Upper Level Low

By William P. Moore

The colorful characters from the novel Oceanaire return. These are likely the last days in their vintage apartments on Biscayne Bay. Climate change and flooding threaten Miami, and high-rise developers are striking a deal. Property manager Leon goes on vacation to Texas and drops out of sight for weeks. Leasing manager Gloria and her friends are left to make do for themselves while Leon is still on the highway trying to sort out his life. When the weather turns extreme, and fortunes suddenly change, everyone’s fate lies in the balance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781304595607

Book preview

Copyright © 2024 William Pelot Moore

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Places are fictitiously presented, mixing fact and imagination. All characters and incidents are imaginary. Any resemblances to persons living or dead are coincidental.

Upper Level Low (ebook version)

3711Atlantic Press

ISBN 978-1-304-59560-7

All rights reserved

Cover design by WPM Productions.

Produced in the United States of America

First Edition March 2024

"Things are breakin' up out there,

High water everywhere."

–Bob Dylan

PROLOGUE

They met under blue triangular sun sails on the upstairs terrace of an Argentinian restaurant. It was a warm and sticky evening in North Beach, just before Labor Day weekend.

Gloria was already seated, fanning herself with an appetizer menu. She had a partial view of the shoreline and could see dark thunderhead clouds gathering far out at sea.

Leon arrived late, wearing a black golf shirt and seersucker sportscoat. The heat was nothing to him.

She turned in her chair, bringing her tanned legs from under the table. He leaned forward, a tall man, and kissed her on the cheek.

You look fine, she said. Meeting for dinner is like the old days, isn’t it?

Yes, that crossed my mind, too, he said.

Sit, sit. I have some news from our owner.

Should I listen? Or run like hell?

Gloria wagged a finger at him. Be serious a minute. Pierre is close to selling Oceanaire.

I knew it was coming, Leon said, then signaled to the server. The developers are probably pointing the bulldozers in our direction as we speak.

The prospective buyers want it empty. So, as part of the deal, Pierre asked them to provide each current resident a full rebate of all their years’ total rent. Like a subsidized eviction. Or in nicer words, a golden parachute.

Everyone has their price, Leon said.

Canadians can get so many things right. They care about people. They’re showing us some Canadian love.

He squinted. Love comes and goes.

The server quickly appeared, and Leon ordered a bottle of wine, which came de una vez. He let the server pour and thanked him in Spanish for being prompt.

They have good people working here, he said.

It’s why I like this place, she said.

Gloria waited until he drank. Okay, it’s an offer with a lot of empathy. Is that a better word for you?

Maybe.

Look on the bright side, Gloria said. What if everyone remained there and they bought us and pulled the Russian landlord trick? Made things so miserable that we had to leave?  

Oh, I like the deal okay. But the fact is, in fifteen years I’ve never paid rent. You haven’t either.

They will reimburse the Oceanaire staff – that’s me and you – regardless. Plus any long-term residents who moved over the past year, which is roughly how long we’ve been on the sales block.

So when’s this deal coming down?

We’re getting close. There will be lawyers and documents. I’ll retain Eligio Carnácion to help us. I’m not worried. Pierre’s open-minded and flexible. He’s a democratic socialist and at the same time a capitalist. Fairness to all is part of his business style.

Good for him, but whoever’s buying doesn’t care. They just see land and dollar marks.

Gloria took a sip of her martini then bit the green olive off its stick. That’s the understatement of the day. A high-rise where Oceanaire sits will yield a ton more profit. And property tax. Pretty simple.

Leon took a long swallow of wine. All hail the conquering assholes.

Please, Leonard. Watch your language.

Other than the clinking sounds of silverware against dish, they ate in harmony at a moderate pace without contention, following manners befitting the restaurant. Her martini had gone warm. The oil from the olive floated on top of the vodka in a dirty slick. The server, who was good at his job, noticed and brought her a fresh drink.

She sat up straighter and spoke as if giving a proclamation. Let’s agree it’s a terrific idea, but maybe it’s not so agreeable to give Oceanaire away on the first offer. The buyer could easily double or triple the payout.

He remained quiet.

You could weigh in, you know? Gloria said.

