Dinner with strangers, pt. I

A quarter past eight, the unknowing characters took their places.

The big, black ball player sat alone at a table for two, his girth spilling over the seat. He splayed out his meaty legs as he settled in low and locked eyes on the girl behind the counter.

Behind him in the carpeted dining area, two men, both missing some teeth, were arranging a smörgåsbord of chicken nuggets, french fries, burgers and even a salad on the table before them. From the way their eyes darted among the entrées and the way their fingers pawed at the food wrappers, this meal was a delight a long time coming.

At the register, a short Middle Eastern man with tight gray curls was ordering his dinner. He was soft spoken, and on top of that, had an accent. The polyester polo-clad girl behind the counter asked him to repeat himself more than once.

"What was that? You want the chicken sandwich?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Just the sandwich, or the whole meal?" she asked.

He pointed up at the large menu looming above the counter.

"The number seven then?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Good, ok," she said, in a tone slightly louder and clearer than normal.

Just ahead of the small Arab, a tall, muscular young black man looked on with knowing eyes that seemed to soak up everything around them, but were weary at the same time, as if they carried some unseen burden.

The man with the wise-yet-weary eyes was leaning against a railing, waiting on his food. He was gazing off into nowhere, but was watching everything at the same time.

I was leaning against the rail next to him, waiting on a spicy chicken sandwich combo.

As the short, curly man finished his order, the bulbous guy rose from his seat and swaggered to the counter. He was wearing a high school letter jacket from 2005. When he arrived, he pressed his gelatinous belly against the counter and leaned over to the girl working behind it.

His words came out in a rambling mumble that sounded like an air bubble burbling through a vat of warm pudding.

"Hey baby... burble burble... I get some... burble ... hot fries?"

A friend of the fat customer was working in the back of the restaurant.

"Yeah, I gechoo some fries," the man in the back said, overhearing the request.

The fat man leaned in even further toward the girl behind the counter.

"You... burble... think you pretty? Or you ugly?" he asked, his query making no sense to me.

The girl ignored him. She left to the back of the restaurant, and he wheezed, then took a step back from the counter, after which he immediately leaned forward, and propped himself against it with one stubby arm.

He looked around lazily.

The man with the wise and weary eyes looked at the fat man's face, but the fat man refused to make eye contact.

"You play football?" the wise and weary-eyed man asked?

The fat man responded as if the question came from space. His words burbled away to nobody in particular.

"Yeah, I play... burble... ball," he said.

They exchanged no more words.

To Be Continued...

Honey, bring mama her gun

Today I wrote a brief about something that happens only on TV, and in Miami:

Feuding moms spark school lockdown
By Dominick Tao

Edison Park Elementary School was locked down for more than an hour Wednesday after feuding mothers, who have children from the same father, started a violent confrontation that ended with a volley of gunfire, a fleeing car and an arrest.

Nobody was injured, but the shooting just outside the school, at 500 NW 67th St., caused a flurry of calls from concerned parents and nearby residents to Miami police.

The incident unfolded as school was letting out and parents were arriving to collect their children at about 3 p.m.

Among them: Leslie Mack, 33, and Tiffany Rochelle Harris, 31.

Earlier in the day, a judge had turned down a request from Harris to place a restraining order against Mack.

Here's what happened next, according to Miami police:

Both women arrived at the school and a fight erupted.

Harris called to her daughter to bring over her purse. Inside was a gun.

Mack tried to get away in her car, but Harris opened fire.

No one was hit.

Harris was arrested by Miami Police shortly after the shooting and charged with aggravated assault with a firearm.

And seriously, I think I blew the competition out of the water on this one.

Junk-food fuel

I work in a profession that relies on junk food to sustain itself.

When I was the editor of the Alligator, for several weeks, I bought pizzas for the staff to consume (and then review).

During election night here at my current journalism job, the company provided dinner for the newsroom: a pizza buffet in the conference room; near a dozen pies, topped with everything from broccoli to BBQ chicken.

And when I'm on the go, out reporting in the city, it's not like I pack myself a PB&J and an apple for the road. I need fast food to keep up with my fast-paced job.

Even though I have a very athletic body, sparing no excuse to take off my shirt to show off the eight-pack, I can see these habits turning into a major problem.

First, I must learn to avoid the addiction. But when there is a dealer on every corner, giving in is all too easy.

