2005-05-23
sumo
The invite said something about "live action sumo wrestlers." But when we got to the gallery, all we saw were teenagers in fat suits--the kind that resemble the Michelin tire man. Some of the puffy costumes were decorated to look like Pokemon characters, including Pikachu's lightning bolt tail and another stippled with dragon scales.
They wrestled beneath a floating tent that reminded me of a lotus. At the side of the ring sat assorted weirdoes banging on bongo drums. Everybody was dressed in quasi-Asian attire (regardless of region, from Japanese kimonos to Chinese rice-picker hats). My art teacher showed up in silk pajamas.
"This is lame," my friend, Thayer Pinsky, shouted above the drumming and shouting.
This party-disguised-as-a-gallery was grating my nerves. Plus I was starving. So we rode our bikes to the gourmet pizza place on 55th and Biscayne. The fancy new developers like to call this ragtag neighborhood, "prime real estate." Go a few miles north and you'll spot rows of sun-stripped motels with seafaring names...and rooms that rent by the hour.
Miami's downtown is changing, thanks to all the condos springing up like weeds. But for now, most of it is still rough.
In spite of the parched and gloomy neighborhoods, a few trendy businesses have grown at 55th street station, including sushi joints and a couple galleries. Metal tables surround the pizza place, which is shaped like the letter V.
We sat there, nibbling slices topped with arugula and prosciutto, as traffic zoomed like neon tubes along the boulevard. Tires screeched. I got a whiff of burnt rubber.
I craned around. "What's up with that car?"
A boatlike Chrysler veered off the road and bounced onto the sidewalk.
"They're chasing that guy," said Thayer, pointing.
A shirtless man, rippling with muscle, bounded past our tables. The car jolted to a stop. Out poured a handful of goons, shouting who knows what. One of them jogged behind me. The others blocked the guy's path on the opposite side, near the front entrance. The pizza-eaters gawked. Two men grabbed the runaway and pounded him so hard, his body bumped against the glass. The guy scrambled to his feet and fell inside. They followed.
The pizza employees, with their aprons and trays, ducked behind the counter. They crouched on the floor, looking like a grown-up game of hide and seek. Then a cop, who was munching a slice and watching the Heat game on TV, jumped off his stool and pulled out a gun. The runaway guy threw up his hands. He yelled something I couldn't catch. I watched the cop mutter into his walkie-talkie. Within minutes, the pizza place was surrounded by shrieking squad cars and blinking lights.
On Biscayne, going south, I counted eight more cop cars, filing one after the other.
They're probably going after the getaway car," I said, finally noticing that it had disappeared. By now, I was standing a few feet away from the table. I don't even remember getting up and walking backward, but something inside me must've said, "move," because I didn't feel like getting shot in the crossfire.
Thayer kept asking, "Are you okay?" as if I was involved in the fight. We watched the cop lead someone away in handcuffs. I think it was the guy who did the beating, but it's hard to tell. Minutes later, the cop came back. He stood there, not saying much.
"What's he doing now?" I asked.
Thayer laughed. "He's watching the end of the Heat game."
f-i-n at 12:12 p.m.