I don’t know about these sort of things. But I’m sure you’ll hold out for every penny.

Of course.

You know what, G? I’m not going to think about it. I’m flying to Texas tomorrow.

And I think that’s great. You deserve a vacation. Arturo is coming for a while to help me out.

Him again? Mr. Johnny-on-the-Spot. I think he loves you.

Stop it. He’s a good friend. What will you do in Texas?

Visit my good friends.

I see, Gloria said, forcing her voice to be musical. You’ll come back to us, right?

He soaked a small chunk of bread in chimichurri sauce. Sure. I’m not that crazy.

She stared at him. He wouldn’t look at her until she gently raised his chin.

I love you, Lee. But you really need to clean up your act.

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the blue sails.

I’ll be fine.

Go easy on the drugs. And don’t even think about moving back there.

If I did, I might miss out on some easy cash.

Maybe more than that, Gloria said, trying to call forth whatever conversational persuasion she could summon. Consider this. One day Oceanaire will be gone, but we can manage another property together. A new version of what we have now. Dream a little.

I dream, he said. I just can’t remember them.

Gloria paid the tab, they hugged, and then went separate directions, merging into the endless current of the sidewalk crowd, all types adrift in all directions with infinitely varied purposes.

After two weeks, Leon hadn’t returned. He had gone missing. No one knew why. Three weeks passed, four, and more. Gloria and her circle of friends at Oceanaire were shocked. No one was sure of his whereabouts.

1

Gloria walked alone across the lawn that sloped gradually to the waterfront. She stood with her sandaled feet near the retaining wall and felt the spray of small approaching waves come against her legs.

She often reminded her property manager Leon to get the wall raised. Time after time, Gloria would nudge him and try to coax him into action.

Come on Lee, she would say. The water’s getting higher and higher every month.

She knew it was important to keep reminding him.

Except she couldn’t any longer, because he wasn’t there.

Gloria remained determined to have the work done. The  retaining wall consisted of three vertical feet of concrete and a thin top layer of bricks. That was all that separated Oceanaire from Biscayne Bay. Many people called it a seawall, though the Bay, large as it is, is technically not a sea. It is a landward extension of the Atlantic Ocean. She had argued for a bigger wall for nearly two years. Meanwhile the city’s proposed remedies and revised codes and general supply of red tape had increased. It was a time, they said, of exploring new options, and those options took time.

She stewed about it. Like, who doesn’t agree that the oceans are rising? And consequently bays, rivers, harbors, canals, you name it. The rain is much heavier now, the high tides more aggressive. Can we do something? Anyone?

In previous months, she had watched as adjoining shoreline properties took actions to further buffer themselves, not only by raising their wall, but by laying out rock piles, or by adding dispersal jetties into the bay, or by cutting water-diversion slots into the land. Otherwise, Oceanaire’s wall remained exactly the same as it was when the complex was built in the Kennedy era. Short and sweet.

She held her sun hat against a strong breeze then knelt and examined Leon’s prized Bermuda grass. Earlier in the year, the lawn was as pure as a golf course fairway. Now it had developed clusters of sticker shoots, patches of spurge, white clover, and dollar weed. In the mornings from her office window she watched as iguanas crept in and fed on these weeds and whatever other ground cover or flower they liked.

At lunchtime she would see the larger, fatter iguanas, the power lizards in the group, lollygagging in the sun on the rooftop of Leon’s cottage. She grew to ignore them and read the paper. She followed the local news closely. Flood information was abundant. She knew salt water was seeping into the water table where it was absorbed by root systems accustomed to fresh water. All the greenery around the complex suffered. Leon’s prized firecracker plants, for example, lost their natural immunity and were overtaken by white flies. His hardy stands of vinca held on but became thin and stemmy without the normal profusion of blooms. The long pinnate leaves on his prize frangipani tree dropped to the ground, spotted and yellow. An ugly shelf fungus, the killer Ganoderma, grew on its trunk.

