Miami Eats Hoosiers Alive

I went down to Ocean Avenue on Thursday night for what felt like a clerical error in the universe. Forty degrees in Miami is a sort of cold that doesn’t belong here, though I’d be lying if I said palm fronds swaying behind neon lights didn’t look good. I had the school’s yearbook camera slung over my shoulder on a red Creatures of Habit sweater. I was there on business, taking pictures for the cover of my novel, but a crowd of other people had different plans.

Ocean Avenue was crawling with Indiana Hoosier fans, crimson everywhere, like a slow-moving red tide in the summer. They came in packs, wrapped in scarves they clearly bought three hours earlier, yelling about “defense” and “destiny” and how Miami “didn’t know what cold really was.” They were here for the National Championship game.

I started shooting anyway. I ducked into an alley to get a wide shot of the avenue, the hotels looming overhead, indifferent to the spectacle below. My hands were stiff, fingers numb, but the shutter kept clicking. Neon and Christmas lights blurred together, parting the red sea of Hoosiers for a time. Someone yelled “IU,” and I turned to see an index finger pointed my way. I shook my head and joined my thumbs to form a U. Go Canes.

“Your boys are going to get creamed on Monday,” he said.

I chuckled, gave him a thumbs-up, and walked away as he kept barking. I heard some of the women in his group say, “You could’ve had him,” before they all started singing Abba’s Fernando. What can you do? I shrugged and escaped the red swarm toward Finnegan’s Way. I figured I’d earned a tasty beverage.

With a libation in one hand and my camera in the other, I perused the photos I had already taken while overhearing grown men revert to their college days, reliving glory they never personally achieved. It was around the twelfth time that Bob Knight was mentioned that an old couple sat next to me—Randy and Mabel. They were already drunk.

“Mabel, look, we have another Hoosier here.”

“No, no, I’m actually from Miami,” I pointed to the logo on my shirt. “This is actually the title of my book, just some shameless marketing—”

Randy cut in, “No such thing. I’d like to publish a book about business if you’re interested. I just retired, so I have the time—”

Mabel leaned over him. “I’m so glad he’s retired. I can finally boss him around—”

“That’s what she thinks,” Randy said, jerking his thumb back at her. “I’m not leaving one boss to have another.”

“I can never get a word in with you, Randy. I’m going to the bathroom. Get a drink for me.”

“All right, Hunny.” He ordered their drinks, then raised an eyebrow at me. “What are you drinking? Never mind, you’re drinking like a Hoosier tonight.”

He ordered me some sort of concoction with whiskey in it. It wasn’t bad. He rambled on about football and how the people of Indiana really needed this. He then suddenly looked back as if something had just occurred to him. His wife had been gone for quite a while. He turned his head back to me and said, “I’ll tell you what, the thing I’ll miss most about working is the international conferences.” He put air quotes with the last part. “I used to travel over to the Philippines. Naked as a jaybird while they massaged me and gave me a pedicure. Then they’d finish it off with a sponge bath, except they didn’t use sponges if you know what I mean.” He cupped his hands over his chest in a crude pantomime. “They’ll do whatever you ask them to do.” He had this big grin on his face as if he was asking for approval. I went along.

“Sounds good.”

“You’re telling me. Felt like crying by the end of it.” He turned as Mabel returned, put a finger to his lips, and said, “We’re talking about football.”

“Why’d you just shush him?” Mabel asked.

An argument immediately ensued. I waited for a moment or two, but once I finished my drink, there was really no point in sticking around. I said, “Nice meeting y’all,” and walked away as they fought incessantly. I don’t think he’d mind covering my tab.

It was past ten, and Ocean Avenue had become a madhouse. I kept walking down, looking for a less crowded area to continue shooting, but I never found it. Instead, a man in an Indiana shirt sprinted past me and vomited in the street while teenagers in IU hoodies laughed and rushed to film it. I put the camera away. It was time to go home.

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