Last week I went to Kill Your Idols in Miami, with my friend Sloane. Kill Your Idols is basically a Williamsburg bar that blew a bunch of pure Coumbian imported MIA cocaine. Weird pop art pieces that are half old billboards and half ugly day-glo sculptures cover the two story building’s wall; the Dj plays both LCD Soundsystem and Drake. Since Miami has real diversity, not that we-toss-the-blacks-in-Harlem-but-say-we-have-diversity-because-the-UES-is-ten-blocks-away bullshit, the crowd is mixed.
At the bar, Sloane spilled her drink on this black girl in a gorgeous blue dress. I apologized for her. “I’m so sorry. She’s drun—-” The woman turned towards me. She had a tear drop tattoo under her eye—she was a murderer.
I grabbed Sloane’s arm as she started to pat the girls back and slur an apology. “You want a shot?” I asked.
The girl laughed.”It’s no problem,” she said. “I’m on vacation from Wisconsin. I just got out of jail!”
They let her free?!?! I thought. Half of me said, Run. The other half said, She’s material.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was in Miami County Jail for three years.” Three years ago, she went on vacation in Miami. She committed a crime, making her three day vacation a three year event that took place in a jail cell instead of on the beach.
“Okay. You need a shot. I’m buying you a shot.” She threw down the shot like anyone else in the club. Her three years in Miami had turned her into a local, another weirdo with a story and a wild heart.