we hadn’t left, then this story wouldn’t be as much of a story worth telling, and I would never have made the firmly rooted memories that I did.

Despite the silence in the car, every note from the show was being replayed, seemingly just as vivid as before, though only in my mind now.  The confusing highways of Miami had me driving in circles as Amine failed miserably at trying to direct me.

“You suck at following directions,” I said to him.

There was a long pause, and then we both laughed when he replied, “No shit.  Every teacher ever could’ve told you that.”  That 20-minute drive seemed like it was hours, but eventually we made it to South Beach.  By maybe the greatest stroke of luck I saw all weekend, a parking spot opened up right along the beach and the price was cheap enough that we could stay there all night.  This was our new home, base camp, we decided, for the next several hours.

I’m not sure what had put the idea in my head (perhaps the second season of the Jersey Shore I think), but I was under the impression that we could find clubs that would be open late along South Beach Road.  It was only about 1:00AM by this point, but upon a few minutes of walking, we saw that the strip was completely dead.  No clubs open, and virtually no people.  It was starting to feel like we were in the twilight zone.  We now knew there was no reason to leave our spot back in the parking deck, but it was no matter because we had direct access to the deserted beach for which we felt the need to take advantage. With the weight of disappointment still heavy on our shoulders, we set out to make the best of the night we had left.

We took our weed to the beach to smoke and stare up at the stars for a bit, and we quickly found two stacks of beach chairs that we climbed atop to smoke.  After struggling to light the bowl in the breezy night, we ended up crouched beneath the chairs trying to protect our flame from the beach wind.  After a bowl, or perhaps three, we grabbed our headphones from my car and laid back on the chairs, staring at the starlit skies for what felt like an eternity.  We talked and listened to music there, and I couldn’t help but feel the same surreal satisfaction I had felt after Pretty Lights at Bonnaroo. 

In that beach break, Amine and I started a tradition of showing each other new music that we still observe anytime we trip together.  I think it may have started with me sharing the ridiculous video for “23” by Wiz Khalifa, Juicy J and Miley Cyrus.  It seemed that much crazier on acid. 

“I can’t believe we missed Bassnectar,” Amine reminded me. “I feel like any minute we’re gonna wake up in that McDonald’s bathroom and realize we just tripped too hard and had an out of body experience.”  We both laughed at the thought of that, but I almost wished it were true.  It wouldn’t be the last time the joke was made as we likened the night to the twilight zone again and again.

Eventually, atop our perch, we saw a light in the far distance and a beach patrol on an ATV asked us to leave the beach.  The sensible paranoia from being around authorities on acid scared me for a second, but we walked back to my car without any problems.  As we walked back, we laughed at how the beach patrol surely thought we were gay, being in Miami, and how that probably played to our advantage.

Back at the car, we decided to smoke again, but I didn’t think hot boxing my car was a good idea in its location.  Still barefoot from the beach, we walked into an alley behind the adjacent hotel.  The rough ground was noticeably harsher on my feet.  I looked down and saw glass everywhere, but to be honest I can’t tell you if I was just tripping or not.  Either way my feet got some pretty serious cuts here and there.  As we stood in the back alley, we decided for no apparent reason that the spot was too sketchy so we walked back toward the car so that I could grab my flip-flops and we could find a new smoke spot.  As we walked out, a red Impala on rims with a group of black guys drove near us and started watching us.  Since it was late at night and no one was around, I started to get nervous until I realized that they were just waiting to see if our parking spot was about to open up.

After putting my shoes on, we agreed we both desperately needed a drink.  I remembered seeing a Walgreens a block or two over, so we decided to head there.  Once inside the Walgreens, I marveled at how incredible all the products looked on acid, especially the cleaning products for some reason.  While Amine got water on the lower floor of the Walgreens, I found a sharpie off a shelf and headed to the bathroom.  In the stall I wrote, “Call For A Good Time…” and then put a different ex’s number than I had at Bonnaroo.  I awkwardly walked back downstairs and hurried Amine to leave.  We both cracked up, when I told him about the prank.

On the walk back to our makeshift headquarters, we passed another small alley and I saw something that unnerved me: a small, familiar tabby cat.  I had to explain to Amine why I was so startled and disturbed by the feline.

