Miami is famous for a lot of things, from hurricanes to Cubans. But it is infamous for being crooked. The mere mention of the city brings to mind visions of a white-suited Scarface and detectives wearing pastel T-shirts with loafers, busting grimy drug dealers and gun smugglers. Every city has an underworld, but none as glamorous as Miami's. Only in Miami can a senator sit next to a drug dealer and a movie star in a club, kick it like they've been buddies for years, and no one bats an eye. Only in Miami do drug lords live in huge mansions and serve on boards of nonprofits, while their wives drop their children off at school in Lamborghinis and Ferraris, and everyone acts as if it is all so ordinary.
But for all of the shine, there is a shady side. For every high-powered drug lord living in the lap of luxury, there is a dread in the projects, slanging dime bags of weed and pooches of white, waiting for the time and opportunity to make his mark, to start his own empire or take over someone else's. For every pampered wife and girlfriend, there's one hustling with her man, one working for her man, and two trying to hold it down and send money to be put on his commissary while their man is doing a bid. For every celebrity, there is someone hungrier, grimier, prepared to go just a little bit further than the last to get ahead.
There are three simple rules for "living la vida local" in Dade County. Rule number one: trust no one. You will have many friends if you're a part of "the scene," but be forewarned- they aren't real friends. These are the people the O'Jays sang about in "Back Stabbers": "They smile in your face, all the while they tryin'to take your place." Those you trust the most will hurt you the most. Those you keep close want to rob you of your post. If you've got anything worth losing, anything worth fighting for, you will put your faith in no one but the Lord Almighty and yourself.
Rule number two: go for self. Miami ain't the land of philanthropy; that would be Palm Beach. (And those shady motherfuckers are another story altogether.) If you're waiting for your lucky break, your big chance, forget about it. You'll just end up sitting on the dock of Biscayne Bay, wasting time. No one is going to do anything for you unless they are getting something in return, and probably not even then. No one has your back, so if you don't do you, no one else will. It's fucked-up, but that's just the way that it is. People will offer you the sun, moon, and stars, but it all has a price. You're better off doing what you gotta do for yourself, because you will never get something for nothing, no matter how much it seems that way.
Rule number three: the golden rule. This is simple, and it isn't some "do unto others" crap. It's this: he who has the gold, rules. In Miami, the land of the beautiful people, it's not about looks, it's all about checkbooks. Put bluntly, if you have no cash, you will get no ass. No romance without finance and all that jazz. You've got to pay to play in the M-I-A. Forget English, forget Spanish. The official language of Miami is money. If you don't have any, you'd better find a way to get some, because you have to pay the cost to be the boss. It costs money to floss.
Miami is the most picturesque field of dreams for a player to play on. The weak get caught up in the sidelines or strike out because they aren't focused. They swing too soon or too late and are thrown off by the roar of the crowds. But the true players wait for the perfect pitch and then hit that shit out of the park.
Now, that's what's up. All is fair in South Florida; sportsmanship counts for nada in this town, so play to win. And if you can't stand the heat, then stay the fuck outta Miami, because the mercury is rising, and there's not a drop of rain in sight.
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Excerpted from The Rolexxx Club by Méta Smith Copyright © 2006 by Méta Smith. Excerpted by permission.
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