Paradise Past

By Mike Griffin

Drawing on personal experiences, Mr. Griffin has written a humorous, loving look back into a magical world of another time before paradise had passed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665530385

Mike Griffin

Mike Griffin is the author of three previous books inspired by his years as a Florida resident searching for his own Fountain of Youth. Mr. Griffin now resides with his wife Jackie in the land of the four seasons where winters are mild, snow birds are an endangered species, and the call of the lost flamingo is but a distant memory.

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Copyright © 2021 Mike Griffin. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/22/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3039-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3040-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3038-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021912945

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For

Jackie and Jayce

Contents

Author’s Note

Part 1 Winter 1974

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part 2 Spring

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Part 3 Summer

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part 4 Fall

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Epilogue

Author’s Note

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T he book in your hands (thank you for getting this far) is a work of fiction. Nothing you are about to read ever actually happened. It never happened because Columbus was wrong. The earth was not round, and, in 1492, he sailed over the edge and disappeared. How a statue of him managed to turn up hundreds of years later in Ohio is still something of a mystery.

People, places, events, dates, and times depicted in this novel are either coincidental, delusional, or products of the author’s imagination. Reality, after all, depends on what keyhole you’re peeping through.

Mike Griffin

-2021-

I looked over Jordan

And what did I see…

A band of angels

Coming after me…

Afro-American Spiritual

Part 1

Winter 1974

Chapter 1

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I t was a cold day in paradise. The only thing that was steaming in the subtropical world of Sarasota, Florida was Jake Martingham. Nursing an aching knee, he was on his way to the office on St. Armand’s Key when a tourist in a blister red Caddie with New York plates almost ran him off the John Ringling Causeway. In a flash, Jake hung his head out the window of his beloved Volvo and hollered, Go home, you carpetbagger, and take a Snowbird with you!

By the time Jake limped into the offices of Sunshine Realty, he had cooled off a few degrees and the weather had warmed correspondingly. Morning, Buttercup, he said to the stunning blonde with the bluest eyes east of Pascagoula. Buttercup, aka Lola Day, was the Director of First Impressions and office manager of the asylum.

Good morning, Mr. Martingham. Don’t forget you have a nine o’clock conference before the caravan today.

Jake glanced at his fake Rolex. Thanks, Buttercup. What would I do without you?

Buttercup responded with a seductive smile and quipped, Gee, I don’t know, Mr. Martingham, but you’re going to have to keep on trying. Jake’s long sigh took him all the way to the coffee machine.

Sunshine Realty employed seven full-time real estate agents, a host of part-timers, and a full support team comprised of compliant gofers, accountants, lawyers, and suntanned beach muffins disguised as secretaries. Orchestrating the entire operation was the Broker-of-Record, the Dapper, Devil-May-Care, Bon Vivant - J. Wilson Saunders.

The old adage in real estate is that ten percent of the people make ninety percent of the money. That axiom was never more apparent than at Sunshine Realty. That is not to say that part-time employees were not important – they were. They played a vital role in the overall dynamic of property exchange. A real estate license was not easy to obtain, requiring many hours of study and a state mandated exam that was emasculating. Nevertheless, the lure of vast wealth was the carrot that convinced hordes of housewives, bartenders, substitute teachers, Mary Kay reps, ne’er-do-wells, and dreamers of all stripes to chase the elusive rabbit of prosperity.

The part-time employees of Sunshine Realty were predominantly what the industry referred to as listers. Listers were the human locusts of the land. They descended upon their relatives, friends, co-workers, acquaintances, and total strangers alike with wild abandon. Armed with briefcases brimming with contracts and promises of untold wealth, they cajoled the greedy and the gullible into signing on the bottom line and listing their homes and businesses for sale with Sunshine Realty.

