Miami Breeze

    Michael VeLasio hit the switch to silence the radio, before reaching for the button that would roll up the window of his 1984 Škoda Rapid convertible. It’d been twenty five years since he last felt the cool Miami breeze brush through his thin, graying chin hairs, twenty five years since he last felt the warm summer breeze radiate off his wrinkly tan skin. Twenty five years since he last had a pistol pointed at his forehead, with him crying and begging for a sociopath to spare him for just one more day.

    Somehow, he missed it all. He missed soaring away from the police in a stolen car at a hundred and ten miles an hour; he missed the hookers outside of his hotel room every night, lined up as if they were getting ready for a roller coaster ride at Disney World, he missed being so young and so stupid that the exuberating feeling he got from such a staged life was never accompanied by feelings of doubt, shame and self-deprecation.

    Somehow, the stage just felt like home.

    Michael cut off the motor and took a deep breath, as he waited patiently for the sunroof to slowly creep its way up over the rest of the old, worn-out vehicle. He undid his seatbelt and headed out of the car, looking ahead to the office building up ahead, catching a petite woman with her young blonde child beside her.

    “Afternoon,” Michael said, approaching the woman. “Is this Dr. Chester’s building? The therapist? I have a one o’ clock appointment with him.”

    The blue-eyed blonde paused momentarily, gazing enthrallingly at the aging but still reasonably attractive man. “Yes,” she finally said, upon noticing a wedding ring on his left hand. “The second floor, room A.”

    “Appreciate it,” Michael said.

***

    Brandon Chester looked upon the framed photo of his family, a slight smirk above his chin as he held one finger through his stout auburn goatee. July 7 th 1990 -- he remembered that day quite well; nothing but fond, fun memories of he and his wife and two kids, enjoying time together on the warm beach, just days after a local TV station just signed him on for a brand new morning talk show.

    Of course, twenty five years later, the slightly chubby middle-aged therapist had seen better days. The network cancelled the talk show after ten episodes due to extremely low ratings, leaving Brandon Chester as the utter laughing stock of Miami. Ten years later, his wife divorced him, and citing his severe depression and alcoholism, she took full custody of his teenage kids. So now, he had nothing -- nothing but a lousy job that required him to work with even lousier people.”

    “Dr. Chester,” his female assistant said, interrupting his gaze. “Mr. VeLasio is here.”

    “Yes, yes,” Dr. Chester said, taking a seat behind his desk. “Send him in.”

    His assistant departed, and moments later a middle-aged man of medium height dressed in a dark blue polo shirt appeared. “Dr. Chester,” he said.

    “Michael VeLasio,” Dr. Chester responded.

    “Have a seat.”

    Michael pulled the door shut behind him, before taking a seat in an old-fashioned brown loveseat across from Dr. Chester’s desk. “So, before we talk, I need to know about doctor-patient confidentiality,” he said. “That sort of thing. If I tell you something big, something that might get me in jail, are you allowed to talk to the police?”

    “Technically, yes. I could,” Dr. Chester said. “But if I did, what I said would be considered illegally obtained evidence, and whatever I told the police wouldn’t be admissible in court. So, you’d most likely avoid any sort of punishment apart from all the lawyer fees. But regardless of that, can you just tell me…why are you here?”

    “Look. I’m fifty-one,” Michael said. “I’m a happily married man. But my wife-”

    “Did you cheat on your wife?” Dr. Chester asked.

    “What? No!”

    “Does she think you cheated on her?”

    “God, no,” Michael said. “But hey, my kids are all grown up now. Just about. My youngest daughter is fifteen, and my other two are all moved out.”

    “Are you from here, in Miami?”

    “No. I was born here, but this is my first time in the city since I was twenty-six. I’m from West Virginia.”

    “Are your kids and wife with you here?”

    “No…they’re not.”

    “Then, Michael? Just why are you here?”

    Michael let his light brown eyes wander the room, before taking a deep sigh as his eyes caught the wedding ring on his left hand. “Because I missed it,” he said.

    “You missed Miami?”

“No, no,” Michael responded. “Doctor, I killed my wife.”

    Dr. Chester blinked twice, in awe of how casual Michael’s last sentence was said, but did his best to hide his surprise. “Why did you kill your wife, Michael?” he nonchalantly asked. “There has to be some sort of reason, no?”

