parking began at five bucks, I left the T-Bird at the new Miami Beach police headquarters on Washington Avenue and walked the short blocks to Ocean Drive. The city’s new cop shop is another prime example of the TV show’s style and influence. All the police stations built in Dade County since the sixties are formidably constructed fortresses. Not so the new Beach headquarters, built several seasons into the show. The structure is white and full of windows, balconies, and glass brick. The show’s producer shot an episode there before the cops even moved into the building.
In a later season, one plot had revolved around a fictional place called The Sex Club, a Miami Beach nightspot that headlined simulated sex acts on stage. I had joked with Lottie about it the next morning.
“Did you see that?” I said. “I bet some tourist from Kansas City will arrive at Miami International Airport any minute now, jump in a cab, and say, ‘Take me to The Sex Club,’” We shared a laugh because no such establishment existed.
Months later, Lottie received tickets to the opening of a new nightspot in Miami Beach. She invited me along. The name was different, but the concept was The Sex Club. Again, life imitated art.
Walking over to Ocean Drive was no problem. The evening was balmy, and television had even made the streets safer. If you and a sinister stranger are the only people on a dark street, you might be in trouble. But when you are part of a crowd headed for a trendy South Beach club or restaurant, there is safety in numbers.
Television had even performed its own brand of urban renewal, I thought, passing by the candy-striped awnings and arched windows of a small hotel, once crumbling, but now fully restored. When producers shot scenes at abandoned gas stations or aging hotels, they spruced up the places first, painting murals, installing neon lights, and leaving behind much improved properties. They had certainly done a better job at it than our local politicians.
I turned the corner onto Ocean Drive and spotted my mother’s convertible, parked at a meter in front of the classic Deco hotel where we planned to dine. How she does it, I will never know. When I found her inside, she already had us on the waiting list for a table in the subtly lit dining room. I would have liked to sit outside, next to a lavender keystone pillar, under the curved, overhanging porch roof. A jazz band was playing out by the pool, but my mother preferred air conditioning.
Small and neat with ash blond hair in a becoming Dutch girl cut, she wore a stylish dark suit, probably purchased at a generous discount from the upscale fashion house where she had been manager for the past fifteen years. She was smoking a long brown cigarette.
“I thought you quit,” I said in greeting.
“Britt, smoking is one of the few vices I have left in life. Indulge me.”
“Sure,” I said.
We waited at the black and green bar, once the hotel’s reception desk, for our names to be called. She ordered a Manhattan and raised her finely penciled eyebrows when I asked for a mineral water. “I have to make a few calls on a story later tonight,” I explained.
“You should have said so, I wouldn’t have ordered a drink.” She looked annoyed.
“No reason why you shouldn’t have one, just because I’m not.”
“Well, I’m uncomfortable…”
“Okay, okay. I’m having dinner anyway, so I guess it’s all right.” I hailed the bartender and changed my order to a Dubonnet, red, on the rocks.
“Maybe I should have wine,” my mother said.
“I thought you wanted a Manhattan.”
“What are you having?”
“A Dubonnet.”
The young, slick-haired bartender stood poised, the soul of patience though the bar was crowded.
“Okay,” she smiled brightly, as though doing me a favor. “A Manhattan.”
Nothing with my mother was ever easy.
We got our table, covered with pink linen, and our menus. “Now tell me,” she said, leaning across the place
In a later season, one plot had revolved around a fictional place called The Sex Club, a Miami Beach nightspot that headlined simulated sex acts on stage. I had joked with Lottie about it the next morning.
“Did you see that?” I said. “I bet some tourist from Kansas City will arrive at Miami International Airport any minute now, jump in a cab, and say, ‘Take me to The Sex Club,’” We shared a laugh because no such establishment existed.
Months later, Lottie received tickets to the opening of a new nightspot in Miami Beach. She invited me along. The name was different, but the concept was The Sex Club. Again, life imitated art.
Walking over to Ocean Drive was no problem. The evening was balmy, and television had even made the streets safer. If you and a sinister stranger are the only people on a dark street, you might be in trouble. But when you are part of a crowd headed for a trendy South Beach club or restaurant, there is safety in numbers.
Television had even performed its own brand of urban renewal, I thought, passing by the candy-striped awnings and arched windows of a small hotel, once crumbling, but now fully restored. When producers shot scenes at abandoned gas stations or aging hotels, they spruced up the places first, painting murals, installing neon lights, and leaving behind much improved properties. They had certainly done a better job at it than our local politicians.
I turned the corner onto Ocean Drive and spotted my mother’s convertible, parked at a meter in front of the classic Deco hotel where we planned to dine. How she does it, I will never know. When I found her inside, she already had us on the waiting list for a table in the subtly lit dining room. I would have liked to sit outside, next to a lavender keystone pillar, under the curved, overhanging porch roof. A jazz band was playing out by the pool, but my mother preferred air conditioning.
Small and neat with ash blond hair in a becoming Dutch girl cut, she wore a stylish dark suit, probably purchased at a generous discount from the upscale fashion house where she had been manager for the past fifteen years. She was smoking a long brown cigarette.
“I thought you quit,” I said in greeting.
“Britt, smoking is one of the few vices I have left in life. Indulge me.”
“Sure,” I said.
We waited at the black and green bar, once the hotel’s reception desk, for our names to be called. She ordered a Manhattan and raised her finely penciled eyebrows when I asked for a mineral water. “I have to make a few calls on a story later tonight,” I explained.
“You should have said so, I wouldn’t have ordered a drink.” She looked annoyed.
“No reason why you shouldn’t have one, just because I’m not.”
“Well, I’m uncomfortable…”
“Okay, okay. I’m having dinner anyway, so I guess it’s all right.” I hailed the bartender and changed my order to a Dubonnet, red, on the rocks.
“Maybe I should have wine,” my mother said.
“I thought you wanted a Manhattan.”
“What are you having?”
“A Dubonnet.”
The young, slick-haired bartender stood poised, the soul of patience though the bar was crowded.
“Okay,” she smiled brightly, as though doing me a favor. “A Manhattan.”
Nothing with my mother was ever easy.
We got our table, covered with pink linen, and our menus. “Now tell me,” she said, leaning across the place
Similar Books