The conference room was the staging area for the monthly caravan that would transport agent Jake Martingham and the other six full-time employees on a tour of the newly listed properties. Jake relaxed in a leather-tooled chair and surveyed his fellow salesmen (and women) who sat around the huge mahogany table. Competition was the driving force in sales and survival of the fittest was the Darwinian principle that underwrote the evolution of success. The salesforce of Sunshine Realty greeted each other with the amicable scrutiny akin to pit bulls prior to a dogfight.

At exactly nine o’clock, J. Wilson Saunders made his entrance. At once fourteen individual eyeballs focused on their lord and ringmaster. It was a feast to behold.

On his head, he wore a powder-blue Montecristi Panama hat authenticated with the original black ribbon band. Encircling a starched blue Egyptian cotton shirt rested a pink paisley ascot. Embroidered on the breast pocket of the imported Brooks Brothers button-down were the initials JWS. In order to better elevate his ensemble’s prestige, he wore a hand-tailored blue blazer from Hong Kong with the Sunshine Realty logo emblazoned in three-dimensional color. His trousers were lime-green chinos with little white and blue whales breaching up and down each leg. A pair of alligator-skin tasseled loafers, sans socks, completed his costume. The only thing missing was a host of archangels playing harps and waving palm fronds.

Good morning, go-getters, boomed the nattily attired commander-in-chief.

Good morning, Mr. Saunders, responded the assembled agents in reverential unison.

J. W. Saunders acknowledged his audience with practiced aplomb and a Cheshire cat grin. With the expertise of a serial narcissist, he launched into his motivational speech du jour. Mentally organizing his plethora of clichés, he began:

Today is the first day of the rest of your lives and we all know that the early bird gets the worm. All roads lead to Rome but all that glitters is not gold. There is no substitute for hard work and the longest journey begins with the first step. As my hero and muse, Vince Lombardi, was fond of saying, ‘Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing!’

With that last well-worn injunction, J. W. paused to let his words of wisdom settle over the room. Today each and every one of you has a chance to seize the brass ring and hitch your wagon to a star. Perseverance in the face of adversity allowed the tortoise to defeat the hare. There is no second best, there is only The Best. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. So get out there today and win one for the Gipper! Preview those properties and bring old J. W. some buyers!

Taking one last breath, J. Wilson Saunders concluded with his final admonishment. In the immortal words of Satchel Paige, ‘Never look back, there may be something gaining on you.’ Now, go get ‘em, go-getters! Go, Go, GO!

The elite sales force of Sunshine Realty piled into a white Volkswagen microbus with smiley-faced suns painted on each door. If we had six of these vans going down the road at the same time, thought Jake to himself, it would look like the attack on Pearl Harbor.

This was Jake’s first caravan and he made it a point to sit next to the firm’s top two salespeople: Lucy ‘Bingo’ Goldberg and the studious-looking gentleman by the name of Neal ‘the Deal’ Sasso. Every year at the Company’s Super Sales Party, Lucy and Neal would invariably vie for top honors.

Jake was a new hire and he realized he had a lot to learn and even more to prove. It had always been his philosophy that the best way to achieve recognition was to associate with it. Jake, by nature, was not an overachiever but he did possess a certain psychological urge to succeed. He also had a unique ability to kick the ladder of success out from under himself.

It was almost ten o’clock when the Zero, as he had nicknamed the microbus, pulled out of the parking garage, and proceeded to loop St. Armand’s Circle. St. Armand’s was a carousel of upscale stores, boutiques, quaint cafés, pastry stands, trendy bars, antique shops, art galleries, bistros, and ethnic eateries from hither and yon. It was Sarasota’s answer to Les Champs-Élysées in Paris.

Jake had never been to France despite his penchant for pomme frites. In fact, he had only been in Sarasota for one week when he applied for a job at Sunshine Realty. Normally only experienced sales reps with proven track records were even considered, but J. W. Saunders saw something in Jake that he liked. Jake was a good-looking, personable, intelligent young man with an air of vulnerability that people naturally gravitated toward. With the proper care and feeding, J. W. envisioned great things for Mr. Martingham.

