"This stretch of South Beach is to Warhol's view of fame what Iwo Jima is to the Marine Corps‚ view of honor. This is sacred ground, Lincoln Road. There is an opportunity in every strut and adultery rocks in the steady sway of every swinging ass propelled by five inch stilettos." Mike was finishing his usual tour for new friends, reciting the rote and contemplating the meaning of positive.

The practiced pitch of his delivery escaped the newcomers. "Why don't you and Bev take in the sights for a while? Wonder around and soak it in. It never is quite as good as the first time." He was being brutally honest and Iain and Bev totally missed it.

That they missed it could be excused. The sun had set and the glitter and neon were humming seduction from all directions. It always started as a hum, Mike thought. The delicious facades guarded by miles of velvet ropes, collected loneliness in hoards of human flesh. Iain and Bev flitted off into the color-seared darkness.

"Quieres amor, Rodie?" Mike turned to find the voice. Cuban hookers have a way with words. This one thinks that she knows about love, though he's certain that she has no idea what it is. Rodie translates to brother instantly in Mike's mind. He thinks he may have overstayed his allotted time in Miami.

"No, grashus." His Spanish was less than romantic. The hooker gives him a quick glance, a withered attempt at a come hither look. Mike soaks her in, noting her sagging breasts and caked face. South Beach will beat you down, sweetheart. The words never cross his lips. She moves on.

Mike eases to a nearby bench and relieves his legs of their burden. The positive gives no quarter. How the hell can anything so devastating be called positive? His pill cocktail thins his desire. He was a vibrant man.

"We should have made reservations." A passing woman is berating her husband. Or is it her boyfriend? Does it matter? They have someone to spin with, a commodity gaining currency in Mike's mind. Nightly charades don't spin; they take and abuse. He laughs at his freedom with words. Words matter less when nobody is listening.

A group of young men walk past him laughing. "Fuck you, Bobby;" a redhead is irritated at being the punch line. Bobby stops, gives him a peck on the cheek. They all laugh again and move on. The redhead joins in.

Mike remembered good company. There were always the dreams, too many and too large to completely share. They would not have understood. They never stopped to dream their own dreams. They took what they were offered and never dared more. A tear streamed down Mike's cheek. The realization that he had declined what was offered and never dared more was too painful to bear. He needed to move, be alive.

"Hey Mike, we found a great club," Iain was closing in, looking concerned. "Do you want to come with us?" It was more of a plea for pity's sake. Mike emitted the stench of emotional collapse.

"I don't think so, you two go ahead," Mike was backing out in his rehearsed style. "I'll catch a cab."

"Are you sure?" Iain's reply was more an affirmation. "Are you ok?"

I'm dying, one day at a time. The words never cross Mike's lips. "I'm just tired," Mike lied. "You two have fun. I'll call you tomorrow.' It was early and the neon was relatively dull. They had their own histories of South Beach to write.

"OK, man, talk with you then," Iain gratefully offered.

Iain and Bev strode off to start their research. Mike did not hang around for the draft. He had read the end. It was always the same. South Beach will beat you down, one night at a time.