***

One of many fast-food joints near my apartment.

On windy days, I can smell the taco meat mingling with burger grease. Seems disgusting, but to my refined college-student palate, that smell is delicious.

After scarfing snacks all day to get by when I'm stuck in the office, I frequently treat myself to a dinner from trans-fat alley -- the two-block strip of fast-food joints within walking distance of my apartment.

Access is only a matter of sprinting across bustling Biscayne and surveying my options.

Taco Bell, McDonald's, Pollo Tropical and Wendy's.

If I really have a craving, I could jog a few more blocks and have a Checker's and Burger King at my disposal.

I think if a Whataburger opened up nearby, my heart would explode with ecstasy -- or clog with cholesterol.

My surround

I live 30 feet from Biscayne Boulevard, on the edge of brilliant excess and the domain of greasy nothing.

Go north a quarter mile, you're in the Fashion District. Boutique everything everywhere. The smell of gourmet bistro wafts through the air during lunch time, and all the time, there's an air of pretension, or depending where you sit, sophistication.

Go north a little more, and you're in the slums of Little Haiti. I haven't spent much time there, but if it's anything like the nearby Liberty City, it is filled with a lot of black people who have a lot of unfulfilled dreams, minus an obsession with Martin Luther King.

South a few blocks is Norman Braman's luxury car empire. Every day, thousands of people pass the plate-glass showrooms and open-air lots filled with cars worth more than their houses.

Aston Martin. Bently. Ferrari. Lamborghini. Maybach. Maseratti. Mercades. Porsche. Rolls Royce. If it cost more than $100,000 and comes from the E.U., Braman probably carries it.

I can't help but drool and fantasize about 500-hp VRRROOOOOOOM every time I drive past in my humble SUV.

A little further south is the steel and glass maze of downtown. It's always under construction, and on any given day, there are at least five cranes hoisting tons of concrete over bumper-to-bumper traffic, continuously adding to the grand forest of high-rise condos and corporate castles.

From my street corner, I can see the sign for the Interstate 195 East on-ramp. From there, it's 5 minutes to Miami Beach. A lot longer with traffic. And Miami Beach is a different story for a different day.

There's a lot more in-between, but in the grand scheme of things, these are the places my place is sandwiched between.

Welcome to Miami, and my musings from it

Miami.

Glitter, grit, all in the same place at the same time.

It's laid back. It's furious and flashy. It's international, but far from foreign.

Art deco meets glass-sheathed ultra-mod meets Mediterranean castle.

It's richer than I'll ever be, and so poor, it hurts me.

For at least a little while, I'm calling it home.


Carrying on the compulsion to document the nuances of my surroundings with a prying eye and eager pen, this blog is my new sketchbook for recording the thousands of fascinations, without fable, I see every day.

Zoooooom! Redlight, blue lights. Dammit.

Originally published 10/25 on TheDetwork.
You never know when they'll strike from the gnarled bushes and straggly cattails that line most of the highways in North Central Florida.

Sometimes they're not even there. But the fact that they could be there, lurking with eyes wide, ready to chase you down as you drive -- is enough to deter many from driving in a way that aggravates them.

I like to live dangerously -- I like to spot the predators before they find me. But no motorist can be like a paranoid meerkat every day, all the time. Eventually one of them will slip through even your best watch.

Driving back to Gainesville from reporting on a story in High Springs this morning, I noticed the local policemen, county sheriff's deputies and Florida Highway Patrolmen were stalking the roads with particular vigor.

U.S. Highway 441 in High Springs and Interstate 75 from Gainesville all the way up to Alachua were crawling with cops out to catch speeders, even casual ones. There were definitely more lawmen than usual.

It was quite a spectacle to see entire sections of the freeway slow down from 90 mph to the speed limit, 70 mph, when the lead car in a pack of fast-moving vehicles spots a Crown Vic' nestled in a grassy median.

And yes, the reason I'm re-posting this is because I got another ticket -- this time 15 minutes from home after driving 2,500 miles from Gainesville to New York City and back earlier this month. I just paid the near-$200 fine, and felt like venting.

As you can see, my new street here in Miami is very well policed. When the automatic pistol shots start going off, it's only a matter of seconds before the sirens follow. Down here, there's enough real crime that fast drivers are almost an afterthought. (Just watch, I'll get another ticket on the Don Shula Expressway tomorrow).