Finally the day was beginning to warm and the soft breeze coming off the Gulf of Mexico gently rocked the palm fronds that decorated the trees along the streets of St. Armand’s. Jake’s awed expression must have been the catalyst that induced Lucy Goldberg to speak. Welcome to the deli, boychik. Always remember to order your pastrami on rye. You’re a handsome goy and if I was thirty years younger, I’d butter your bagel for you. Lucy then turned and treated Jake to a smile that lit up her gloriously Yiddish face like a night rocket over the Gaza Strip.

Jake desperately searched his brain for a snappy comeback but all he could find was an anemic thank you. Fortunately, further conversation was preempted by Felix, their Cuban driver and Director of Sales.

Our first stop will be on Longboat Key at the Beach-to-Bay Condos. Then we proceed a little further up the coast for a look at a beautiful home overlooking Sarasota Bay. Everybody has their packets with all the info, so let’s check it out. As Señor Saunders says, ‘Waste not, want not.’

There are five barrier islands guarding the mainland of Sarasota: Casey Key, Siesta Key, Lido Key, St. Armand’s Key, and Longboat Key. Approximately 35 miles of pristine beaches, segmented by an equal number of inlets, connected the Gulf of Mexico to Sarasota Bay. Since the turn of the century, the area had become a magnet for dreamers in search of Nirvana. Jake Martingham was no exception.

All talking inside the microbus stopped at the crest of Longboat Key Bridge. Even the hardcore property merchants of Sunshine Realty were silenced by the breathtaking beauty of the scene. On the port side of the vehicle, the luminous incandescence of the Gulf waters stretched with no end in sight. On the starboard side, Sarasota Bay shimmered in majestic silence. Blessing the tropical panorama with a heavenly benediction, a cluster of Queen Palm trees paid their respects to paradise. With the exception of the first time Jake had seen Buttercup, this was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.

A mile or so later, Felix turned left and stopped at the guard house to request permission to enter the Beach-to-Bay Golf Course and Condominium complex. With permission granted, Felix navigated a roundabout featuring a nude statue of Aphrodite exposing herself to the Florida sun. Jake didn’t know much about the ancient Greeks, but he sure admired their taste in bathing suits.

Slowing the Zero to taxi speed, Felix called everyone’s attention to a columned edifice that bore a striking resemblance to the Parthenon in Athens. "That, amigos, is the Clubhouse featuring a gourmet restaurant, heated pool, sauna, hot tub, day spa, full gym, juice bar and lounge. There are six tennis courts out back, driving range, Olympic pool, bike rentals, and jogging and walking trails. Everything is included with the purchase of any unit. In addition to all that, Beach-to-Bay offers full discounted memberships to the Coconut Pines Championship Golf Course that meanders throughout the property. There is only one condo left for sale in the whole development and it was just put on the market. As J. W. would say, ‘Make dinero while the sun shines.’"

There was a total of ten Greek revival style structures cosmetically arranged from the golden sands of the Gulf beaches to the scenic shores of Sarasota Bay. The sale property was a top floor end unit in the Frangipani Building. All ten complexes were named after Florida fauna and landscaped with the meticulous care of a botanical garden in Eden. The only things missing were Adam and Eve strolling by wearing fig leaves and flip flops.

Felix inserted the key into the lockbox and held the door while Sunshine Realty’s finest entered the vacant condo. Lucy ‘Bingo’ Goldberg went in first, followed by Neal ‘the Deal’ Sasso. Jake respectively brought up the rear, careful not to violate any professional protocols.

