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I’m at the Wild Oats grocery across the street from the Miami Ad School and the guy in line in front of me is talking. He’s alone and at first I think he’s talking to the cashier, but when I look I see he has a palm Trēo 650 attached to his belt at his left hip and one of those earpieces with a microphone on the thin cord that looks too small and intangible to function. The cord is black and has hangs tortuously along his neck.

‘You’re in Rehab? Wow,’ the guy says. ‘Yeah, yeah… No, I think that’s great.’

But his emphasis is on the word ‘no.’ He’s swiping his card and listens for a moment.

‘Four weeks?’ he asks. ‘Twenty-eight days? Wow, that’s kind of long, isn’t it?’

He’s making hand signals at the cashier, trying to tell her he wants his chicken put in a different bag.

‘No,’ he says again, ‘I think that’s great… I mean I had no idea, but whatever.’

I’m putting my stuff on the conveyer belt as he says, ‘Okay, but we’re on for the Super Bowl, right? They’ll let you out on day pass or whatever, right?’ For the first time in the conversation, I can hear concern in his voice. I’m trying not to look at his wincing eyes as he listens. Then, ‘Yeah, but man, it’s only one night. We already have the tickets.’

He’s now picking up his bags and taking the receipt from the cashier. His voice rising as he says, ‘But have you even asked them? They’d make an exception for this. I mean, it’s the fucking Super Bowl, man.’

He is getting angrier as he walks away. By the time the automatic doors open for him, he’s using strings of profanities.