Room 8

Manny snorts as the customer leaves. "Hey, José, you don't need to try so hard. We're not selling cars here." He leans against the counter. "People buy what they need. Cigarettes, milk, condoms. They already know what they want before they walk in."

I nod, feeling my face heat up. In 2025, customer service industry expect performance with extra enthusiasm like your job depends on it, because it does. Here, apparently, costumer service didn't reach nonsense level yet.

"Sorry. Just want to make a good impression."

"Impression made. You're hired." Manny gestures to the cash register. "Let's finish up. I'll show you how to close out."

For the next hour, he walks me through everything: how to balance the register, restock shelves, handle the safe, and what to do if someone tries to rob the place ("If armed give them the money, don't be a hero").

When we finish, Manny points to a rotary phone on the wall. "You need to make any calls? Looking for a place to stay?"

I pull out the newspaper with circled rental ads. "Actually, yeah. Mind if I use it?"

"Go ahead. Local calls only."

I approach the phone, staring at the rotary dial. I've seen these in movies but never actually used one. I pick up the receiver, hear the dial tone, and carefully place my finger in the first number hole, turning it clockwise until it hits the metal stop, then releasing.

The dial spins back with a mechanical whir. I repeat for each number, feeling ridiculous at how long this takes compared to tapping a touchscreen.

My first call goes nowhere, apartment already rented. Second call, same thing. Third call is to the Flamingo Court Motel. A gruff voice answers.

"Flamingo."

"Hi, I'm calling about a room. Weekly rate?"

"Twenty five bucks a week, eighty for a month, payment up front. Got vacancy."

Twenty five dollars for a week? That's what I'd pay for two hours of parking in 2025 Miami.

"I'll take it. I can be there in an hour."

"Room 8. Office is open till midnight."

I hang up, feeling accomplished. A job and a place to live, all in one day.

"Found something?" Manny asks.

"Yeah, Flamingo Court Motel. Know it?"

Manny's expression sours slightly. "It's... livable. Not good, but it'll keep rain off your head. Just don't leave valuables in the room."

I thank Manny, confirm tomorrow's shift, and head out. Following Miguel's directions, I walk toward the motel, taking in 1978 Miami with fresh eyes.

The first thing that hits me is how everyone's actually looking around. In 2025, pedestrians walk with heads down, faces illuminated by phone screens, earbuds blocking out the world. Here, people notice each other. Make eye contact. React.

A guy across the street catches me looking and immediately stiffens, hand drifting toward his waistband. I quickly look away. Message received. Don't make eye contact for fun.

The cars rumbling past are massive metal beasts with all angles and chrome, gas-guzzling boats on wheels. Most are dented, rusted, belching blue smoke. No sleek Teslas or self-driving rideshares. No rideshare apps, period. If I need to go somewhere far, it's bus, taxi, or nothing.

I pass a gas station advertising fuel at 63 cents a gallon. A movie theater shows "Saturday Night F*ver" for $2.50 admission. A record store has vinyl albums displayed in the window. Actual records, not vintage reproductions sold to hipsters for fifty bucks a pop.

A sudden roar overhead makes me duck instinctively. The sound is deafening, like an explosion. I look up, heart racing, certain a plane is about to crash directly on top of me.

But everyone else just glances up casually, then continues walking. The commercial airliner passes overhead, engines screaming, seemingly close enough to touch the taller buildings.

I realize I'm crouched in a defensive position while pedestrians step around me, giving me strange looks.

"You okay, man?" asks a guy in bell-bottoms.

I straighten up, embarrassed. "Yeah, just... thought it was coming down."

He laughs. "Nah, they always fly so loud not far from airport. You get used to it."

I stare after the guy as he walks away. Am I being made fun of? In 2025, commercial planes are way quieter. You'd never hear this kind of thunderous roar except right by the airport.

After twenty minutes of walking, I spot the Flamingo Court Motel. It looks like a faded pink U-shaped building with a flickering neon sign where half the letters don't work. The swimming pool in the center courtyard contains murky rainwater rather than actual swimming water.

The office door squeaks as I enter. An elderly Cuban man dozes behind the counter, a baseball bat propped within arm's reach. A small TV plays what looks like a soap opera. The only channel it gets, apparently.

"Excuse me," I say. "I called earlier about a room?"

The man startles awake, blinking at me. "Twenty five dollars, one week." He slides a registration card across the counter. "Fill this out."

I write "José Ramírez", then count out twenty five of my precious dollars.

He hands me an actual metal key attached to a plastic flamingo keychain. "Room 8. No visitors after 10. No drugs. No prostitutes. No loud music. Water's hot in the morning, not so much at night."

I take the key, fighting back a laugh. No prostitutes? No drugs? Right. This place practically screams "hourly rates available." The cracked parking lot, the broken pool, the paper-thin walls, it's a haven for exactly what the old man just prohibited. But it's shelter with a locking door, and right now, that's all I need.

Nodding, I say: "Thanks, there will be no problem from me."

"Check-out is noon next Thursday if you're not renewing."

I exit the office, key in hand, heading toward my new home. It's not much, but it's mine, at least for a week. Stability, finally. A place to sleep, a job to work, and time to figure out my next move.

Welcome to 1978, "Jose".