Wild Emerz Can't Be Broken

"Burn Notice?" says Emerz, brow cocked, scrolling through the guide. "I've gotten a few of those. Not really something I'd want to DVR. These days they mainly come via e-cards."

"Well, that's true," I say. "Unfortunate title. I think it's an industry term. But think of the white-washed art deco facades, the cocaine swing, the nightclub thang, the jittery thump of the pulse of Miami. Plus, that girl from Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken..."

"I love that movie," says Emerz, miming a horse diving off a pier. It's unnervingly believable. He drops an ice cube into his fizzing cola. "Splash," he says.

I remember For Love Or Money a little better. J. Fox powerwalking around a cheesy hotel, making deals fresh outta Cornell. Just missing elevator doors. Brushing his hair back in boyish, good-natured aggravation. Gabrielle Anwar, that was her name, the one that made it all worthwhile for Fox, for the whiplashed horse, for me, for Emerz. It's an interesting turn of events. Emerz, big city lug, latches onto the rural county fair crowd pleaser. I go for the big city power-play crowd pleader. "It's called escapism," says Emerz. Fish out of water stories, I say. Horses in water stories, he says.