Hurricane Andrew – Key West, October 1993

Barometric pressure drops. The winds intensify. The clouds darken. The coming storm is at hand… Hurricane Andrew smashed into South Florida in 1992 with furious natural vengeance. South Floridians who lived through the experience will never forget the destruction, the devastation, the aftermath of Andrew. The next year, still new to the Keys, I met Hurricane Andrew in his human incarnation.

I made the acquaintance of Ray 10 days to two weeks before Fantasy Fest in October of 1993. We worked together at two clothing stores on Duval Street. He was 32, 5’10, strawberry blonde hair with green eyes, chiseled features, and beautiful teeth. He was very attractive and ambiguous regarding his sexuality. He emitted major “Is he or isn’t he?” vibes, and flirted enigmatically with whoever came into the stores. I really hoped he was gay, as I was almost instantly smitten.

Ray was a fast talker. Armed with a firm, learned grasp of the language, 150 beats-per-minute staccato/articulate delivery, and an amazing Intel-inside, mega co-processor memory, Ray could really steer a discussion. A rapid-fire onslaught of charm, a smattering of facts, and great heaps of shit, he never ceased to amaze, either. He could and did talk with people from all over the country about their club scenes, the arts, escoterica, etc., plumbing the depths of his unlimited conversational wellspring. He talked constantly.

When we were alone, he talked about being a gigolo, kicking cocaine in Honolulu, past sex partners, jacking off for money from and in front of very rich men, yachts, after-hours clubs in New York, and other weird and personal things I won’t mention here, with such velocity that, the more he talked, the more shadowy he became. He was intense and charming and intelligent and glamorous and charismatic and sinister. And his whole trip zipped along at 90 miles an hour. Always. He was trouble, and I was completely transfixed.

We kissed once. We had met for drinks earlier, gotten very drunk, when Ray said he had to meet someone and would I like to come along. Sure, I had said, without much hesitation. We walked east, towards an affluent cluster of large houses.

During our walk, Ray told me about the wife of the mob guy that he had started sleeping with a couple of days earlier. She had come into the store with her husband, but he didn’t stay long. When he left, she flirted purposefully, gave him her number, and told him to call later that day, which he did. And that’s where we going.

“I don’t know about this,” I said. He said everything was cool and not to worry. He was having fun, and she gave him a lot of money for sex, so no problem. Did I want to join in? No, no thank you. “Maybe I should go…” He wanted me to at least walk him to the house, maybe look at the inside. “The house is fucking beautiful, Lance. You really should see it.”

And then we were there. We went through a gate into a darkened courtyard and followed a stone path to the side of the house. The house was beautiful on the inside, immaculately furnished, and well lit. Someone very rich owned this house. We stood in the shadows before he went in, talking for a moment, when he told me I was a good person and that I probably shouldn’t be hanging out with someone like him. Which enticed me even more, of course.

The air was humid and still, and though it was late in the evening, October’s heat still remained. I stayed quiet for the most part, saying nothing other than variations of “Are you sure you want to do this?” There was no turning back, though. He wanted to go.

Then he kissed me. His hands were on my cheeks, his kiss very tender. He said “You’re a nice person. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I was shocked and pleasantly surprised by the kiss, but saddened that he was leaving to go have sex with someone else.

I was fascinated that he seemed to have no conscience about any of his actions, and that charm alone had carried him this far without any major repercussions. He seemed to be a very lucky person. Nothing bad happened to Ray when he slept with the mobster’s wife, and he was a couple hundred dollars richer for the experience, so he was happy with the outcome. I was beginning to become concerned about Ray’s developing picture. His real colors were more…careless/dangerous/turbulent than I had romanticized.

A few nights later, for whatever reason, Ray flipped out and spent all his paycheck on liquor and crack, clicked into gonzo mode, and headed for the clothing store. He was scheduled to work that night, but five hours earlier. Two or three people always worked the bigger store, and one person worked the smaller store. Since the shops were located diagonally from each other, I could see into the bigger shop from across the street. I was outside smoking when Ray went inside.

The next few minutes was like watching a SNL skit come to life. Without hearing the dialogue, I could see the hand and arm gestures of conflict from both Ray and the two employees. Then, without context, Ray jumped onto a glass display case containing sunglasses. He wanted to do a propeller spin to the floor, he said later. So in the course of a cigarette, I see him enter, wave his hands wildly, and then he was standing on top of the glass case, nothing above his mid thigh visible. Then, in that split second, instead of jumping, he broke through the glass. By the time I realized what was happening, there was nothing to do but watch him drop.

For all of the event’s suddenness, Ray remained balanced. It was a struggle, him twisting backward, jumping out of the case, then righting himself perpendicular at the last moment, glass and mirror and reflected light falling all around those beautiful legs. I heard the crash from across the street, even though the larger store’s doors were closed. I went back inside. Should I call the owners?

No need, as Ray had run across the street and come into my shop. He was shaken and tweaked, threatening to kill the other two employees who’d pushed him out the door and wouldn’t let him back in. He escaped the whole incident with only one deep cut on the top of his foot. He asked me to clean him up. “I already picked the glass out.” He said. I didn’t want to get involved, but I didn’t want to piss him off, either.

After he was bandaged, I told him to leave, as the cops or owners or both were probably on the way. He thought that was a good idea and told me to meet him at the Copa later. I told him I would, just to get him out of the store. His freakish behavior, ramblings, and repeated death threats against the other two boys began to give me the spooks. I didn’t think it would be too cool for him to turn on me, and for me to turn into Daffy Duck, ho-hoo!-ing down the street, Ray-as-Elmer-Fudd, chasing close behind, ax or rifle in hand. No Es frijol people. Not cool.

After work, I did go to the Copa. I had remembered, that after annoying the staff for a week straight, Ray had been 86’d, and couldn’t get in. That was cool with me, and I spent the rest of the night alternating between my roommates’ bars, getting tremendously drunk in the process. Pretty much like any other night. Almost like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

A couple of hours later, I staggered home and passed out on the four foot, rattan, kind-of couch positioned in front of the air conditioner in the living room. I was unaware that Ray and two new buddies were trying to break into our apartment, presumably to steal what little belongings we had for drugs. Our neighbor heard the commotion and threatened to call the cops. They ran away. I slept through the whole thing (Yeah, pretty, I know) and didn’t know about the night’s climax until the next day, when the neighbor told me. He seemed to be disgusted with me also, probably knowing I was home and blind drunk at the time.

After that night, coupled with repeated physical and death threats and some stalking on his part, my friendship with Ray became strained.