“Back in Sandy Springs, I used to see that cat,” I began. “Not just any cat, but that cat.  I used to see it around my house sometimes, and I remember that black ring around its left eye and striped tail.  I could never forget that.  And I remember thinking it was so weird that I only saw it around the times that I had tripped. “ At this point in time, I was in the middle of my first semester of college and was experiencing a pretty serious transition period in my life, having just moved to Georgia Tech’s campus.  I continued, “But then, recently, I saw it downtown at Tech.  And it was only after I had tripped.  I thought maybe I was crazy, but…you see that…so it has to be real.  There’s no way that that’s a coincidence.  A cat with that ring around its left eye? Following me in three cities?”  I made every Cheshire Cat connection imaginable.  Amine seemed a little spooked by my strange confession, too.  Since then, I have come to accept that cat to be a real phenomenon, one that I have observed again, but I know that I will never be able to explain it, only to accept it.  Here is the first time I have ever shared this with anyone besides Amine.  It both fascinated and frightened me, but I tried not to think about it while in such a mental state.

As we kept walking down the strip, we found another spot behind a small bamboo fence that we decided was safer to smoke.  That spot however, was within sight of multiple unmanned beach patrol ATVs, so why exactly we thought this spot was any better is very unclear to me.  Still, we finished our bowl and kept walking. 

Soon, we took a seat on a nearby bench and kept listening to our equally oversized headphones, now on full volume.  Despite how late it was, there was the occasional passerby who, naturally, stared at us.

“We straight up look like crack heads,” I chuckled. “I’m starting to think we might actually be crack heads man.”  We both laughed out loud at how ridiculous our current situation was.

“Only us, though, right? It’s just how we do! And no one else does it better,” replied Amine.

“You’re right, man.  I think that’s gonna be the title of my book,” I thought.  “The Art of Being a Crackhead…I’m not sure how well it would sell though.”

Still tripping hard and now laughing uncontrollably we probably did look crazy to anyone who saw us, but I really didn’t care and I knew Amine didn’t either.  We stayed on that bench for a while, still sharing music.  Amine showed me a few funky jams from a band called LBCK that I still love thanks in part to that night, but in time we decided to go back to the beach now that any beach patrol was probably gone.

As we walked back toward the beach entrance beside my car, it was getting close to 4:00 AM and the strip seemed totally empty now.  All of sudden, though, a homeless man that we hadn’t seen laying against the stone wall made a startling roar in his sleep that made our hearts stop.  I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared from something so small, but of course we immediately died laughing once we realized where the sound had originated.

Back on the beach we huddled beneath the stack of chairs again to smoke before mounting them and staring at the stars again.  We both agreed on how impressed and pleased we were with the LSD and I appreciated the MDMA still apparent in my system.  Neither of us had come down at all really.  Now without music, we simply laid back drinking in the moment.

Soon we noticed a strange set of lights in the distance that we eventually discerned to be a boat, but it appeared to be heading straight for the shore.  It was so puzzling to us that we stood up and walked toward it to try to get a better view.  As it got closer, the lights stretched out to reveal that it was a very large ship, probably a tanker, but we couldn’t figure out where it was going.  As it kept traveling towards land we became more and more interested until the boat eventually hit what we thought was land and disappeared behind a nearby building.  I’m sure it was just because we were tripping so hard, but that boat was one of the most mystifying things at the time and I still don’t completely understand what we saw.

By now it was about 5:00 AM and we couldn’t wait much longer for the sun rise, so we decided to return to my car and try to call it a night.  By now we were high enough that we figured the weed would counteract the acid trying to keep us awake.  Back in my car Amine laid back in the front seat and I took up the trunk space.  Within minutes, Amine was passed out, but I couldn’t begin to sleep.  After making sure he was asleep, I decided not to waste the little bit of the MDMA’s effect that I had left and I shamelessly whacked off. I’m pretty sure I used his shirt to clean it up too. By now, the sun was starting to brighten the sky a bit and I could hear a few people walking nearby on morning runs. It was completely ridiculous, I thought, but still, I did it a second time.  And, for once, I will spare details, other than to say it was glorious. 

Before falling asleep, now, I marveled at our day, completely and utterly satisfied.  No, this had not been the sheer triumphant closure we felt after Bonnaroo, but it was so very special nonetheless.  As my eyes closed and I drifted off, the past events replayed.  It was a day to be happy with, but tomorrow, yet another a show, and who knew what else, was still to come.

Saturday, October 13 (Pt. 2)

“…we looked like a wreck, strung out and homeless, but carefree nonetheless.”

Around 9:30 or 10:00 AM, I awoke startled and disoriented, sore from the uncomfortable makeshift bed and the long drive the day before.  Still tripping a bit, I realized how unbearably hot it was when I found myself covered in sweat.  The Miami sun had turned my car into an oven already and there was no way I could sleep.  I woke Amine up and forced him out onto the beach where I found another beach chair to lay in. 

