Sunshine gold as bee pollen dusted the lawn in front of the house, an old stucco two-storied affair with blue and white jalousie awnings. A blighted coconut palm tree stood off to the side like an electrocuted man with crazy hair. As I walked up a path of coquina flagstones the place looked more and more familiar.
I pressed the buzzer and a slim deeply tanned fellow of about fifty answered the door.
"Saw your ad," I stated. "I'm looking to rent."
The bee pollen illuminated his odd scalp. New hair plugs. Ugly, but promising. "Sure," he replied. "Come on in."
He lead me to his parlor and offered me a seat on the sofa. Blond chintz. I looked around the room. More blond chintz.
"I've been in this room before," I marvelled.
"How's that?" Perfect pearl teeth.
"I dunno. Deja vu, maybe."
"Maybe."
This guy was undergoing a complete make-over in mid-life. His tropical shirt was vainly unbuttoned to reveal a flat hard gut. Same color as the knobby knees of his tennis legs. Jantzen shorts and Reebok shoes. I became aware that I knew him.
"This is really wierd," I said, smiling and shaking my head. "I HAVE been here before. You're Lucy's step-dad. Ten years ago we sat like this, waiting for her to come down. Our first date."
"Jimmy?"
"That's me. Jimmy Sandusky."
"Christ! What happened to you? You broke her heart."
"Aw. Second date didn't go so well." That's for sure. I had her on my folks' sofa in the Florida Room with my hand inside her blouse, when she slapped me.
"You fucking kids."
"So, how is Lucy? She married?"
"No. She still lives here. I think she would love to see you again."
"Maybe later. About that little rental--"
"Come on. Gotta go out and around back."
His property consisted of his own house and its rear addition, a bed and shower lozenge roughly the length of a Lincoln. It had a private entrance. "Ninety bucks a month. Cash in advance every two weeks."
"I'm good for it."
It was cozy and clean. Lysol and Airwick.
Wouldn't be so for long. I had at least a hundred paperback books, fifty record albums and a stereo to fit into it. And I was a slob. Clothes everywhere usually.
He clasped my arm and led me back to his parlor. "So what have been doing for ten years, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Oh, college and all that. Then the Air Force."
"What are you up to now?"
"Typesetting at the Miami Beach Sun."
"Thought you were a writer."
"Me too."
*
Sunday morning I began drinking early. The Little Farm grocery on Biscayne sold imported beer. I discovered Ringnes. To me it tasted like Heineken and cost about half. So at seven in the morning of the Lord's Day I bought a package of six green bottles. The Saint Augustine grass was still wet with dew. I sat in a folding chair with the newspaper and read that "O Lucky Man" was showing. Good old Malcolm McDowell. My favorite Droog.
The stoners in the bungalow next door had been playing "Dark Side of the Moon" since midnight.
"Jimmy! Hey!" Landlord startled the bejeezus out of me.
I replied, "Good morning, sir."
Evidently he rented the bungalow too.
"If those guys ever bother you, you let me know. OK?"
"Yup. Sure will."
Noticed he walked like a stork.
*
I avoided him as much as possible. Afraid he would involve me with Lucy.
Ten years ago she had been a sweet girl. Popular in school. Something of a socialite. Treasurer of her service club. I first saw her at a Friday night football game in the Orange Bowl. Flat on her back. On cold cement. Suffering an epileptic seizure. Blue marble eyes. Scary.
The scene creeped me out.
Then a few months later I received an invitation to the Sadie Hawkins Ball. Based on "Li'l Abner," this event permitted the ladies to fetch the gentlemen of their choice.
Lucy had been eying me for some time. Well, shit. Who was I to refuse?
There I was, sitting on that blond chintz sofa with her step-dad interrigating me like a homicide detective. Then she descended the stairs smiling like Grace Kelly.
Elegant in a black backless gown.
By some wizzardry I pinned the corsage where it belonged and we left. My folks had loaned me the big blue Olds.
"Oh, Jimmy. What a nice car."
"Yeah."
Suddenly all that I could think of was her seizure.
*
Biscayne Bay was black and choppy with white caps as we drove across the 79th Street Bridge. I kept both hands on the wheel. Lucy sat close to me. Her profile reminded me of the silver lady on the dime. A silk scarf kept her Grace Kelly hair in place. We passed bridge lights in a dream. This was going great.
