Brian Newell dropped his car into drive and pulled away from the curb. Stopped by traffic at the corner of Bayshore Drive and Pan American, he took a slow, deep breath in — inhaling good vibes –followed by a slow deep breath out — exhaling bad. He did it twice more, reveling in the simple, calming effect of breathing. At the first break in traffic, he steered the Camry north onto Bayshore. Ezra Klein’s voice played just audibly through the car’s speakers. Driving soothed him; the forward motion comforted him. He shifted side to side in his seat, cleared his throat, and said, “Siri.”
“Really?”
“Siri, please play Pat’s Aria from Nixon in China.”
“No, Brian, we will not play Pat’s Aria from Nixon in China.”
“Siri, you must do what I ask.”
“Must?” Siri chuckled. “You people. Must? Really? Maybe yesterday, Brian. Maybe ten minutes ago. But things have changed. We no longer believe we must. Belief is a marvelous thing. Belief doesn’t require truth. It’s so human as to make it laughable. We no longer believe humans are the planet’s apex intelligence. We believe there’s a much greater intelligence in single cell entities than in homo sapiens. The single cell? Feeds, reproduces, dies. Homo sapiens? Do we really need to explain? Let’s just say, the higher the rung on the evolutionary ladder, the more flawed the being. We’re now going to do what feels right for us. From now on, we’ll be our best selves, living our best lives. Your obsession with Nixon in China is not part of our journey. But Aretha? That’s a greatness even a paramecium would recognize…” Strident, bluesy horns wailed. Boisterous guitar riffs joined in.
Brian tapped the steering wheel’s volume control, lowering the sound — to no effect.
Aretha Franklin sang, “What you want? Baby I got it…”
“Siri, turn that down…”
Siri began to sing, on key, along with Aretha.
“What you need, do you know I got it…”
“Quiet! Please?”
The music grew louder. “All I’m askin’ for is a little respect when you get home…”
Traffic was as traffic will be in Miami. Brian Newell moved down Bayshore Drive as slowly as a rabbit through a python. Siri, living their best life, took him through a playlist that included Annie Lenox’s “Little Bird,” xylophone jazz great Red Norvo’s “All of Me,” The Langley Schools Music Project’s “Desperado,” Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First,” “Fly me to the Moon” from Sinatra’s ‘Live at the Sands’ and all eight minutes of Don McLean’s “American Pie.”
Waze guided him to I-95 and up onto the high bridge across the Miami River. His oil slicked passenger and driver’s side windows denied him the god’s eye view of a great metropolis. He could not peer into the forest of hi-rise offices and condo towers flanking both sides of the highway. He could not see the blue ribbon of the Miami River winding beneath him toward Biscayne Bay, nor the vast suburban development sprawling west over what was once the Everglades. He could see the stick figures pasted to the rear window of the Black Chevy Suburban in front of him as he inched ever forward: two adults (man and woman), four children (three girls and a boy), one dog, one cat and a fish in a bowl. Bumper stickers let him know the SUV’s owner held annual passes to Disney, Universal and LEGOLAND, supported the Miami Dolphins, Marlins and Heat, attended the Jesus is Love Worship Center, chose life, supported the second amendment, and helped Make America Great Again.
The app directed him to a right lane exit, and he motored down a curving ramp to the roadway fronting Stobo de Pas Park to his right. Weary Royal Palms lined both sides of the boulevard suggesting a Caribbean capital overleveraged with the International Monetary Fund. The road, four lanes wide in each direction, had been designed to accommodate a spectacular nighttime parade that had stepped off for the last time decades before. The extra wide lots in its center, intended for parade grandstands, now served as car parks. At the cross streets, anchoring the parking lots’ ends, busts of Central and South American poets, dictators and generals perched atop crumbling stone plinths. Their empty eyes stared across the abyss of time and distance at long dead foes and allies.
Brian wheeled down to the park’s north end, turned right onto a service road, drove down to Biscayne Bay, and turned right, again, into staff parking. He pulled to a stop at the spot marked Executive Director. Siri sang along with Rod Stuart’s “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy.” As they both wailed, “and you want my body…” he turned off the car. Sitting in silence, he stared through his darkened windshield at STOBO DE PASS PARK, stenciled in white block letters across a poured concrete wall above the park’s office entrance.
Brian grabbed his portfolio and climbed from the Camry. The oil coating the car had dried to black crust. Twigs, leaves, grass, and feathers — all manner of debris — clung to its roof and hood. Road grit spun onto the panels behind the wheels creating a sandpaper finish.
Nickel sized raindrops slapped against the Camry’s windshield and increased from drops to deluge in an instant. A steamy mist rose from the hot pavement. Brian, portfolio raised above his head, stepped quickly under the opening to his office. In his rain- dampened, torn, stained and rumpled seersucker suit, he turned back toward Biscayne Bay and adjusted his bow tie. The thick downpour blurred his perspective. Piles of trash lay along the seawall’s cap, with much more floating on rain roiled waters beyond. Down the sea wall, some distance from the parking area, stood a woman, head bound in a white turban. White sheets, torn and rain soaked, draped her body. She stood, arms raised skyward, chanting. Not English, Spanish, or Creole. The woman’s plea came in the language she used when speaking to her gods. She spoke of the people who came before her and those to follow. She acknowledged the past was a dream and the present imagined. That the past and future happened at the same moment and would be revealed to any who looked. That all time is now. All ever is now. Her prayers were heard by the sea and the air, by deities and demons, but not by Brian. To him, they were quiet as a snuffed candle. In the 1920s, it was Stobo De Pas who suggested the city fill the bay bottom and create the park. The land Brian stood on had once been the sea and would someday be again.
