GrowingOlderHopeWiser

Mike was on his back, arms and legs flailing like an upturned cockroach. The first thing he said to me was, “I got to take a piss.” Laughing and drunk as skunks, I managed to get him up off the pavement and into the alley behind the theater. By then, we were both hysterical. “Mike, you’re on your own now. I’m not holding you while you piss.”

Located at 1445 Washington Avenue, Miami Beach, Florida, the Cameo Theater, a venue that reeked of old beer and sweat, with ragged black torn curtains, equally vile bathrooms, and a crumbling, hot-pink-and-lime-green Art Deco building, hosted our favorite local band, The Drills, as well as many of the great hardcore punk bands, including Black Flag, Ramones, Suicidal Tendencies, and Dead Kennedys.

Mike and I found ourselves walking the wilder side of South Florida. Best friends in the mid-80s and aficionados of alternative music, we frequented the Cameo Theater, which had transitioned from a 1940s movie theater into a punk house in 1986. We bonded over punk, trash, skate punk, and alcohol. Sneaking in bottles of gin, we each bought a large ginger ale and added our poison.

I was a chameleon in the ‘80s, enjoying all kinds of music and dancing. Slam dancing was just one of my guilty pleasures. It felt cathartic, like punching a boxing bag, only without punching, just slamming into the crowd. 

Of course, I also enjoyed the mainstream music of the fabulous ‘80s, including Culture Club, The Thompson Twins, Simply Red, and The Pet Shop Boys.

I wore my hair in all sorts of ways, from Mohawks to purple curls, but I never did anything permanent to my body, such as tattoos or piercings. I believed in enjoying the moment, embracing impermanence and fluidity. My most harmful indulgences were drinking alcohol, smoking Cuban cigars, and the occasional blunt. 

Mike was a hardworking, really nice guy I met at the Post Office, where we both worked the night shift. We passed the long, dull 12-hour nights sorting magazines by talking and listening to music tapes. One day, Mike told me about the Cameo, which featured alternative music, and asked if I wanted to check it out. The Drills were the opening act, followed by the Circle Jerks, the featured band. We became regulars at the Cameo after that. 

One fateful night, Mike, who stood only 5’4” and was pretty hammered, decided he wanted to dance in the mosh pit, the most dangerous place to slam dance, where people pushed and bashed their bodies against each other and were tossed every which way. The mosh pit, where slam dancers threw themselves off the stage into the pit crowd, hoping they’d be caught and flung around. Mild-mannered Mike, with a twinkle in his small, black, drunken eyes, declared he was ready for the mosh pit. Before I could fully register Mike’s intentions, a guy came up to me and said that my friend had been taken out back by the bikers. I had no idea what went wrong, nor why the bikers were involved.

The Cameo Theater hired local biker gangs as security guards. The biker gang had dumped Mike on the sidewalk outside the theater after he injured himself dancing in the pit. Apparently, they weren’t going to call an ambulance. Liability and all. I finally managed to get him to my car and drive him to the hospital. It was probably not a very smart idea, since I was also inebriated. He had fractured his foot in three places. Clunk, clunk, clunk went Mike on his new set of crutches. By the time we got out of the hospital, it was already daybreak, so I said to Mike, “Let’s check out some pancakes before I take you home.”