DAY 9: Smashed!

Once upon of time, in my early 20s, I lived in a humid, hot and then frantic fun crazy place call South Beach. It was a booming place, filled with the most exiting and alive people from all corners of the globe, who were looking for their notch in the glamorous world of Fashion Week. I was part of this team of maniacs, eating lettuces and sushi to keep the line, and partying for exercise. Still, I was never a full member of the madness, First, I was married for parts of my years there, which slow me down, at least in the party scene, and secondly I have never been a social butterfly. As an active member, I was up and down Lincoln Rd, Ocean Drive and Collins Ave. all day long, with my Book permanently attached to my hand, praying for the next gig that would pay my rent, or at least make me happy. Very short I have always been, so Fashion Week was never going to be my ending goal, although I would lie if I told you that I didn’t pray for a miracle to happen when short became in and tall became a thing of the past. As we know today, that never did happen, tall still cool, and short doesn’t get into Fashion Week, unless is in a piece of clothing. Therefore, I was very thankful when a Venezuelan Producer moved his production company into town and gave birth to the“wonderful” world of television production in Miami, especially Novelas. After him, some others followed including the biggest Television Networks, and a new work market was born. Today, just like South Beach, the powerful machine of lights and action are in their way out from Cubaland, but I was there for the Golden Years, and it was fun!

Many stories I could tell you about those years of work, love, heart break and simple growth, but today I will share one that caused an explosion of laughter out of me when last night I was reminded of it. After probably 9 years of not seeing each other, a dear friend from those unforgettable days and I went out for dinner. Last time we hanged out he was a young kid, full of unclear dreams and aspirations, of something he couldn’t fully point out by then. He was vibrant, and funny, and sweet, and girls just loved him. He was the best friend you could ever have, the one whose house door was always open, and a shoulder was always ready. His heart was soft and always wrapped in love, for you, for life and for the lucky girl. And I also remember a fine six-pack framing his slender body, covered by a cinnamon skin body suit. This Colombian Cinnamon Bun and I met working on a pilot, and an electrical current created sparks from the first day.

I had gotten divorced not long before. The life I had gone through until then, made me feel so much older than I was that I felt him to be so much younger than me, when in reality the difference was only a year. In this pilot, like often happens during filming, many love affairs took place, and Cinnamon Bun and I didn’t want to stay behind. We started to spend many hours together, always hanging around, doing random stuff that made me feel like the girl I really was. He was fun, real, unique and in a way even naïve. But our relationship had a shade of friendship that was not turning into red passion. We loved each others company, and I remember having a nice crush, but his loving heart was broken from a recent break up. Electricity was still flicking sparks, but he made sure to quickly put down fires before they could damage our fertile green friendship. He was good at that shit, and it frustrated the hell out of me, since I of course wanted the flames to burn me down to the ground. So frustrated it was, that yesterday I couldn’t even remember if we had actually ever kissed, and after a memory exercises we both came up with details of heated moments in his cave-like apartment on Pennsylvania and 8^th. His fractured heart was still so kind, that it didn’t want to smash the heart of another, that is more that I can say for must man at any age. Still, I was determined to win him over, and cure the cuts with bandages of kindness and patience.

One day I had a plan. Since my grandma and mother always said that all men were win by their stomachs, I went to the best market in town to get all kinds of delicatessens to make two scrumptious sandwiches, and a refreshing fruit plate, combined with a good bottle of wine, all packed in a picnic basket for a perfect evening under the stars.  I called him to ask if he could be just mine for one night, since we were always hanging with other friends, because indeed he was, and still is a social butterfly. He curiously and merrily accepted the invitation. I picked him up, and to add some excitement, I blindfolded him the whole drive. When we got to the beach, I helped him out of the car. We were jijiji-jajajaj (English version hihihih-hahahaha), giggles, giggles all the way. I had a RV4 truck then, and I open my back door to take out the picnic basket. Him, still blindfolded, grabbed himself from the edge of the door trying to keep balanced. We were talking as I got the picnic basket, and distracted by the conversation, and the excitement of the night to come, I didn’t notice his cute little fingers firmly clutched around the door’s edge, and in one defiant motion I accidentally slammed the door on his fingers. The full moon fell from the sky in horror, and the starts collectively screamed at me “you screwed it up girl.” His scream was quieter, but more excruciating. I cannot describe his pain, but I don’t think is necessary, we all know what smashing fingers feel like, throbbing cycles of brutal pain. The blindfold when off, and I could see a mix of agony and anger in his eyes. I didn’t know if he would cry or simply smack me silly. I was clueless in what to do next. I looked for the dry ice in the basket and I gave it to him. I told him we should go to a doctor or something. I told him to call the whole thing off and go home to take care of the pain. But he firmly said, “NO we are having a picnic.” And we did. Moon got back up into the sky, and the starts shined again, but the night couldn’t be farther away from the original plan. I don’t remember a lot of details, which it is a sign that things didn’t go all that well. My mind always does that, it blocks less than perfect memories. It keeps the worst of hurtful fights, and the most beautiful moments of love, but anything in between is erased, until someone helps to recreate the moment, and the flash back comes to front, letting me tap into a forgotten story.

Yesterday, when Cinnamon Bun and I evoked the past,I almost pee my pants recalling this moment. He told me that that day he was ready to let go, and if the picnic had gone out right, I would have remember the following hours, but it didn’t. As much as he found my gestured to be, quoting: “the sweetest thing a woman, until then, had ever done for me;” the incident had created an instant short circuit in the electrical current we had shared until then. Soon after, I left to LA for good, and we never saw each other again. Now Cinnamon Bun has found his voice, he found what he was searching for then, and he is goooodddd!!! Music is his path, and I love to see the happy smile on my friend’s now very manly face. The kid had grown up into a perfect soul of radiant light ready to radiate the world, and I’m happy I didn’t permanently damage those talented musician’s fingers.