The thing about molly, or MDMA especially, is that it tells your brain to release large amounts of serotonin all at once.  Serotonin, which can trigger a reward sensation, is what makes you so outrageously happy when you take MDMA or similar empathogens.  One more side effect of molly that I hate, however, is the awful hangover that you feel the morning after.  With all of your serotonin depleted, you can feel extremely sad or depressed but mostly just dismally hung over.  This pure MDMA had certainly brought me to a point where my hangover was unbearable.

I was feeling more strung out and miserable than I ever have, so sickeningly hot and sweaty, I collapsed onto the beach chair with a towel over my face so I could sleep.  I passed out instantly, but I vaguely remember Amine leaving me to go somewhere for a bit.  I honestly can’t remember where, though.

I’m not sure how long I lied there, but eventually a young, pimple-faced worker on the beach came and told me I had to pay for the chairs.  I wanted to stay there and sleep so badly, I almost paid the $40, but I had already spent far too much in Miami, so I returned to my greenhouse of a car, where Amine was.  Despite feeling like there was a bullet in my temple, I decided we should just give up on sleeping.  It was simply too hot by now, so we tried to gather ourselves for the day to begin. 

As an avid collector of Nike’s and Air Jordan’s, I knew that Miami has always had a reputation as one of the best cities in the US for sneakers, so I wanted to checkout a nearby sneaker boutique.  First we needed (and I use the word “needed” very loosely) to smoke, though, and in broad daylight, there were almost no options.  We ended up moving my car to an unpaid parking lot about a block over that was also in the shade, but there were signs that said I might get towed.  I figured we’d be okay risking it for a while, and I wished I had found the spot earlier.

After smoking, we headed out to the sneaker shop, whose name I will omit.  Ironically enough, we had both brought pairs of decently nice sneakers that we wore there, but we looked like a wreck, strung out and homeless, but carefree nonetheless.  As we walked we took snapchats of a pink cop car with captions something along the lines of “cops are gay” or “fuck the police”. 

We had some trouble finding the shop, but inside I found an impressive selection of sneakers on consignment.  The storeowner was a typical Miami Guido, the archetype of the people that seemed to be swarming throughout the city and quickly earning my disdain.  He seemed arrogant and disinterested in us, though I knew my personal collection probably rivaled his entire shop.  I did see several pairs I wanted, but a pair of deadstock OG “Maroon” Jordan 6’s particularly caught my eye (“deadstock” means unused or unworn, and “OG” would signify that they were original and not rereleases from a later year).  They were my size and I almost bought them for $600, which would have been a steal.  I’m glad, though, that I didn’t end up spending that money. Miami was about to cost me a lot more…

As we walked back, we stopped at a classy looking, open-air Latin restaurant.  It was packed with the other bothersome demographic that populates Miami: Cubans.  I am by no means racist, but the Cubans in Miami can be uncongenial for many reasons, in my opinion.  But I won’t begin going into that here. 

Inside the restaurant, though, an exceptionally friendly waiter came to our table to take our orders.  Off the bat, I knew I needed (and now I truly mean “needed”) a margarita.

“Top Shelf Patrón Añejo margarita on the rocks please.”  He looked at my fake ID and I was good to go, but then Amine, tried to persuade the guy to give him the same even though he didn’t have an ID.  After the manager forced the waiter to decline, Amine decided to walk all the way back to our car, which I knew was a good 15 minute walk in each direction, just to grab his fake.

Within a few minutes of him leaving my margarita came out and the waiter asked if I wanted an extra shot of tequila.  Of course, I accepted and was met with not a shot, but a large cup of pure tequila.  I had to take a picture because I found it so funny that they had given me easily three shots of tequila in that single cup.  I drank what I could then poured the rest into my margarita.  Soon, the food we had ordered came to the table, but Amine was nowhere to be found.  I ate all of my cevíche and part of his quesadilla by the time he got back.

“Holy shit, I had no idea how long that walk was!” he came in saying.

I laughed because I figured he had forgotten where we had actually walked from, and also because by this point I was pretty drunk.  Amine finally got the margarita and I got a second, which we soon found out were $18 apiece after I got the bill, which, of course, I had to pay for because he didn’t have money.  He still owes me.

With a sufficient buzz and my wallet $98 lighter, we headed back to my car.  Thankful that it hadn’t been towed, we made the most of the new shady spot and passed out for a few hours, getting some much needed sleep before the undertaking that lied ahead.

