This book is based on real events. Only the people, places, and events are fictionalized. The stupidity is 100% real.
The main stage was an elevated platform with a massive, Boulder Initiative branded backdrop that read “Miami Beach: City of the Climate Future!” 5,000 conference participants sat in seats arraigned into three aisles before the stage. A media station in the rear held a battery of cameras. 30-foot-tall black curtains cordoned the area off from the rest of the convention center, though they only slightly dampened the main hall’s screeching tires and thumping four on the floor beat.
Cynthia’s fellow panelists were an eclectic bunch. First up was Ronaldo Itúrbide, who wore a spiffy navy suit and gold tie. A 30-something political phenom and mayor of San Miguel, El Salvador, his family owned approximately 6% of the country. Itúrbide’s uncle had led right-wing death squads deep in the country’s interior while his great-grandfather was a Minister of Trade who set off a civil war after organizing the assassination of his then-president.
To Cynthia’s right was Alejandro Guadalupe, the CEO of Sunshine Crystals. The 65-year-old agribusiness mogul’s leathery skin was so thoroughly stretched and botoxed that she couldn’t be sure if he was smiling or grimacing, while his alabaster veneers visibly reflected the stage lights. Guadalupe’s family ran enormous plantations in Oriente before the Revolution. Luckily for them, they hurried enough money out of the country before 1959 to buy a sugarcane farm south of Lake Okeechobee. Over subsequent decades, they purchased and drained thousands of acres of the Everglades while pumping kilotons of pesticides and fertilizer into the surviving ecosystem, fundamentally altering its physical and chemical makeup.
Sitting directly to Cynthia’s left was Rottweiler, a legendary Cuban American reggaetonero and Miami native who had dropped some of the defining bangers of Cynthia’s high school and college years like “Si estás mojada yo soy tu toalla,” “Sácame la teta,” and “Tengo hambre/Tienes chocha Part 2: The Love Machine.” Just before they got onstage, Cynthia allowed herself to fangirl, which he warmly reciprocated by offering to take a selfie. He sported a spiffy crimson tuxedo and sunglasses. The sheen reflecting off his bald head rivaled the glare emanating from Guadalupe’s teeth.
Moderating the panel was Brittany Blucher, an Instagram model and influencer best known for a viral video tutorial illustrating how to perform a CoolSculpting regime using only household items. It obviously worked because, to Cynthia’s eyes, she didn’t have a spare fat cell in her body. Either that or she hadn’t eaten a carb in years. Blucher wore a hot pink form fitting dress and spiky silver heels. Her beach blonde hair fell to her waist and her lips were the size of two unshelled garden snails rubbing against each other.
Looking around the stage, Cynthia was certain she was the only one who hadn’t had any work done.
“Good morning, Miami Beach!” shouted Blucher at the crowd, all vim and vigor.
The crowd replied with an uncoordinated smattering of “good mornings.”
“You can do better than that, Miami Beach!” retorted Blucher with far too much fervor for the early hour. “I said good morning!”
The crowd responded “good morning” with the same volume and enthusiasm as the first time.
“That’s more like it!” cried Blucher. “Welcome to the fourth annual Boulder Institute climate summit. My name is Brittany Blucher from @BlucherBaby on Instagram, TikTok, and PayPal. It’s my honor to moderate this year’s opening plenary with a truly impressive and knowledge panel. First off, we have Mayor Itúrbide of San Miguel, El Salvador!”
Polite applause for the mayor.
“Next up, we have hometown music mogul and entrepreneur, Rottweiler!”
Enthusiastic applause for Rottweiler.
“Then there’s Cynthia Burgos who recently published a piece on the Bulge in The Atlantic.”
Respectably amount of applause.
“And, finally, we have Alex Guadalupe, the President and CEO of Sunshine Crystals!”
Deafening silence interrupted by isolated boos. Blucher charged enthusiastically ahead, ignorant or indifferent to the mood in the room.
“Let’s get started!” she declared. “Mr. Guadalupe, with climate-driven flooding such a major concern in South Florida, what policies would you see implemented to mitigate it?”
“I’m glad you asked that question,” said Guadalupe, shifting in his seat. “Water management is an incredibly complicated issue affected by inland and oceanic factors. We at Sunshine Crystals believe that channeling excess water flow from existing swamps and marshes into the sea is critical to mitigating the worst effects…”
“Oye pipo, that’s saltwater in the parking lot,” interrupted Rottweiler.
“Mr. Rottweiler,” insisted Blucher. “I ask that you please wait until you’re called upon…”
“It’s just ‘Rottweiler,’ mama,” he corrected. “And my girl Cynthia over here almost punted a fish walking into this conference. That fish didn’t come from no Everglades.”
“Oh shit!” thought Cynthia gleefully. “Rottweiler didn’t come to mess around!”
“Thank you, Rottweiler,” added Blucher with a strained smile. “Please continue, Mr. Guadalupe.”
“Yes, um, right,” hesitated Guadalupe now that he’d been thrown off his talking point. “So, in my opinion, the less water we have to our west, the less we’ll have underfoot. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Guadalupe. Mayor Itúrbide, as the executive of a major South American city, what do you think Miamians most want out of their elected officials?”