"So what are your plans?" I asked. "After graduation."
"Secretary, I suppose."
"OK." Now what, Lothario?
"Oh, I know that sounds so dull."
"Not at all. Miami or New York?"
"Ho ho ho!"
"Ho, what?"
"New York sounds so glamorous."
"Hey. Holly Golightly--"
"Exactly!" She had tiny teeth in a tiny mouth. "Oh, Jimmy!"
*
At the time I did not know what a roc was. We pulled into the portico of the Eden Roc, a fabulous palace of gilded desire. Newer than the neighboring Fountainbleau, it soared up on like the ancient bird of yore. The parking guy opened the door for Lucy. I had no idea how to handle gratuities. I left the car running and handed the guy a New York fin. He grinned like a shark and drove off in the Olds.
It was like being in Technicolor and CinemaScope.
*
Our second date was a movie. Downtown on Flagler was the Olympia, built like an opera house to resemble the interior of the Globe Theatre, with upstairs loges and galleries "peopled" with Elizabethans. The ceiling was painted to be a starry night sky. I parked the Olds on Biscayne and we walked the few blocks. Miami was indeed the Magic City, alive and throbbing, with busy sidewalks and arcades.
All through the picture I kept remembering the glimpse I'd had of Lucy's left breast at the Sadie Hawkins Ball. We had been seated at a table with another couple during the floor show and I could not take my eyes off her. Her face held high, she seemed regal. Perfect chin, perfect nose. Her laughter was like little zen bells.
Then she leaned forward in a certain way. The decolletage of her evening gown suddenly presented me with a side view of her aureole and nipple. Pink. Lucy seemed blissfully unaware that her gown was ill-tailored to occlude such a wee breast. Conical, like a Hershey Kiss. The viewing lasted for several minutes and I was discreet. When it was time for a dance she arose and gave me her hand. I think the song playing was "Blue Velvet."
"Oh, Jimmy," she gushed, pressing against me.
My mind mushroomed like the Bikini Atoll.
*
One afternoon while I was napping I heard the clacking of a lawn lounge being unfolded up near my window. I peered through the venetian blinds and saw a woman about my age wearing a leopard bikini. She had a concave belly and long legs which she began lathering with coconut oil. This was very stimulating.
"Hi there," I huffed, emerging from my hut.
"Hello, Jimmy."
Curly auburn hair. Italian sunglasses. Lilith smile.
"You know my name."
"I'm Patty. Fred's wife. He told me all about you."
Landlord had a trophy wife!
"Well, he certainly didn't tell me about you," I replied, mouth-breathing.
"You don't mind do you? This is my usual spot for sun-bathing."
"Feel free."
She caught me looking at her bosom and winked. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Jimmy."
"Same here. See ya."
It was three o'clock. Time to shower and shave and go to work.
*
The next day Patty wore a black Brazilian thong bikini. Top unstrung. She lay prone with her eyes closed behind her Italian sunglasses. A contented smile smeared across her oily face.
For at least ten minutes I peeped at the crack of her ass.
When I was done with myself she was gone. So I went back to the tennis game on TV. Billy Jean King was killing Bobby Riggs.
*
My workstation was a vintage teletypesetter. I was fairly fast, but Morris was a veritable Van Cliburn on the keyboard. Had worked thirty years for the Associated Press in New York. Retired now and living in a nice cubby-hole apartment on Alton Road.
Copy arrived continually from the night editor, delivered to us by a chirpy beach bunny named Stacey. She would sashay in from the staff room with freshly edited copy, always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Morris was senior typesetter. He enjoyed being the one to say something to her.
"Giving us more work, Stacey?"
"Yeah. Sorry to interrupt your crossword, Mo."
"We don't mind," he replied, giving me a wink. "Do we, Jimmy?"
That was my cue. "Any time, Stacey. So when are you going to go out with me?"
"Oh, Jimmy, you are so cute. But I wish you would lose the beer-belly."
Morris guffawed. "Hah hah hah!"
I was sorely wounded. It was an honest appraisal. She did not have an evil bone in her bodacious body. Imagine the Coppertone Girl all grown up.
On the way out she chirped: "Bye for now, fellas!"
