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Published: February 21st 2010
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Southernmost Point in the U.S.
Southernmost Point in the U.S., Key West, Florida. The resort at the end of the road. Years ago I met a man in Key West who contracted with an estate to operate a parking lot. It was three-quarters of a block from the heart of downtown and the main drag of Duval St.
I have a tendency to say hello to all sorts of people, particularly the ones that others ignore. I look at it this way, someone has to help make their day a little better.
He was a bit of a malcontent. He grumbled about this person or that business, but it was more of a mumble and he never quite explained why he was unhappy. Over the period of the few weeks before his contract ran out and a Miami-based parking lot company took over, we had an occasional chance to chat when he was not busy and I did not have some appointment to go to.
He didn’t actually park cars. He just took drivers’ money at the lot’s permanently opened, chain-link gate and directed them to a parking space. He wouldn’t let them walk out if they took up two spaces.
He was a confessed alcoholic and had no problem with that. Not a twinge of guilt was on his face when he talked about it. He spent most of his days recovering from a hangover.
He was not a corny alcoholic who wore a T-shirt that stated: “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings.” Perhaps it was because the money could be better spent on a bottle of booze.
He was a Florida man, born and bred in one of those beach-side, coastal cities, like Fort Lauderdale (but it wasn’t). He was in his late teens during Prohibition. He told me that by the early 1940s he saved about $15,000.00.
That is a bundle of bucks for a 19 year-old kid with no skilled-trade or profession to have back then. He never said how he made it. But I suspect he worked for rum-runners, or as delivery boy for white lightning or local beer.
He wanted to use his money to get into a business. But he told me his grandfather would have nothing to do with it. “And,” he added, “he made me buy a piece of land. I have hated him ever since for it.”
I thought to myself it must have been a bad deal for this guy to hate his grandfather for so long. I could have left it at that, but my curiosity got the better of me.
So I asked him, “Where was this?”
“Fort Lauderdale Beach (actually another city).”
“And?” I asked.
“I got married and my wife and I rented it to a Holiday Inn. I raised my kids with the income from it, and the boys are supporting their families with it now.
I hated my grandfather ever since,” he repeated, as if to emphasize what he already said.
I could not ask him how he could hate his grandfather for doing him such a favor. Not because I did not want to, but cars started to come in that wanted parking, and some guy was disputing the time when he was leaving.
There would be another time to ask. I dashed off to be late for an appointment, hurried down the block, passed the Bull and Whistle and headed for Sloppy Joes.
I returned a few days later, to get an answer to the riddle of how someone could despise a person for doing them a big favor like that.
New management was there. He was gone.
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Pamela Cuadros
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You gotta have your feet on the ground, and appreciate things in life. Great words Christian, keep it up. Best regards, Pam.