My mom drops me off at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, plants a kiss on my cheek, and tells me, “Have a good time!” What was she thinking? I was only 15 … I’d just read Jack Kerouac’s, On the Road, about this young beatnik in love with jazz, sex, and adventure. He takes this road trip across America with “the mad ones who burn, burn, burn like Roman candles.” I wanted all of that… Plus I was gonna prove my independence… for a week. So I made plans to explore the wilds of Miami Florida… I was gonna meet college students, eat street food, and sleep on the beach.

After washing mountains of dishes at the Officer’s Club, I saved enough money for a plane ticket and one night at a cheap hotel. When my… sometimes friend Bullet, learned of my plans, he was all in, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to take a trip with him. Bullet was a bit of a braggart who had this moused up black hair. He looked like a young Matt Gaetz. And, he came from money. I didn’t. We’d lock horns over the stupidest things.

We step off the plane into 80-degree heat without cell phones, credit cards, or sunscreen … cause we were living in the 70’s… Right out of the gate, Bullet demands we stay in this fancy hotel. And because I don’t want a fight, most of my money vanishes. Whatever. Within an hour we’re swimming in the Atlantic, then playing a round of mini golf… I crushed him like an empty can of Dr. Pepper.

Next day we stroll the beach. Never mind my oversized tank-top and pencil thin arms. I was trading knowing nods with college students …  End of the day, we wolf down Cubano sandwiches from a cart, watch a beautiful sunset, and I ask Bullet if he’s ready to find a place to sleep on the beach. He says, “I already paid for the room; I’m not going anywhere.” … So, I grab a sheet and a pillow from the hotel and strike out on my own. And for the first time I feel all alone. I find corner of the beach and wrap myself up like a burrito for a night beneath the stars. But I can’t even hear the sound of waves; there’re drunks everywhere: singing, splashing, crowding my space.

As I’m finally drifting off, a flashlight light shines in my face… I open my eyes and see two policemen looking down at me… The suburban kid in me freaks out; I almost pee inside my burrito bedroll! But the rebel in me gets all jazzed up: I’m about to get arrested! Then, I hear this… nurturing voice: “Hey Pal. What’s your name?”

“Fred.”

“Can I see your driver’s license?

“Don’t got one… I’m only 15…”

“You a runaway?”

“Noooo… Just here for spring break with Bullet.”

“How old’s Bullet?”

“Fifteen…  … He’s back at the hotel.”

“Listen Fred: you can’t sleep on the beach or we gotta charge you with vagrancy.”

I didn’t know what vagrancy was. It sounded like a venereal disease… So, I throw my pillow inside my sheet, sling it over my shoulder, and trudge back to the hotel… 

When I unlock our room, Bullet’s eating a burger that smells really good. He licks his fingers, then launches in: “What’re you doing here?”

“Police won’t let me sleep on the beach.”

“Where you staying?”

“Come on, Bullet. I’m staying here.”

“Thought you didn’t have any money.”

“I don’t.”

“Listen, you idiot. You can stay here one more night, but then you’re on your own…. And don’t even think about asking for a loan…” Unlike Kerouak, I can’t find any words…

I spend the next day I spend wandering the streets of Miami, eating sour oranges I swiped from yards, but mostly I was out there looking for money, praying a Benjamin’d come blowing down the street. Didn’t happen. I end up back at the hotel pool, swimming laps, trying to figure out what to do.

When I climb out, I see Bullet chillin’ in a lounge chair. He signals me over and whispers: “There are rich guys staying here who can solve your problems. The got money stuffed in their wallets… stashed in the lockers.” Then he gets up and walks away…I slip into the dank locker room and look around…. I’m all alone … I jiggle the latch on an unlocked locker, but I can’t bring myself to open it. I just lay down by the pool, and get myself a good sunburn.

Eventually, I head back to… Bullet’s room and ask if I can use the phone. I can’t believe I have to call my mom. When I explain my situation, she says, “Just put that piece of shit on the phone!” Bullet gets all quiet, then tells me I can stay in the room; and he hands me just-enough dollars to get by. I don’t remember much more of the trip, except for walking the beach, right through college students, like I was a ghost.

When I get home, all my dishwashing money goes to pay my mom back… And like the sheets of dead skin that were shedding from my body, I was gonna shed one of my oldest friends … I wasn’t sure if I was one of the mad ones who “burn, burn, burn like Roman candles.” … I still needed my mom to soothe my burn … with Noxzema that she dabbed on my shoulders and back. See, for some of us, the big fights and flights in our lives can trigger a slow and painful process of shedding… our dead skin, our so-called friends… our childhood identity.