UNLOCKED: The Last Strip Club in Miami Beach

I came back that night like I said I would. Joe, the manager, was at the front. We talked. I told him I wasn’t trying to make anyone look bad. I was just there to document something real.

He gave me a shot. And that’s how I fell into the world of The Madonna’s.

At first, I thought I’d just shoot a few portraits. One night, maybe two. But I kept coming back. Night after night. Losing hours under the lights. Watching girls work the pole while tourists blinked in slow motion, overwhelmed and underdressed.

I talked with the dancers in the back during smoke breaks. I explained my project. I was surprised but most of them were into it. Over time, I got to know a few of them. We’d hang out after work, drink together, do coke in the dressing room, trade stories about life and loneliness.

I was high more often than not. One night, I accidentally reloaded my camera with a roll of film I’d already shot. I thought I’d ruined everything. But when I developed it, I saw something kind of magical: double exposures of strippers’ faces layered with bright skies, waves, palm trees, old pastel buildings.

It looked like a dream, or a hallucination. Maybe both. What’s the difference?

THE METH DEALER

I landed in Miami in October 2018 with a vague idea and a half-dead phone. I’d made contact with a guy—I don’t even remember how—but he was a meth dealer. That was enough. I wanted to do a story about him. Follow his life, shadow his deals, soak up the strange rhythm of Ocean Drive from a different angle.

The beach was buzzing. Spring break energy: Heat pressing down like a sweaty palm, EDM and “Te Boté” pouring from open bars as sunburned tourists slowly liquified on the sidewalks.

When we met behind some cheap hotel he was shirtless, rocking gold-frame sunglasses, a battered pack of Coronas swinging from his shoulder. ‘Florida Man.’ We sat on the sand, drinking, facing the ocean. I started taking pictures.

One of his hands was bizarrely swollen, like a balloon. He told me he took a bullet trying to break up a fight a few months earlier. He said it so casually, like telling someone about a stubbed toe.

Then we were moving. He had regulars waiting. He was in good spirits, talking about how we were gonna party later. I told him I wasn’t into meth but I’d be down for a gram of coke to keep the energy up.

After a few handoffs, we sat on the strip of grass that separates Ocean Drive from the boardwalk. I had my little baggie by then, and we were chatting like kids who’d just scored candy. The night felt full of promise, and probably a little doom.

As we started doing keys, I noticed something buzzing overhead. I didn’t think much of it—until three police quads pulled up and boxed us in a minute later. Giant, hairless Miami cops.

This story is from the summer issue of VICE magazine: THE REASONS TO BE CHEERFUL ISSUE. Subscribe to 4 print issues each year or buy the summer issue individually.