A Near-Death Experience at Art Basel
Barefoot firefighters, a made-for-Instagram dinner activation, and a SoundCloud rapper converge during one of the scariest nights of my life
My dad isn’t the easiest person to plan a trip with. Like many dads, he’s a creature of habit, and veering off course from his usuals (art galleries, live music, exclusively French or Italian cuisine) can torpedo his mood. But Art Basel in Miami is the perfect kind of place to visit with him. He’s been many times before, there’s ample generic-enough food, and more art than he could ever possibly consume.
My girlfriend, Rachel, joins me on the trip. We arrive to the Airbnb inside an art deco building on Ocean Drive late one night, quickly fall asleep, and wake up the next morning to my dad slamming cabinet doors.
“Dad, can you keep it down?” I shout through the wall.
A moment of silence. Then a few delicate cabinet closures, more silence, and finally a front door slam.
An hour later he walks back in, his hair wet from a swim in the ocean. He asks if we’re hungry, which we are. We make our way down Ocean Drive passing dozens of restaurants that all look so similar it’s nearly impossible to tell the difference between them, and yet we choose one. The host brings us to a table, but my dad asks if we can sit at a different one. He points toward his preference. The host seems indifferent and seats us where he asks. We study the enormous menu while we discuss the day’s schedule.
“We can start at Context since it’s right on the beach and then make our way over to Scope,” my dad says as he hands us our tickets and programs, administering the credentials like a chaperone on a field trip. He shines when it comes to organized leisure hours: 7:30 swim, 9:30 breakfast, fairs when they open at 11, lunch at 1:30, more fairs, get back to the hotel to rest for 1.5 hours, dinner at 7, and then a party his friend is throwing at 11. Rachel gasps.
“Wait! Outstanding in the Field is happening here tonight! And it’s on the beach!”
She sees on Instagram that this traveling culinary experience where a chef invites people to exotic locations and feeds them local cuisine on huge tables against an idyllic backdrop is doing a special event tonight.
“And they have tickets left!” Rachel says. “We should totally go.”
“What is it? Outside Field?” my dad asks.
He twists his face as we explain what it is to him.
“How much is it? How long does it take?” he asks as he sips his hot tea.
$200 is the cost per plate, which is definitely high, but Rachel has been following them for a while, and their dinners do look pretty cool.
“We’ll cover it, dad.” I say, hoping that’ll convince him.
“Let’s see how the day goes,” he says.
The server brings our food. On his first bite, my dad drops his fork on the plate, making a loud bang.
“These eggs are completely cold” he complains to the server as he passes him the plate. “Could you heat them up? And bring some more hot water please.”
“Hey is Fred around?” I ask.
Fred is a childhood friend of my dad’s who lives nearby in Fort Lauderdale. They grew up together in Long Island - really sweet guy who sometimes tags along on our family vacations.
“I texted him when I got in. I told him I’d hit him up later,” which is code for he’s not ready to commit to plans with Fred yet.
After breakfast, we continue down Ocean Drive toward the nearest art fairs. We bounce through a few different exhibits, stopping occasionally to snap a pic or proclaim what art we like and especially what we don’t.
Rachel tugs on my shirt.
“You should try to convince him to do this dinner. You know he’d really like it,” she says.
“I agree with you. The issue is just that it’s not on the itinerary.”
“We don’t even have actual dinner plans. Just that he wants to eat at 7, and this starts at 7. It’s perfect!”
I walk up to my dad who’s studying a painting of a man flashing his dick at a dinner party in another apartment through a window.
“So, what are you thinking for dinner?” I ask him.
“What was that thing Rachel was talking about? In the field?”
“You want to do it?”
“Yeah, it could be cool.”
“I think you’d really like it.”
“The place I wanted was booked anyway.”
“Great! We’ll get tickets!”
I turn around and give Rachel the thumbs up, and she buys the tickets on her phone. Much to my surprise, this mildly impulsive decision seems to invigorate some more spontaneity in my dad.
“How about we get a drink?” he asks.
“Sounds great!” Rachel and I say together.
We stop by the bar on the way out, each downing a glass of wine. A subtle buzz washes over us as we walk back out to the teeming South Beach boardwalk. Rachel and my dad are behind me giggling at some of the outrageous art we just saw. My dad suggests that instead of going to Art Miami next, we should try Design Miami instead. More improv! Then midway through that, he says a friend of his just texted him to come to another fair that we hadn’t even heard of. Boom, we’re in a car to go see that one. We meet up with his friend at a roadside motel that has converted its rooms to galleries. We have another drink there and float in and out of the different rooms. We make friends with all of these dignified-looking strangers, genuinely having a great time.