Three thousand square feet of architectural opulence greeted the seven realtors. The foyer was a columned gateway to the great room that rivaled that of the Sistine Chapel minus the frescoes. Everything was finished in various shades of alabaster from the cathedral ceiling to the walls to the Florentine tile floor. Jake and the others were impressed, judging from the chorus of oohs and aahs they were singing. The tour continued through an arched hallway and into a huge state-of-the-art kitchen. Stainless steel Jenn Air appliances, wood cabinetry featuring crystal glass doors, marble countertops, porcelain sinks and hand painted backsplash tiles from Tuscany welcomed the spectators. Inserted within the lower tier of cabinetry was an appliance Jake had never seen before. On the opaque glass door was what appeared to be an instrument panel with push button controls. He carefully opened the door and saw racks of what resembled the inside of an old coke machine.

What do you think of that wine cooler? asked Neal ‘the Deal’. No self-respecting connoisseur would be without one.

Me, either, Neal, agreed Jake, flashing back to the jug of cheap Gallo he had stashed in his own refrigerator. I couldn’t live without one.

From the kitchen, Lucy led the expedition through the two guest bedrooms replete with their own baths and into the master suite. Crown molding detailed a vaulted ceiling high enough to create its own atmosphere. The enormous sleeping chamber was barely large enough to accommodate King Solomon and ten or twenty of his concubines. The master bath was spacious and illuminated by a skylight that could have easily housed the Hubble Space Telescope. A walk-in shower for the occasional elephant and a whirlpool tub big enough for the mermaids at Weeki Wachee to practice in took up half the room. The other half was a hall of mirrors above granite sinks, titanium fixtures, stone countertops carved from the white cliffs of Dover and more ivory colored cabinetry. Jake thought he had seen it all until he realized the one thing he hadn’t seen was the toilet. For a second he thought maybe rich people didn’t have bodily functions when one of the other agents slid back a secret panel and, voila, there it was. With a sense of personal satisfaction, Jake went to join the rest of the group to preview the back porch.

The way to the rear of the condo led under a replica of the Arc de Triomphe and through French doors into the Florida Room. The pièce de résistance was a limestone fireplace ensconced by a munificent hand-hewn cypress slab that was felled by the shore of the Suwanee River. Sliding glass doors served as windows to the soul when they were parted to reveal the panoramic view from the aft enclosure of the condominium. The unobstructed vista stretched as far as the eye could see mating the distant horizon of the sky to the endless waters of the Gulf.

Next on the sightseeing agenda of the premier properties was a single-family residence overlooking Sarasota Bay. The Zero’s occupants were strangely silent on the short ride up the Key and Jake suspected he knew why. Every one of his coworkers was mentally calculating their potential commission on a hundred-thousand-dollar sale and researching their brains for possible buyers. Unlike the other agents, Jake was a neophyte and completely devoid of any previous sales, much less a database of prospective customers. Still worse, he didn’t have a clue how to generate any. The only scenario he could envision was if a buyer walked through the front door when it was his turn to man the office. Shit fire, thought Jake, I don’t even have any business cards yet.

Felix hit second gear and announced with gusto, "If the next listing is as fantastico as Beach-to-Bay, we can all retire in Florida." That worn out one-liner was older than orange juice, but it was still good for a laugh.

Lucy poked Jake in the ribs and proclaimed, I’ll sell that squab in a week, Boychik!

Neal responded by poking Jake in his other set of ribs and said, Not before I make the bacon she won’t.

Jake could only groan and wonder where in the hell his next rent check was going to come from. There were four other agents sitting behind Jake who probably shared the same thought.

A day of seasonal perfection at last arrived: 79.8 degrees, blue skies, light breeze. A picture postcard of Shangri-La. Come on down, you Yankee dogs, and Buy, Buy, Buy!

Felix banked the Zero to the right and made his approach down a coquina-shelled driveway in search of subject property number two. It materialized at the end of a palmetto- lined lane named DeSoto Drive. It was an older one-story Spanish style home with a magenta barrel tile roof gleaming in the sun. The house was maize stucco with tall round arches featuring ornate wrought iron railings and brightly colored concrete murals depicting Inca