Spring Break is, ideally, a gigantic powwow of not-yet-adults baring their bodies and rubbing their skin together as it drips with clear ocean water like they are in a Gatorade commercial (and maybe they are), while muffled hip hop surrounds their souls like an ecstatic Stockholm Syndrome and colors flash in the sunlight that never goes away and beer cascades through the air in slow-motion. But that isn’t what my spring break was, exactly. By the time my bud Dirk and I arrived at the beach in Miami, large swaths of it were closed off, most people had packed up and left, and it was colder than you’d ever think, all because our college lets out for spring about a week and a half later than everywhere else. By the time we got to the beach, we just stood there, staring. Dirk said; “Let’s go to the hotel.” We did, and we slept. The next day was a little more interesting. We stood in a Tiki bar talking with two girls. One of them was Adrienne, who was a senior at Florida State University, where she studied creative writing. The other was Anjali. She was doing an internship with a law firm down here in Miami. Her college was in California. She was originally from India, but she had no accent, so she must have moved here at a young age. She wore a blue blouse and bluer jeans, with a tear on one leg. I recognized the tear in her jeans was a desperate plea for male attention. Her hair was black enough to create dark contours against the tacky brown oak of the bar. Whenever a drink flashed in the light, her hair countered it. I was playing it low-key. I started off with Adrienne, but Dirk consistently elbowed his way in there, and ultimately I gave him the ground. While I sipped my Jack and Coke (don’t even ask if they bother checking IDs in Florida), Anjali said to me; “So, like, do you get free passes to concerts and stuff?” I’d told her I was a roadie for The Dave Matthews Band. She loved it. I’d guessed she would. “No,” I said. “Not really. Dave and I don’t get along too great.” “Why’s that?” I sighed while I came up with something. “Oh, you know, me and his daughter,” I said. “We may or may not have had something going on. It’s all good now and me and her are totally friends. It’s just, when her Dad found out, you know…” Her eyes bugged out enough to stick to the ceiling. “Oh my God,” she said. “You can’t be serious.” I nodded. “Let’s just say I keep a bat in my apartment.” The more I told her about Dave Matthews being a deranged psycho, the closer she moved toward me. As soon as it got to the point where I came back from the bar with two drinks and slid my hand down her shoulder after handing her drink over, I could see the deal was sealed. At around this time, Dirk and Adrienne split. Dirk’s a pro. Read more »