Saturday, October 13 (Pt. 3)

“I would easily say, that this was one of the most momentous points to date.”

When my phone alarm went off, I awoke, sweaty and still as strung out as ever, but we knew it was time.  It was 6:00 PM, perfect timing, we thought, to make it to the show early.  We got dressed quickly and hydrated before heading to the venue, still about 20 minutes away from our current location.

I’m not exactly sure why, but on the way to the show, I decided not to dose before going in, unusual for me, and I knew there was no point in trying to take molly with my depleted serotonin levels.  I was decently high, but that was about it.  The usual afterglows from smoking the day after tripping were minimal, so other than sleep deprivation, I was relatively together.  Still, I waited at a green light despite honks from the other cars, until a guy walking down the street waved my attention to go.  Amine thought it was pretty funny.

Navigating the confusing Miami highway system, we neared the venue.  With the amphitheater nearly in sight, we slowed at a stop light, when all of a sudden my car shook left and right vigorously and made a loud pop.

“What the fuck was that…” I looked to Amine, wide-eyed.

Instantly, my car started smelling like smoke, and continuing to make a noise when I hit the gas, which seemed heavy and hindered.  My temperature gauge was visibly rising, and I soon found that my power steering was completely shot.  My heart stopped.  I was not considering, “would we make it to the concert?”.  No, I was considering the coming drive home that was now seemingly impossible. 

Remember, that I was secretly in a foreign city, despite my parents’ adamant disapproval with nothing but my car, which was now clearly inoperative, and that I had to be back in Atlanta in roughly 24 hours.

Panic, naturally set in quickly.  Without power steering, I used all of my might to pull the 6000-pound behemoth to the side of the road, despite the “No Parking” signs in front of the abutting restaurant to my right.  Amine, had taken his molly already (which he still has not paid for), and if I’m not mistaken he was starting to roll by this point.

My assessment of the situation concluded that, any way I spun it, I was royally fucked.  Scatter-brained, I began trying to consider all my options.  As hard as I tried to keep it together, though, I just began to lose it. 

My first thought was to call AAA.  Moving my car had to be dealt with first, but the show was beginning only a block away.  I thought maybe I could deal with the car after, but then I would have no way of dealing with it in the morning before I had to be back in Atlanta.  AAA told me they would be there in 30 minutes or less, but the seconds felt like hours.  I didn’t even know where I would take my car once it came, though, and even if I figured that out, could I pay for repairs? Possibly, but I still wouldn’t make it to Atlanta and I knew it.  

The show was slowly slipping into the background of my mind, and all I could consider were the coming consequence that hinged on how I chose to deal with the situation at hand.  If my car was gone, I knew I would have no place to stay at night, so that was the next obstacle to tackle. 

After a few minutes dejectedly waiting on the curb, I realized I could try my stepdad’s mother, a hard-ass Italian firecracker who lived in Ft. Lauderdale.  I thought maybe, if I had any luck at all, she would help me and possibly not tell my parents.  After scrolling through my phone, though, I didn’t have her number, nor did I have her husband’s like I thought.  That plan was out.

I was running out of ideas, so I called my big brother at my fraternity.  I looked up to him a lot, and I hoped he could at least offer me some advice.  Unfortunately, he told me exactly what I needed to hear, the one thing I didn’t possibly want to hear: I should call my parents.

I was afraid he was going to say that, and I simply wasn’t ready to accept it.  The tow truck was arriving now, so I asked him to wait until I knew for sure where I needed to take my car.  No solace had come from my brother’s advice, so I was still looking for options.  I came upon the potential plan of paying to ship my car back to Atlanta and then telling my parents about the problem from on Georgia Tech’s campus.  Then it would be their problem to deal with and I could possibly still get away with this venture.

I immediately set out on my phone to find services that could handle the shipping.  All of them, however, asked me to put in my information and they would contact me with a quote.  I couldn’t wait for that, but I put in my info on multiple sites anyway.

After explaining the overarching situation to the tow truck driver, who was growing impatient, he told me he could make the journey back to Atlanta for $1700.  I knew he was trying to rip me off, but I thought avoiding trouble with my parents and losing my college funding was possibly worth the price.  But I didn’t have that money with me or in my bank account at the time.  All I had was drug-funded and sneaker laundered cash wadded up at home.

Our next move was to call Amine’s mom, whom we asked to wire me the money with the promise that I would pay her back when I returned.  Amine was growing restless as we could hear the show starting, so he hurriedly convinced her. 

