In June 1 2008 I was living on Palm Beach.
A barrier island off the Florida coast.
So many of the mega-rich had migrated to their summer haunts of the Hamptons, Nantucket, and the South of France that the Sunday night streets of this exclusive resort felt, as if the Khmer Rouge had marched the wealthy into the Everglades for greed re-education. The emptiness was only an illusion.
That evening, as the remaining rich were idling in their mansions, while I bicycled across the middle bridge in a vain attempt to wire by Thai wife $200 via Western Union. Within an hour I discovered that nothing was open on a Sunday night in West Palm Beach.
I was in Purgatory.
I phoned my wife with the bad news.
She asked if I’ve found a mia noi.
“Mai mee puying suay.” There were no beautiful women on Palm Beach.
Only heiresses whose skin seemed to have been dipped in a Botox dip.
Tight as a turtle’s neck.
“Good man.” She’s happy I’m alone.
“Thanks, I’ll send the money tomorrow.” I hung up and wandered by bike over to a convenience store. A 24 oz. Modelo beer cost $2 or 60 baht. 5% alcohol. Actually cheap than Thailand, except you can’t drink in public, so I rode the bicycle back to Palm Beach drinking from a can in a brown paper bag..
Thankfully Florida has bike paths, but I got a little worried each time the cops passed me, since DWI includes bicycles and golf carts.
I made it back to Chilean Avenue without any mishaps.
No place to buy more beers, so it’s to sleep and dream of driving on the wrong side of the road with a beer in my cup holder.