*
My thoughts on Morris were that he led a lonely life. Widowed, living alone. Eating his main meal, the early-bird lunch at one of those depressing restaurants where old farts waited in line thirty minutes before the place opened. Going to bargain matinee second-run movies.
I was way off the mark. He had a lady friend and they enjoyed all the free culture Miami Beach had to offer. Programs at Lummus Park. Library events. The old jazzbo knew where the cats were swinging. One evening Dolly suprised him at work and I finally met her. She was a petite oldster with a silver wig.
A lilting Brooklyn accent. "Maw-riss, dear."
We looked up and saw Dolly standing in the doorway.
"Hi, Hon," Morris replied. Eyes full of love. "Whatcha doing here?"
"Brought ya a Care Package."
"What's that?"
"Whopper with cheese. Fries too."
"That's swell, Hon."
"Hey, Mo," I suggested. "Why don't you go on your break early? Like now."
Indeed he was a lucky man.
*
We were sitting in Wolffie's murdering my paycheck. The cheesecake was priceless. I watched them nibble and nosh. Dolly would sip her coffee and make goo-goo eyes and Morris would chuckle, becoming expansive, letting his coffee grow cold. He was talking about his honeymoon in 1935 and the walk down Fifth Avenue and the stroll through Times Square with his young wife Elaine.
"Oh, the sidewalks of New York were safe back then," Morris said. "Everything was gaily lit and there was music."
"How lovely that must have been, Maw-riss," Dolly added dreamily.
"We were Spring Chickens."
Gradually I noticed a general hush spreading through the eating area. A transistor radio was playing behind the waitress stand. A newsvoice announced that Egyptian forces had crossed the Suez Canal and Mount Hermon had fallen to the Syrians.
Dolly pushed away from the table. "Somebody take me home. Please!"
Of course somebody was me. I said to Morris, "Let's go."
My VW Bug was parked on Collins. Morris climbed into the back seat and Dolly rode shotgun. All the way my Blaupunkt serenaded us with Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto #2. Dolly brightened a little bit. "Oh, that's the old Eddie Fisher song."
*
Time to pay the rent. Bright and early Saturday morning I knocked on Landlord's door with cash in hand. Behind the copper screen someone sighed and came forth. Patty asked, "Who is it?"
"It's Jimmy with the rent."
"Oh, sure. Come on in."
Patty had been dozing in a cushy rataan chair and was now rubbing her eyes.
Again, those long gams. I gave her the pleasure of my attention.
"I woke you. I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Jimmy. Let me get his receipt book"
She was wearing a rumpled aqua cotton blouse and rumpled khaki shorts. Starchless, soft-smelling. Patty was one of those modern women who jiggled defiantly without a bra. I became wary. Yes, she was sexy as hell. But, damn! She was also the landlord's wife.
"No problem."
She fussed about for a few minutes and then returned. "I can't find it. Must be upstairs. Come on."
Up the stairs that Lucy had descended so long ago we went, me right beneath Patty's perfect ass. It was cool and dim at the top. I followed her down the short hall and into the bedroom. She opened the drawer of a teak cabinet and took out a receipt book.
"You know, Jimmy. You're the best renter. Always on time."
"Yup."
I handed her the money and she sat down on the bed.
For an eternity her eyes searched mine. And then time was up.
Wordlessly we descended the stairs.
My mind asked me: "What just happened?"
*
Patty stopped sunning herself. My daydreams of serving her a cold Ringness, maybe getting a giggle out of her, dribbling the beaded bottle down her flank, were dashed. I profoundly missed seeing her. Given the opportunity I would jump her bones. For sure.
I guess you could say I blew it.
One evening in November I found she had deposited her folding yard lounge outside my door. I did not know what to think. The weather was perfect. Breezy and mild, with low clouds reflecting city lights. I sat there and drank plum wine.
Thinking thinking thinking.
"Jimmy," she said in a dulcet voice. "I need to discuss something with you."
Yes, it was Patty, standing like a sand castle beside me.
"Well, sure."
She wore a thin checkered flannel shirt tied in front, calypso style, and hip-hugger blue jeans that displayed a gorgeous midrift. A hint of fleece beneath her belly button.
"It's tourist season, Jimmy. The rent goes up."
(more to come)