“We should probably head to dinner soon,” Rachel says.
“Yes, we should,” my dad says with a cheerful smile. “By the way, where is it?”
“Right behind the Faena Hotel.”
His eyes widen.
“I love The Faena! There’s some pieces I want to see there too - a huge Damien Hirst.”
We walk the few blocks over, through the opulent entrance and lobby, and out the back of the hotel. Just past the pool is the massive Hirst sculpture - an elephant skeleton in a golden cage.
“Dope,” my dad says to himself as we pass it.
As we walk onto the beach, we see the giant circle of tables a few hundred feet out. Stringed lights hang above the table installation casting a soft glow on the wood tabletops as the staff add the finishing touches. I notice a bar to the right of the tables serving drinks and some chairs off to the side. Rachel and my dad take a seat. He seems a bit fatigued from all the walking, so I offer to make a trip to the bar for everyone.
“What do y’all want to drink?” I ask.
“Whatever you’re having,” Rachel says.
“Red wine please,” my dad says. “And how long is this again?”
“Four hours,” she says, and he blinks hard.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “We’ll still be able to make that party you want to go to.”
He nods and looks over my shoulder to survey the scene.
Though the dinner is intended to be an assembly of strangers, the groups of conversations seem large and well-acquainted. A sting of awkwardness shoots up my back as I stand alone in the line. I get to the bar where there’s a placard that says there are only two options to drink: beer and sparkling white wine.
“They only had sparkling wine,” I say to my dad, handing him his drink.
“$200 and that’s all they have to drink?” he says.
I do agree with him, but what I’m more concerned with is his sudden shift in mood. Did the ocean breeze blow the go-with-the-flow version of my dad away once we got to the beach?
We sip our drinks in relative silence until dinner - the quiet between us made all the more glaring against the chorus of banter from everyone else. It feels like we’ve crashed a wedding reception. Before dinner is served, the staff gathers everyone together to hear from some local oyster farmers and their sustainable practices before we sit.
“Oysters,” my dad mutters as we take our assigned seats. It’s unclear whether his declaration is a vote of approval or contempt.
At our table, there’s a woman in an enormous straw hat who is already slurring her words (think Jennifer Coolidge’s character in White Lotus), a long-haired tech bro who seems to think his presence is a present, and an overzealous Argentinian Jew from Orlando who just became a life coach.
It turns out Rachel and the tech bro went to the same high school, which is a good start. The hatted woman says she's been to almost 100 of these dinners all over the world. And the Argentinian Jew gives us some tips on manifesting our career goals, which he says he details in his upcoming self-published book. Rachel and I settle into the conversations pretty easily, but my dad can not be bothered with any of it. He sits in his chair with his arms crossed - nary a peep out of his mouth. Eventually he gets up to call someone.
“What’s the deal with that guy?” the Argentinian Jew asks the table, wagging his thumb at my dad over his shoulder. I blush.
“Sorry, that’s my dad,” I confess.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he was your dad.”
“It’s ok, he’s just a little shy.”
The food starts to come, and it is underwhelming to say the least. And cold - like it was on ice. Also the oysters never come, which makes us wonder why we heard from oyster farmers earlier. I don’t even want to see the disdain on my dad’s face, so I avoid looking his way entirely.
The sun sets and dinner winds down. The beach is mostly clear at this point. But a few hundred feet away, I notice a familiar figure in the darkness moving toward us. The figure walks into the light emanating from our tables.
“Fred?” I say.
Fred slaps my dad on his back as he walks up. My dad turns around.
“Oh good, you found us,” my dad says.
“What’s up, guys?” Fred asks, turning to me and Rachel.
I watch my dad move over to make space for his old friend - a moat between himself and everyone else. I can’t believe he just called Fred like this. But right as I feel a surge of anger build up inside me, a server brings over a glass and pours some wine for Fred. He slips right into the conversation with everyone as my dad sits back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.
Guests start to leave, and it’s time to get back to our regularly scheduled program.
“Fred, you want to go to a party with us?” my dad asks.
“Sure, man!” Fred says. “I’m just happy to be hanging with you guys.”
Fred offers to drive us to the party. In the car, my dad passes a weed pen around as we cruise up the beach, windows down bumping classic rock. I love Fred. And I’m not mad at him joining us. He’s a great hang, and he truly provides a social service for my dad - a familiar buffer between him and the world.
We park and head to the house where this party is happening, but Fred hangs back, leaning against the hood of his car. We all turn around.
“You ok, Fred?” Rachel asks.
“Yeah, I just think I need a Gatorade.”
His legs give out, and my dad goes to catch him.
“Whoa Fred! Here, take a seat.”