Before we went through with the plan, though, something finally clicked in my head: There was no way for me to come away from this situation scot-free, so the best thing I could do was cut my losses and minimize damages.  It was time to break down and ask for help instead, and as much as it pained me to accept it, my mom was the best person to ask.  She had texted me earlier to check in and make sure I was safe in Athens, but I hadn’t answered yet.  Part of me thought maybe she already knew I was in Miami somehow; maybe I hadn’t covered my tracks well enough.  I knew, whether that was the case, or not, I had to call her.

I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I stared at my phone for a few minutes rehearsing what I would say; then, reluctantly, I dialed the contact marked “Vicki”.  As the phone rang, I could feel my heart pounding and my hands trembling.  I’ve never been so genuinely terrified in my life.  When the other line picked up, my heart slowly sank and the hardest confession I’ve ever had to make ensued.

“Mom…” I said shamefully.

“Yes? Nick, is everything okay? Where are you?”

“Mom…I want you to know I’m safe, I’m not hurt and I’m not in any trouble, but you’re going to really really really pissed off at me.”

“OH GOD NICK NICK WHAT NICK WHAT NICK WHAT NICK TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON NICK NICK ARE YOU THERE NICK WHATS GOING ON!?!?” she screamed in a panic.

“Mom, stop jus –“ I tried to say, before being interrupted.

“WHAT?! WHAT?! WHAT?! WHAT IS IT JUST TELL ME WHAT?! WHAT WHAT?!?!”

“Mom, I’m trying to –“

“WHAT WHAT NICK ARE YOU OKAY WHERE ARE YOU WHAT WHAT JUST SAY IT SAY IT!!!”

“God fucking dammit! Shut the fuck up so I can talk!” I said firmly, though tears were beginning to well up in my eyes. “I am okay, I am not arrested, but I am in Miami.”  There was a long pause on both ends, and I could feel myself slowly losing it.  With the tears beginning to fall from my cheeks, I choked out just enough to tell her the situation.

To this day she still answers unscheduled calls with a frantic, “Nick are you ok?!” and I try not to get annoyed by it, but I am an only child, and I know I’m the most important thing in the world to her. So, I understand how much all of this traumatized us both.

She was understandably angry and disappointed, but fortunately she pushed that aside (after some thorough scolding) knowing that helping me through the present situation was more important.  She tried her best to coach me through, and made sure that I never left the phone.  Within a few minutes, my stepdad Tim had emailed me the location of a local Nissan dealership where I was instructed to go. 

The problem was: I needed to go to the dealership, get all of my belongings out of my car and into a taxi and then get to a hotel, which my mom and stepdad were still trying to find for me.  Every hotel in the city, however, appeared to be sold out that night.

For the time being, I started to tell the tow truck driver the tentative plan, when he informed me that his tow truck was now broken and I was going to have to wait for a new one.  My mom, still on the phone, agreed with me that that didn’t sound kosher.  She put Tim on the phone who explained to me that Miami was full of shysters and that they were probably trying to scam and rob me.  The caution was noted, but it made me that much more panicked and afraid. In hindsight, it was probably just senseless paranoia.

In the near distance, it was still pretty early in the concert, but I had long since given up on trying to go now.  My mom tried to reinforce that, and I knew this time I wouldn’t make the mistake of defying her.  Amine, however, was still dead set on attending the show.  I was pissed off at him because it seemed so insensitive to my plight, but with my parents on the phone I felt like things were getting under control enough to wish him well.  He left for the show by himself, and left me with my burden to bear, despite my mom demanding he stayed with me.

The fat owner of the restaurant where we parked was now outside, telling me that if I didn’t move soon then he would have his own tow truck remove my car.  I explained to him the situation with fresh tears glistening on my cheeks, but he was a fucking asshole nonetheless (yet another person following the trend of abhorrent people in Miami).  Just then the second AAA tow truck appeared, which I was instructed not to trust, but I knew that if I didn’t do something soon, my truck would be towed whether I wanted it or not.

The truck drivers, the restaurant owning prick, and I were now in the midst of a heated argument, so I had to tell my mom I would call her back.  It was far more than I could deal with.  I wanted to just break down on the ground and lose it, but I knew that wasn’t an option.  I demanded identification from the AAA driver, which he provided and pointed to the certification on his truck.  At my wits end, I took it to be valid, though I couldn’t have been more unsure.  The first driver left, and the second began to load my truck on the lift while the impatient restaurant owner insisted that he hurried. 

