When you reach the bar, one of the dancers you met while chewing prime rib is there. "So what did you think?" she asks. "Excellent," you say. "I have only good things to say about that performance."
The dancer drinks only scotch, she informs. You order a Level vodka but at the last second opt for a splash of cran in lieu of the Red Bull. Cran is cleansing and you might not want too much taurine in your system. You lounge alone for a while in a chair on the front patio, facing the wall that separates Casa Casuarina from the outside world on Ocean Drive. You spy a pair of hands clasping two of the gilded acorns that adorn the black ironwork atop the wall; a woman's head pops up for a split second to get a glimpse of the compound. The word about this party must really be getting out, you surmise, and sip contentedly.
Jonathan Postal
Jonathan Postal
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You mill about mindlessly for another hour. You need to rehydrate. You trek back out to the front terrace bar. It's 12:15 a.m. and the sole bartender is moving in slow motion. You determine from his body language he must be exhausted from the demands of three hours-plus of nonstop pouring. An impatient woman is hounding him from one end of the short bar, so you step up to the other end, next to a slender young dark-haired woman clad in tight jeans and the stylish official black tank top of the Miami Beach Arena Polo World Cup 2005. You are delighted: She is the model who experienced the wardrobe malfunction. You pause and take a deep breath.
"Excellent performance," you say. She thanks you, smiling pleasantly. Pause. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't help but notice you had a Janet Jackson moment up there," you add. She nods. You try to express empathy by asking what goes on backstage when something like that happens. She says it was pretty crazy back there. You say she must be exhausted. She says they've been there since 2:00 p.m., and all day long they could drink only water or Red Bull. You wonder if the models are required to remain at the party after their performance. She nods.
"But now there are drinks, so why leave?" she reasons.
"Yeah," you reply.
Sophistication requires that you cease speaking with the model; then you do the bartender a favor by pulling the last can of Red Bull from the chilled water in a stainless steel cylinder on the bar and walk away. The bartender, slouching over someone's round of drinks, doesn't even notice.
Back in the garden, people are crazed. Some are beginning to get cranky. They want more to drink, but all that's left is Red Bull, other types of soda, and tonic. You see empty bottles of Tanqueray 10 and Level. You just want water. During the evening, you had noticed an unopened one-liter glass bottle of Evian chilling in a pewter bowl on a small wooden stand on the terrace with the dining table. You are so thirsty you resolve to help yourself. But you can't even find a plastic cup at the bars. You might have to guzzle directly from the bottle. You wander over, pick it up, and begin to twist off the plastic cap. A man snatches it from your hands.
"That's for the party here," he scolds.
"Oh. I just wanted a sip," you say.
He walks off and sets it on the dining table. The sophisticate locates a fine crystal goblet, opens the bottle, fills the glass, and takes a nice long drink, pretending you don't exist. Ultrapremium!
DJ Irie shifts gears into Snoop Dogg's "Drop It Like It's Hot," but you head for the exit. You stop at the front bar and ask the bartender how many bottles he went through. He thinks you want another drink.
"We're closed, sir."
You ask again, like an annoying jerk.
"How many bottles? I don't know. I'm so tired," he mutters.
You tell him, "I know. It's like you've been out playing polo for three days."
You hit Washington Avenue and pick up a flyer from the sidewalk. It's for a new club called The Drink. "The new hot spot. Complimentary admission with flyer before midnight. Hip-hop. R&B. Free shots for girls before midnight. One-dollar beer for the guys."
Maybe tomorrow night.
