I often think of life as one long, continuous day.
A seemingly endless darkness that suddenly gives way to an outpouring of blinding light that then pales and turns pinkish and orange-y, hiding outlines and blurring details until the very things around us are open to interpretation, making our imagination soar as we try to make sense of the spectacle which surrounds us while the Sun grows stronger by the minute and keeps shadows at bay in preparation for us reaching the apex of our ascent, a moment of such bright brilliance as to turn up not only the color of our world, but also its temperature, making it so it's the most pleasant it could ever be, a taste of paradise that nonetheless is already headed for a deep, slow descent into a new moment of increasingly colder temperatures and muted colors as the sky begins to turn and both sides of a double "light show" fight for our attention: on one end we have the cosmic ballet of a million glittering jewels that start to emerge as soon as the last of the natural light dips below the horizon. And on the other we have a sea of artificial glows, fake stars that form their own constellation of plastic and glass, all whilst life herself puts on her long, velvety coat (the one that is always outlined by the purple immensity just above her) as she's prepared to wear midnight when the shadows return and begin to make everything shapeless and blurry again, this time because our entire world is ceasing to exist.
But a lot can happen in a day, no matter how brief... and making the most out of whatever light we have been assigned in this universal lottery becomes something of a mission, an act of defiance against the very real fear of being forgotten once we are gone, even as those memories we made and shared start to fade like ancient photographs left forgotten in a drawer only visited by dust and spiders, abandoned to turn into a mess of yellowed edges, crumpled sides and the discolored remnants of what used to be smiles.
The story you are about to hear belongs to this later group of memories, the ones made while the light wasn't as strong and our minds were still trying to make sense of this thing called "life" as we were nearly colorblind, processing the world on primary colors that rarely combined and soft shapes that invited imagination, like whimsical clouds that we insisted on giving alternative meanings to as they drifted silently across a sky so blue as if taken straight from an old videogame.
When I was around seven-years-old, my sister was given a toy tent. It was one of those weird gifts that show up from time to time, the kind that well-meaning uncles and aunts buy on impulse after seeing them at the toy store and suddenly decide to get, thinking they'd become royalty in our very eyes because of the huge package they lugged behind them (they weren't wrong). I'm sure our parents thought that this was one of those unfortunate things that was doomed to be used a couple of times, then promptly vanish to the back of a wardrobe or to the dark corners of the basement where it would be promptly forgotten for years to come, only resurfacing as the kid it was meant for came down looking for something else and stumbled upon its dirty, discolored shape and the crumbly debris of what used to be rock-solid pieces... that was the plan, anyway.
Not exactly what we had, but damn was it fun!
Because, you see, my sister and I LOVED that thing.
Not only were we friends in the pure sense that only small children can be, but we also turned it into our very own, private shelter. A world of our own in which we could hide from the increasingly crushing reality of school and of our own bodies and minds as they were being reshaped with every tick of the clock. There we weren't just J and C, elementary school students from a prestigious school of rich Irish traditions. Nor were we the offspring of a greatly respected military officer and dedicated homemaker. We weren't even those robotic "mini-adults" who felt strangled by their polished shoes and the formal clothes they were forced to wear on the daily. We were just stupid kids with missing teeth and messy hair who enjoyed sitting around a plastic tent stamped with all sorts of childhood images and held in place by pale plastic tubes that looked straight from the waterworks. We simply loved sitting around on our bare socks or our sneakers with holes in them as we sported our Batman t-shirts and wore all sorts of stupid accessories (like my sister's neon blue wig and my Godzilla watch) and read magazines even as the howling winds of Fall and its gold-and-red majesty blew into our makeshift castle and made our teeth clatter, completely ignoring the pleas-turned-into-orders being shouted at us from the house as our parents repeteadly tried to get us back inside, only succeeding in their task after playing the "nuclear option": telling us that our favorite TV shows were about to start, and then luring us in with the smell of hot chocolate served in funny-shaped cups and accompanied with medialunas. That always did the trick, but we never stayed away from the only place we could claim as our own for too long, even as we were being made painfully aware that we wouldn't be using much longer, as evidenced by how much we had to slouch to fit inside after only a few months of delighting in owning a few square feet of paradise.
For better or for worse, the fruit-bearing tree at the end of our yard marked the edge of the known universe for us, a place that was always guarded by our twin pet turtles and that gave up just enough of a glance into what "the great beyond" looked like during the cold seasons to trigger our imaginations as foliage scattered to the wind and the now-bare branches swayed as if protesting being naked; a living, shaking fist making a wordless protest.
But, Interestingly, my first enduring memories of Florida Street didn't actually take place on Florida Street, but in everything leading up to it.
We hadn't needed much convincing to take the long ride to a place described to us so vividly and so excitedly as to make it desirable in a primal sort of way, but compromises had to be made... chief among them: our clothing.
I have already mentioned how much we hated the oppressive nature of school uniforms and formalwear, so you can imagine our sheer dread when Mom came back from the closet holding our "good clothes", the set meant to make us look slightly less feral. For me, it was an ugly brown-and-white Lacoste shirt I loathed, and a pair of jeans I was "meant to grow into" (which I had already done, months ago). My sister's outfit was a "cowgirl" ensemble: plaid shirt, decent jeans, and a pair of brown mini-shoes that looked like a cross between hiking boots and tall Converses. Hers looked rad as hell. Mine made me hate life with a passion.
Sucks you right in, doesn't it?