My mom finally sent me the info for the hotel I would check into, the La Quinta Inn by the airport, and insisted that I call an Über black car after I got to the Nissan dealership and not before, because for some reason she thought that me waiting on the curb by myself with two people’s luggage in the middle of the night in a foreign city was safer than having the tow truck driver know that I was using an Über.  I did not take her advice, because quite frankly, it was stupid. 

I saw that the dealership was 10 minutes away, so before leaving with the tow truck, I called a cab because Über didn’t offer service in Miami (yet another thing enforcing my surfacing belief that Miami sucked), thinking it would arrive at the dealership about the time I did.  Things were starting to fall into place, and by now I didn’t even want to go to the concert.  I was too dejected.

Then things got sketchier.  The second tow truck driver introduced me to a new driver for his truck, a tall, skinny, old Cuban man with a scruffy beard who barely spoke a word of English and looked like the type of guy you just didn’t trust.  But my mind and body were so weak by now that I went with him, surrendering to whatever fate lied ahead but praying that my poor luck couldn’t get any worse.  I stayed in constant contact with my mom via text to be safe. 

Along the ride he asked why I was in Miami and mumbled something about “the babes” there.  I sat in the cab of the tow truck, using my own GPS to prevent any wrong turns, but fearing for my life thanks to the paranoia my mom and Tim had planted.  As we drove, the scenery quickly changed; we were entering the ghetto.  Great, I thought, my parents sent me to the dealership in the fucking middle of “Little Cuba”.

Soon, we arrived at the dealership and the taxicab came in right after.  I apologized to him for any inconvenience but asked him to wait.  A short, fat security guard came outside to help me check the car into the dealership, which was closed because it was approaching 10:30 PM by now.  He immediately started speaking in jumbled, broken Spanish trying to explain to me the procedure for dropping the car off.  I have taken Spanish classes for 13 years in school, including classes in the International Baccalaureate program, but I quickly realized he was speaking Cuban, which to me was the equivalent of a very redneck dialect of Spanish.  I simply couldn’t understand him.

“Whoa, whoa, hang on.  Do you speak English?” I asked.  He kept going in hurried Cuban like he didn’t even hear me.  “Íngles?” I tried. No acknowledgement still, he just kept going. “Despacio! Por favor!”

The truck driver tried to help but his English wasn’t good enough, so the cab driver, seeing me struggle stepped in and translated flawlessly.  I was so grateful, and he could tell.  I was pissed off at the fact that no one in Miami seemed to speak any fucking English.

Now that I could communicate, I filled out the necessary forms and grabbed my bags, regretfully saying goodbye to my car.  Inside the cab, I told the driver to head to the La Quinta Inn.  He was young and reminded me of Héctor Jiménez’s character from the movie Nacho Libre.  I talked with him for a while along that cab ride, and found him to be one of the nicest most genuine people – and certainly the only person worth a shit – I’d  come across in Miami.  I was so tired by this point that the specifics of the conversation were a blur besides the broad description of my atrocious night.

Reaching that hotel was the greatest blessing I could have imagined.  At the hotel, I tipped my driver generously and wandered into the hotel, which was under reconstruction.  Everyone was speaking Cuban, including the desk clerk as I waited to check in.  My detest for Miami was growing.  Just then, I thought for a second how there was no way I could have possibly dealt with that situation if I had been on acid as planned. 

I checked into the hotel, and called my mom once I was settled in.  That phone call turned out to be harder than the last, though. 

My mom was stern on the phone but still not showing anger as much as expected.  She explained to me that I would have to wait in Miami for a few days until my car was fixed, but I told her I just couldn’t do that.  I couldn’t afford to miss those days of class because I had missed enough days that I would automatically fail at least two of my classes.  Then I would fail out of Tech, and lose my fraternity, a place I had built deep connections and found a place I truly belonged. I never had a traditional family, so I cherished the fraternity and my brothers at that time. Her response was unsurprisingly something along the lines of “too damn bad”.  Never have I been the emotional type, but for possibly the first time in my life, at this moment, I broke down.  I’m talking about full meltdown tears, like nothing before. 

I was facing losing everything I knew: college, my friends, even my relationship with my parents, I knew would likely never be the same.  I was scared and I hated myself.  I literally dropped to the floor, face down, bawling on the phone.  I couldn’t handle it all.  I felt the pressure to the point of breaking and beyond. I stared out the window of that hotel and the first time in my life, I really contemplated suicide within inches of actually doing it.

I cried on the phone to my mom for over 20 minutes in what I hope is the hardest point of my life.  She could see that I hadn’t only learned my lesson from the mistake of going on the trip, but at that moment I got my life straight, or at least my head straight so that my life could come next.