We all help him back into the driver’s seat. He tells us he just needs some sugar. We offer to let him rest in our Airbnb a few minutes up the road, which he agrees to. We move him to the passenger seat, and Rachel gets behind the wheel. We get back on the road, and as we’re driving Fred starts to mumble.
“What was that, Fred?” Rachel asks.
He continues mumbling, but no one knows what he’s saying. He reclines his chair onto my dad in the backseat as his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Hold on, Fred. Hold on! You’re crushing my legs!” my dad yelps.
“Fred?” Rachel asks him. “His eyes are closed!”
“Pull over!” I say.
Rachel pulls over. I get out to run to the other side of the car to open the door and turn the switch back on the recliner to unpin my dad. I look at Fred, and he’s out cold. My dad jumps up to the front seat and gets right in his face.
“Fred?” he says inches from him. “Freddy!”
My dad calling him “Freddy” makes me think of them as little kids. I imagine them playing in a driveway in New Hyde Park while my grandmother, Roberta, yells after them “Ricky, Freddy come inside!” This both endears and terrifies me because it’s the first time I’ve ever seen my dad so closely confronted with death.
“Call 911!” Rachel shouts.
I call. The dispatcher asks where we are. We’d just pulled over on Ocean Drive, but I have no idea where exactly. I ask someone on the sidewalk if they know.
“Versace,” they say pointing behind me.
I turn, and sure enough, we are steps away from where Gianni Versace met his untimely death, which is now a garish restaurant.
“Um, we’re in front of the Versace Mansion,” I tell the dispatcher.
Within 30 seconds, a firetruck pulls up, and a team of barefoot first responders emerge.
“Where are your shoes?” I ask.
“Just came from a drowning,” one of them says. “How long has he been like this?”
“Few minutes,” I say.
They rip open Fred’s shirt, attaching wires and patches all over his chest. A woman with a video camera jumps out from behind them recording the scene, and a Soundcloud rapper named Stitches gets out of a Rolls Royce Phantom with a group of girls.
“The fuck?” the rapper says as he walks by us.
Within a few minutes, Fred comes to.
“Fred!” Rachel yells.
He smiles at us.
“What’s up guys?” Fred says with a smile.
But just as quickly as he woke up, his eyes roll back again. The EMT reassures us that his levels are ok and that he’s going to be fine, but that they will want to keep him overnight just in case. Behind us, my dad is on the phone with Fred’s wife.
“What do you mean ‘again’?” my dad asks.
She says Fred passed out once like this on the golf course. She tells us she’s on the way to the hospital and will keep us posted on him.
They load Fred into the ambulance and take off. We watch them drive away and take Fred’s car back to our Airbnb. We go straight to our rooms and pass out.
The next morning, we pick up some coffee on the way to the beach and sit solemnly in the sand next to a beach bum who’s passed out, clutching a nearly empty handle of vodka. My dad finally breaks the silence.
“I feel like I probably only have three or four more years left,” he tells us.
“What the fuck, Rick?” Rachel asks incredulously.
“Seeing Fred like that last night. Just feels like the end is near.”
My dad does this sometimes, musing about his mortality as a way to endear us to him - make us appreciate him while he’s still here. But I don’t buy it.
“Dad, you’re in perfectly good health. There’s no reason to think you’re going to die anytime soon.”
“Just really makes you wonder what we’re even doing here in the first place,” he muses.
My dad’s phone buzzes. It’s Fred. He’s at a diner around the corner. We head his way.
Fred’s standing outside the diner when we arrive, looking a little embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry about last night, guys,” he says to us as we approach him.
“Oh no, Fred,” we all say. “We’re just glad you’re ok.”
“You hungry?” he asks. “This place has great pancakes.”
We get a table in the middle of the dining room.
“So this happened to you before?” I ask Fred.
“Yeah, once on the golf course. Same deal. Right after we smoked a joint.”
“Sounds like you probably shouldn’t smoke pot then, Fred,” Rachel says.
“But I love smoking pot.”
We finish our breakfast and walk with Fred back to his car. We say our goodbyes and head back to our Airbnb to pack up before our flight. We call a car, and my dad walks out with us to the curb.
“Well this was quite a trip,” my dad says as he gives us each a hug and a kiss.
“It was, but I’m really glad we came, Dad. Aside from Fred almost dying, I had a really great time.”
“I did too,” he says.
As I get into the Uber, I watch him walk back into the building and close the front door behind him. I wonder how many more times I’ll say goodbye to him. I don’t think he’s going to die soon like he forecasts, but of course one day he will, and I’ll miss him terribly - as incorrigible as he can sometimes be.