    “Because I’m a psychopath, that’s why,” Michael said. “I didn’t like her anymore, and I didn’t-”

    “You didn’t kill your wife,” Dr. Chester said with a slight chuckle. “Come on, why are you really here?”

    “How would you even know that?”

    “It’s all in your voice, your expression,” Dr. Chester responded. “You’re just testing me to see how I react to what you say, and if our doctor-patient confidentiality would remain intact.”

    “You’re good,” Michael amusedly said.

    “Thirty-three years of practice,” Dr. Chester boasted, cracking his knuckles. “Thirty-three years. So, you’re really here, why? Because you miss Miami?”

    “I guess I’ll start off from the beginning,” Michael said. “It all started out with my father.”

***

    My mom was a woman named Wilma VeLasio. Big time weed peddler in Miami. You heard of her? She only married like five or six or ten times. Anyway, I never met my dad, suppose it was just a one night stand sort of thing. Anyway, I was fourteen years old, so this was about December of 1977. A few weeks before Christmas. Now I had a bad cold, and had just gotten back from my friends house.

    “Mom! Mom! Mom!” I yelled, looking in every which direction just to see where she was at. “Mom! I’m home!”

    This happened pretty often, you know, my mom was always busy so I wouldn’t always see her. Sometimes she’d be gone for days, or weeks, you know? Finding her sober at home was like finding Kanye West not being a complete you know what. Anyway, I headed up to my room, and there. She. Was.

    I threw my backpack down on the floor, my eyes wandering over all the blood. Maybe if my nose wasn’t so stopped up, I would have been able to smell it, but I could see it. I could see him. “Mom? Who is that man?”

    Mom sat on my bed with her long legs dangling, a gray pistol in her hands. On the floor was a bald man in an expensive, blood-soaked suit, blood dripping out from under him like busted water pipes. The worst part about it was that he was alive. “This is Earl Jameson,” Mom said. “He’s a pot dealer from sweet ol’ Alabama…trying to infringe on mommy’s turf. Do you see him? This is my boy, and he’s going to be the one who kills you.”

    Mom tossed me the shiny pistol, as my wide eyes gazed upon it, and then at the dying old man, and then at the gun. “Do it,” Mom said. “You’re going to rule my enterprise some day. You’ll have to be ruthless. So do it.”

***

    “So did you do it?” Dr. Chester asked, readjusting himself in his office chair as he noticed how slumped over he was starting to get.

    Michael paused, then sighed, nodding his head. “Yeah. I shot him in the head. Then my mom she…well, I fell down. And mom came over and picked me up, and she hugged me. Like she was so proud of me for doing something so…terrible.”

    Dr. Chester sighed, taking another lengthy pause in order to think of what to say. “Is your mother still alive?”

    “No,” Michael said. “Killed in a prison fight, 1983. Look, doctor. I went to jail for that murder. I got sentenced to life.”

    “But you’re out now,” Dr. Chester said. “So…how are you out?”

    Michael chuckled, his eyes glowing like the sun. “I’m not,” he said.

    “You’re not out. But you’re free, aren’t you?”

    “Oh, I’m free, alright!” Michael said, jumping to his feet. “But you know how I got out? Mom’s old friends got me out, but now I’m their slaves! They follow me around like I’m sort sort of—and just who are you?”

    Dr. Chester chuckled after another short pause. “Who am I? I’m Dr. Chester,” he said. “Go on. Continue with your story.”

    Moments passed, before Michael adamantly shook his head. “No you’re not. If you’re Dr. Chester, let me ask you this? What was the-”

    “First line I said on my talk show, was ‘Welcome to Chester’s Couch, the place for real therapy.’ Last line before they canned it? ‘Thank you for sitting on the couch, we’ll see you back again real soon.”

    “No,” Michael coldly said. “What was the second line you said?”

    “…” Dr. Chester rose to his feet, clearly his throat as he and Michael locked eyes. “You’re right. I’m not Dr. Chester. You were right all along.”

    “Then I’ve been set up!” Michael said. “Who the hell are you?”

    The chubby man grinned, his eyes glowing as he gazed through Michael’s eyes. “I’m your brother.”

“Okay! Okay!” the director said, signaling from off stage. “Cut! Cut! Good work boys, this new TV show, Miami Breeze will kill in the ratings.”