I’m ashamed to tell you this Mr. Construction Worker with an East Coast accent and sandy hair but, I usually cross the street when I see a group of hard hats clustered. I won’t again.
You were near last week when, after 25 minutes of circling for a parking spot, I was delighted to see two young girls heading to their car at the Miami Beach lot along Collins Avenue around 21st Street.
I regret that you couldn’t stop the black, luxury car with three, vocal young lads from coming behind my Honda or detain the one who emerged in a Jordan jersey displaying a colorful assortment of body art.
I greatly appreciate that you did hear him not so nicely inform me through my open car window: “I’ll come after you bitch if you take that spot. I’ll beat you.”
Thankfully sir, you stepped in and said, “Don’t talk to her like that.” And, even after glancing at my engagement ring that perhaps led you to the conclusion that you had no chance in my pants, you still moved your truck to free a spot. I will never look at hard hats the same.
Sincerely,
P.S. I miss you already. Tuesday when 395 was closed, a muscle head in a pink polo on South Beach backed his car into a man and flipped his body a few feet into the air. The driver didn’t even apologize to the man he splattered on the pavement. I paused to see if the man needed help and a gentleman behind me started honking and yelled, “Nothing you can do about it.”