In a recent course I took on child psychology, we talked about formative points of our lives that dramatically influenced who we are as people.  I would easily say, that this was one of the most momentous points to date.  In fact, I would say it is the point in which I became who I am now, a man very different from the boy that left for Miami.  I realized that the path I was on wasn’t the one I wanted. I broke so that I could be put back together, and I grew up in an instant.

Not only did I change, but how my mom saw me had changed too.  After she talked me off the ledge (figuratively and literally), she told me that she would fly me home the next day to ensure that I wouldn’t miss classes and promised to help me.  Help was all I could ask for.  She told me to get some food and rest and that we could talk in the morning.  I could feel a weight lift off of my shoulders.  I was still despondent, but I was going to be okay.

Off the phone, I walked to the vending machine to try to curb my thirst and hunger.  There was no food, but I decided to get two water bottles.  Before removing the first one from the vending machine I purchased the second one and the two bottles clogged the opening so that I couldn’t get either.  It was like a cruel joke at this point. 

By now, I had sent Amine the address of the hotel and he was on his way, so I decided to take a shower for the first time since I had left Atlanta.  The Quinta was no Ritz Carlton, but that shower was sublime.  I sat beneath the showerhead washing away the sweat and sand, but also cleansing myself of the negativity, fear and loathing that had become Miami. Fuck that city.

Sunday, October 14 (Pt. 1)

“I was at the lowest low point, but I had only to make the most of it.”

By now it was well past midnight, and Amine had arrived just as I was stepping out of the shower.  I explained to him some of what happened, but was just too tired to go into it really.

Sitting in the room, I realized I had no idea what I was going to do with the wealth of drugs I had left.  I would have to ditch the molly, acid and my bowl, I thought.  The bowl I had had for years now and was pretty attached to, and I couldn’t stand the idea of wasting that much money in drugs.  We could at least smoke all the weed, and I could save the brownie for the plane ride.  Eventually, I concluded that I could go in the morning before my 12:00 AM flight to hide my drugs back in my truck.

As we smoked, my sardonic acceptance of the situation brightened things up as best it could.  My car was fucked, Amine owed me over $500, I had wasted insurmountable amounts of money, I missed Pretty Lights once, Bassnectar twice, I had a ridiculous amount of drugs that I was about to hide in hopes that the Nissan workers wouldn’t find it, I was still facing severe and uncertain consequences from my parents and I was still stuck in the worst city on the planet.  I was at the lowest low point, but I had only to make the most of it.  The sleep deprivation made us that much higher with the inordinate amount of weed we were smoking, and eventually I had cheered up a good bit.

We hadn’t eaten since lunch and my stomach felt cavernous.  I called the front desk and they informed me that room service offerings had ended just 5 minutes earlier.  The munchies were too strong, though, so I tried finding food elsewhere.  It was too late for anything to deliver, but a Shenanigan’s was open for another two hours right next door to the hotel.  We had enough time to smoke some more, we thought.

Once we left the room, the acid in our systems had been reactivated by the copious amounts of weed and I certainly had some serious afterglow, as it is called.  I remember looking at the carpet in the halls of the hotel and marveling at how trippy it was.  The spirals and intricate designs probably would have impressed me any day, I thought, but then especially.

As we walked into the Shenanigan’s they informed us that the restaurant was open for another hour, but the kitchen was already closed.  We had missed food by just a few minutes.  I blamed Amine for his lack of urgency when I was rushing him in the hotel.

We returned to the hotel and smoked one more time. Naturally. Having nearly given up on finding an open restaurant, I asked Siri on my iPhone for the last time to find me anything I could eat. 

“Miami Subs is fairly close to your location,” she replied.  I couldn’t have been happier if I’d won the lottery.  1.2 miles away, there was salvation.  Excessively high, we headed out on foot, but we had to awkwardly cross a confusing highway junction with no sidewalks.  We sluggishly hopped the concrete barriers and soon we saw the faint light of the Miami Subs sign.

Thankful that it was open and starving from the exhausting endeavors, I let my eyes get bigger than my stomach.  I ordered chili cheese fries, a Greek salad and a gyro wrap.  Amine ordered a ridiculous amount of food as well, but we both needed it.  I was surprised the place was open, now that it was around 3:00 AM, but I was relieved something was finally going our way.  I remember showing Amine, my secret drink, the ultimate thirst quencher, and the cottonmouth cure.  At one of those electronic drink fountains with the fancy touch screens and about five thousand flavors, I mixed the cup with ¾ Hi-C Orange Vanilla and topped it off with Hi-C Flashin’ Fruit Punch. He appreciated it as much as I did, and it was finally fighting back the three days of dehydration.