But none of that mattered. We were going to Florida! And we were doing it BY GETTING ON THE HIGHWAY!
For whatever reason, I was obsessed with highways at the time, and this promised to be our longest ride yet. The fact that it would happen at night added an extra layer of magic to it all. We were so excited that we promptly drove our parents nuts with a million games in the car, including one where we pretended the Moon was following us with every twist and turn, begging our dad to "step on it" so we could outrun it, all whilst marvelling as the cars that sped right by us, their front and back beams making them look like alien spaceships on a planet-conquering mission.
We also took special note of a factory across a small river, its funnels and chimneys looking suspiciously like a pack of cigarettes with their brown ends and long, white tubes. That was enough "evidence" in that simple fact (and our even simpler minds) for us to conclude that Marlboros were made there. And you bet we let Dad know by repeatedly (and relentlessly) teasing him, telling him that he should quit his job and seek employment there. He wasn't amused, but he didn't have to endure our shrieking giggles for long, because just minutes later we reached what would become our favorite part of the trip: a steep, sudden plunge into an elevated exit ramp where the car went nearly vertical for a few, terrifying seconds. We could feel our heads lift involuntarily, our eyes taken from the road and forced into the roof of the car, as if held in place by some invisible force... and then, just as suddenly, it was already over and normalcy returned as in schedule. We called that moment "the little rollercoaster". And we lived for it.
By the time we parked near Florida Street itself, we were already so utterly excited as to resemble shaking bombs threatening to go off at the faintest touch or spark.
And trust me, the place offered sparks aplenty.
This is actually one of the few places I know which looks just as gorgeous during the day.
The number one reason this piece took so long to write was that I found it nearly impossible to describe the place without sounding like someone very much high on whatever burns faster and stones harder. Please bear that in mind as I drool over the memories of official Rolex stores flanked on both sides by street vendors selling fedoras from a rag on the floor, wearing sunglasses at night (as if pulling their best Corey Hart impression) and a guy advertising novelty lighters shaped like cartoon classics, aimed specifically at the manchild and the eccentric businessman whose childhood fantasy was to have Optimus Prime or Charmander light up their joint. All this while a three-man street orchestra performed cover after cover of movie soundtracks, trying to drown out the moaning accordions of Tango dancers with sexy, delicate moves that took a lifetime to master and a mere second to be engraved in our memories.
I also remember one absolute asshole of a street magician who performed mind-blowing tricks with ease, but then ruined his own act by getting mad at the small tips thrown his way, as if that was part of the performance! Part of me believes he enjoyed the pointless arguments that followed, but I mostly think he was the most memorable person in that whole neon paradise for all the wrong reasons: he was loud, obnoxious, hugely overwhelming, vibrant, and impossible to ignore, just like the stage he was performing on.
There was also a weird store whose entire gimmick was selling "Tiger-like" games in cool-looking shapes and cases. Those guys could sell you Tetris eight hundred times and you'd buy it each time because the device looked like a mini desktop computer (and was controlled by an actual mini keyboard!). It was there that I got my beloved "Brick Game", which would later land me one of my very first friendships, as my buddy Florencia had another one (on a different color, because, of course), and we competed quite seriously on those crappy built-in games during recesses and study halls.
With all those amazing sounds and sights, it may actually disappoint you to know that our biggest memory of the place happened to be its most mundane... or whatever passed as mundane in that whirlwind of sensory overload, that southern "Las Vegas" where the only gambling was between you and the burning urge to empty your wallet. A losing bet you couldn't help but make.
There used to be a huge Burger King there. It was so active that it took up all three stories of a non-descript building, standing out among its neighbors thanks to a tall logo that could be seen from anywhere on the street. It was so massive it actually seemed to recede as we approached, like the castle of a cursed king vanishing under a spell. And maybe because getting there was such a chore, we saved it for later in each visit to, uh, Not-Miami. But that only made the disappointment sharper.
... Most of the time, anyway.
Once inside, we had to endure the employees (mostly teenagers with nothing better to do) blasting music and taking their shirts off at the end of the day, indirectly kicking out the last stragglers trying to enjoy a late-night burger cooked on a dying grill. My dad chalked it up to bad timing and convinced us to give it another shot. When it happened again almost immediately and at a normal hour, it led to one of the funniest parts of my childhood: a family-wide, lifetime ban on Burger King that still stands to this day, long after its architect and most of the "signatories" have forgotten all about it.
It's amazing just how much milage we got out of these things...
I wouldn't return to this place for more than two decades, and when I did, it was as "muscle" to help my friend carry his new, NASA-like computer to the car. We raced down several flights of stairs, dragging gear so heavy it wore us down after just one day, bypassing every neat thing that would have made me turn my head in all directions as a kid, not even affording it a second glance in adulthood.
That visit gave me memories in sharp, vicious contrast to the ones stored deep within: a simple day in an unremarkable business district, where high noon meant more workers and fewer performers. Neon lights were mostly off, and those still clinging to life reflected in the still, stinking water pooling from a blocked drainage ditch, creating a gasoline rainbow distorted by a floating Starbucks cup, sideways and half-sunk like it was drowning in the multicolored, toxic mess.
It was almost an art form, really.
I don't know why some memories return like tidal waves, commanding my fingers to turn them into stories that probably make no sense, holding me hostage until they are done and published. But every one that gets written down helps keep the long night at bay just a little longer.
And maybe that's how you navigate the shadows: by finding the light once more.
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