Walking Tall at South Beach
by Karen Williams | August 15, 2007 - Seminole Chronicle
Mansion is one of South Beach's most popular nightclubs. J-Lo has partied there, as well as Paris Hilton and even Bill Clinton. Not to be outdone, my feller, Mark, and I recently made the scene.
We were in Miami for a pay phone convention, where business owners came from around the country to administer CPR to their industry and to badmouth the dastardly dude who invented cell phones.
Convention-goers complained about South Beach, demanding that the convention return to its usual location in Las Vegas next year. They missed slipping into casinos for cheap food and drink. Adding insult to injury, Apple's new iPhone was released that week, with beautiful people lining the streets, panting and pawing to get into the cell phone stores.
Mark and I don't worry about the future, for we plan to convert his pay phones into historical teaching devices. A person can step up to one of the quaint relics, deposit a quarter, and hear an informative recording about bygone glory days when phone booths enabled Superman to change his drawers.
Feeling complacent, we prepared to visit Mansion.
Usually, I'm a practical dresser. If I happen to wear something fashionable, it's because it's hung in my closet so long it's back in style. But just for once, I wanted to wear fancy footwear. My socks and plastic clogs had to go.
No sensible oxfords, no Mother Hubbard clodhoppers.
"Look!" I said to Mark as I pulled a pair of strappy, spike-heeled sandals from my suitcase. "These are Calvin Kleins."
"Shouldn't you give them back to him?" Mark asked, puzzled.
"No, I bought them to wear to the club!" Tugging them on, I suddenly gained 5 inches in stature and even more in self-esteem. Sure they pinched, but this was South Beach and I refused to look matronly.
We walked the few blocks to Mansion so I could break in the shoes. Somehow, the farther we trekked, the farther away the place seemed to move. When we finally arrived, I had the makings of blisters, calluses, and bunions.
We passed some surly, burly men loitering at the door and found our way through the dimly lit cavern to the dance floor. By then, my feet were throbbing, yet we couldn't find a place to sit down in the inky blackness.
Two Diet Cokes and a blaring rendition of "Proud Mary" later, my dogs were howling. Thankfully, I'd tucked a pair of flip-flops into my purse, so I limped to a corner and made the exchange. Nobody could see my feet in the dark place, so why should I care?
My son Joel-the-Lawyer lives in the vicinity, and he and his girlfriend had agreed to meet us at the club to dance the night away. He phoned to say they were outside the door.
"Don't bother coming in," I shouted. "The lights have shorted out, and you can't see your hand in front of your face. The music system has malfunctioned, with the volume stuck on DEAFENING. And grumpy guys are hanging around, giving people the evil eye."
"Uh, maybe we should just stroll South Beach," Joel suggested tentatively, sensing that I was out of my element.
So the others strolled while I hobbled along on my still-aching dogs until I collapsed at a sidewalk cafe.
Calvin Klein, you and I need to talk, and if you hope to salvage our relationship, you'd better call me from a pay phone.
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Copyright 2007, Karen Williams