As we walked back, two black prostitutes stopped in their Jeep beside us and asked what we were looking for.  I was confused at first, but as they persisted we just started laughing until they drove away.

That was my last memory of the night because, back in the hotel room, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.  The comfort of a warm bed, warm food and the warm shower were nothing out of the ordinary, but on that night they were divine.

Sunday, October 14 (Pt. 2)

“I came away from Miami a different person, just as I had after Bonnaroo…”

Amine woke me up as he left the room to catch his plane back to Rochester, but I fell right back to sleep for a few hours.  When my alarm finally went off at 10:45 AM, I gathered my belongings, ate the pot brownie and smoked the last bit of my weed as I hurriedly prepared for my 12:40 PM flight.  The Quinta was directly beside the airport, but I still had to return my drugs to my car at the dealership. 

Once I had checked out, I waited on the curb for my cab to arrive, observing the families coming in and out of the hotel; not one was English-speaking.  The cab finally arrived and I told the Middle Eastern driver where to go but that I needed him to wait for a minute or two while I put something into my car.

At the dealership, I saw my car hadn’t been moved, so I asked the front desk for my keys to get into the car.  As I waited I checked my email to find multiple replies stating that shipping my car to Atlanta would be between $300 and $500.  I couldn’t help but miserably recognize that I could have avoided telling my parents after all, but I chuckled anyway and brushed it off. 

I waited a solid 30 minutes before a portly guy named Pedro finally brought the keys to me.  The cab driver was racking up my fare as he waited, but I discreetly hid the remains of my goody bag in the tire compartment, praying that no one would find it after I left.

By now, my mom told me that one of Tim’s friends could drive my car back in a week or two, so I left my baby and headed back towards the airport, seriously pressed for time.  Curbside, I paid the cabby for the ridiculous fare and checked my one bag.

Still dog ass tired, I rushed through security and made it to the plane just in time.  As I looked at my seat assignment, I saw “First Class” and smiled, grateful to my mom for getting me through this ordeal and then some.

From here, the tale tapers off.  I got home safely, and soon I could sleep away my misery, but nothing of importance happened once I boarded the plane, though I was pretty stoned from the brownie.  My second, and certainly most horrific, tale was at it ends the moment I loaded up my dad’s car at the Atlanta airport.  All that was left was to sift through what had happened.

I came away from Miami a different person, just as I had after Bonnaroo, but this time was different.  It was as though Bonnaroo had showed me a new world, and Miami had brought the one I knew crashing down.  It took the tragedy of Miami to bring me to the person that I am today, and I am indescribably grateful that I had people around me to pull me through it.  Otherwise, I’m not sure I would have made it on my own.

Back in Atlanta, my relationship with my parents changed dramatically, too.  I think before that, they weren’t sure of the person that I was and feared for him, but now they share with me a mutual understanding that, despite the stupid things I have done, I will be okay “in the end”.  I came home afraid, though, of the consequences I was facing, but few followed.  My parents agreed that the lessons I learned from Miami and the hardships I came up against were enough.  The car repairs cost me over $2000, which I paid, but they never held any of the other costs against me.  They still helped pay for my education, as well.

Bonnaroo left me hopeful and inspired, while Miami tested me and shook me to my core.  For both experiences, though, I feel unimaginably blessed, yet still I loathe Miami in its entirety.

It is, by no means, a place I would ever recommend one visit; I hope I never ever have to return.

Closing

Four years after writing this, I ended up moving to Miami and living there for over three years. While, I learned to love parts of it, I haven’t been back since I left. It will always hold a special place in my heart, and my years living there changed the context of so much of what I wrote in this tale. But I kept the original text true as I first wrote it, because that is how I first felt it.

I mentioned in the predecessor to this journey (which you better have fucking read first) that there would be extensive drug use throughout my recount of events.  It became a bit easier this time to divulge all of that personal information, but I wanted this exposé to be as true as the last.  The fact of the matter is I could not have told the majority of this story without explaining the drug use.  Judge me if you will.  I promise that every single detail you have just read is true as I remember it.  Keep in mind, though, that I was under the influence so take that promise with a grain of salt.  I truly enjoyed writing this piece and I hope you enjoyed reading it.  I know for a fact I just needed to get it all down on paper so that I’ll never forget those incredulous details and so that others can hear my story.  Thank you for reading.  I’m glad I got the opportunity to share.