“Miamians crave orden and estructure!” snapped the mayor. “They need un estrong hand to lead them and show them how to live their lives free of socialismo with the guiding light of our blessed Mary Virgin Mother of Christ.”
He crossed himself, indicating he was done answering the question.
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” said Blucher. “Rottweiler, as a local, how do you think the Boulder Institute is readying South Floridians for an uncertain climate future?”
“I don’t think the Boulder Institute should be asking the mayor of a city on another continent what Miamians want,” he answered cooly. “And I don’t think the Boulder Institute, FEMA, the Harlem Globetrotters, or anyone else is gonna prepare South Floridians for our climate future. No one’s comin’ to save us. We gotta do it ourselves or we’re shit out of luck.”
Wild applause from the audience.
“Thank you, thank you, Rottweiler,” grimaced Blucher once the crowd had settled.
“Ms. Burgos,” she continued, all smiling fourth wave feminist solidarity. “As a fellow girlboss…”
Cynthia winced.
“What special insights do you bring to your job and what obstacles have you had to overcome to succeed?” concluded Blucher.
“Uh… I don’t really know,” she answered tentatively. “Maybe an ability to listen better? But honestly, I’ve been gatekept almost as much by women as by men.”
Itúrbide and Guadalupe nodded along as if they had any idea what she was talking about.
“I don’t like the sexual harassment, second-guessing, or patronization.”
Now she was building a head of steam.
“But the biggest obstacles I’ve faced in my career have been bosses who didn’t respect or want to compensate me, readers who didn’t want to pay for my work, and governments and private corporations that did everything in their power to hide their misdeeds all under the blithe protection of a willfully ignorant judicial system completely disinterested in pursuing fairness or justice.”
A commotion interrupted the rolling round of applause. A dozen people rose and headed to the stage carrying long, tubular objects. They split into two groups and stopped just before the panelists.
“Um, I ask that the audience please keep to their seats,” warned Blucher. “There will be plenty of time for questions at the end…”
Her voice trailed off as they unfurled a pair of banners. Blucher shaded her eyes from the stage lights and squinted as she tried to decipher what they said.
“Ah, shit…” she muttered.
The first read “Sunshine Crystals Killed the Everglades” while the second was festooned with “Boulder is Complicit.” The protesters commenced shouting, “Sunshine kills!” in unison.
A phalanx of security guards stepped between the protesters and the stage. Guadalupe and Itúrbide looked outraged. Rottweiler gave the old 305 ‘Ta bien expression. Cynthia couldn’t hide the grin on her face. Blucher crossed her wrists over a knee and grimaced. She sat in silence and glared for a minute as if her displeasure would be enough to silence the demonstrators.
“OK, OK, you’ve had your say,” she spoke into the microphone. “This is no way to have a conversation. We’re here for dialogue, not to shout at each other.”
“We have to shout because you wouldn’t let us into the conversation!” cried the lead protestor.
Itúrbide leaned into Guadalupe and whispered, “We deal with these comunistas in my city con plomo.[1]”
“Ha!” chuckled Guadalupe. “If only.”
“Ugh,” exhaled Blucher, rubbing her forehead. “The Institute organizers assure me you had plenty of opportunities to share your perspectives and opinions during the kickoff Zoom call and by emailing your recommendations to the online suggestion box.”
A third banner now unfurled that read, “Fuck Boulder!” which the demonstrators took to shouting out loud and in unison. This, apparently, was too much for the storied institute to livestream, so security moved forward. They shredded the banners from the activists’ hands and shoved and prodded them out of the convention hall and into the ankle-deep water outside.
Blucher made a slicing signal at her throat with a hand.
“OK, folks, that’s it for the plenary panel,” she announced to the crowd. “We hope you have a wonderful day at the conference. Don’t forget to dispose of your recyclables and compostables in the correct containers and that Miami Beach is the City of the Climate Future!”
The lights went out and Cynthia was shuffled offstage.
“I’d better still get paid for this,” grumbled Blucher under her breath.
Cynthia met back up with Noah and spent the rest of the day moving from breakout session to conference room with him and a gaggle of other weirdos. He was prescient in that, by the end of the day, she didn’t leave with a single clarifying insight or illuminating fact despite listening to onstage experts in conversation for a combined four hours. She did, however, crack plenty of jokes and laugh at the awful puns her new friends made during the more boring panels.
By the time it was all over and they had walked out of the conference center and onto a recently evaporated sidewalk, Cynthia was exhausted.
“I know it’s been a long day,” said Noah. “But some of us are going to Turnt at nine tonight if you feel like partying.”
“That’s the gay club on Washington Ave?” asked Cynthia.
“The very same.”
“Oh, OK. Are you queer?”
“Who cares!” exclaimed Noah with a shrug and a grin. “It’s a great time. Come through if you want. If not, we’ll see you at the drum circle.”
“Alright, I’ll let you know,” she replied with a smile. “But no promises. I’m pretty tired.”
She kissed Noah and the others goodbye and walked back to her car with every intention of going home, jumping into a pair of pajama pants, grabbing a bottle of wine, and streaming the tawdriest show she could find until falling asleep.
[1] “With lead.”
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