She hired a random pair of weekend laborers to get the lawn under control. The two, bearing the leathery, critical faces and diminutive frames of indigenous Central Americans, showed up at ten in the morning. After some confusion among themselves over duties, they ran a rickety spreader and sent beige and pink speckles of fertilizer everywhere. They roamed the lawn wearing cleated attachments strapped to the soles of their shoes, hoping to aerate the soil. They watered the grounds helter-skelter with shaky, old-technology sprinkler attachments. She saw one of them kicking off the discs of Ganoderma  fungus, which would only help spread it. The workers stretched the job until late in the afternoon. They disappeared once she paid them in cash. The phrase in her mind was shoddy work. She had to rewind about a hundred feet of Leon’s hosepipe. She muttered angrily to herself. They couldn’t even do that. And the little thieves charged more per hour than a lawyer.

So many things could go wrong nowadays, she thought. Miami or anywhere on the planet. It hurts to even think about it. She realized she was certainly not alone, but she was decidedly on the higher end of those who had genuine concerns. Hers practically different from, say, those facing a California wildfire, but equally concerned to the core and trying to cope with a hollow feeling of helplessness. The fear, tragedies, and inconveniences of climate change had reduced most people in the country to a set of simple assumptions to chew on, whether they subscribed to science or the EPA or world treaty or not. The assumptions being, namely: one, bad weather is happening; and two, there is only so much we can do about it.

Gloria had lived in the state her whole life and knew that one natural disaster in Florida often stirred the appearance of others: ground settling issues and creaky foundations could mean sinkholes; extensive rain and wood-rot led to termites of a new voracious and evil breed; reptiles and frogs moved in fearlessly, mutating through importation and aggression in an altered environment, screeching new noises in their nighttime throats. There could be no clean drinking water, and always a curse of septic overflow, and everywhere a greasy sooty coat of mold. She’d seen how the ads and listings of restoration companies were growing. They would be in high demand for the homeowners lucky enough to have flood insurance or a healthy investment portfolio. One could be overwhelmed thinking of all the penalties and minor horrors of life in a heavily urbanized city turned upside-down by an act of nature. People stuck in their neighborhoods or places of work, stymied by high water, impassable streets and highways, while power stations and grids struggled to stay in operation. People had to suddenly center their attention on the availability of water, food, and basic living supplies, and try not to think that a few miles south a gigantic nuclear plant was begging for trouble out in the marshy flats…if there is a God, please help us, okay?

She stopped her internal newsreel, disturbed by the visions, but not for long. For Gloria was an optimist. She stared out to the bay and squinted in discomfort from the sun’s reflection coming off its surface. Even behind expensive high-filtering shades, an eye with a cataract can be excruciatingly uncomfortable when exposed to glare. She kept hers a secret; only her ophthalmologist knew. Having a cataract sounded too much like old age. She did not feel old and took comfort and consolation in that. In fact, she looked young to be in her late forties. And she had ideas for the future that made her smile.

An onshore wind developed and came across the bay from the Atlantic. The tide was coming in, she could see that well enough. There was chop on the bay and the water took on a mood of persistence. Small waves, carrying the multi-hues of marine vegetation and human debris, rushed to shore and slapped against the dividing barrier.

She let herself further melt away from her environmental anxiety attack. Thinking of her community, all her second chances, her good fortunes, how fun life can be when you are still, despite the disappointments, happily involved. It was a point of pride that she kept herself sane and well, despite the sorrows of losing two husbands and the difficulty of raising a rebellious young woman named Mila.

As if on cue, her daughter, now in her twenties and in total control of the world, approached from the courtyard path.

I came by for a swim, but the pool’s turning green.

Yes, I know, Mila dear. I need to get a weekly service.

Damn Leon, anyway.

I’m going to have some help soon.

Let me guess. Darrien Arturo again? Oh wow.

Be respectful. He’s nationally known. One of the most popular psychologists out there. And I need his moral support. Plus he can help out with some chores around here.

Yeah maybe. We’ll see.

You seem down, Mila. Is it Nathan?

No. It’s my job. It’s so boring. I’ve spent two weeks trying to fill space at some stupid damn plaza that’s half-deserted. Dad would roll over in his grave to hear it, but commercial real estate just isn’t me. My supervisor is a prick, and I have zero motivation.

You want some residential work? Look around on the South Side for a nice property where we can open an Oceanaire Two.

What? When is that?

Maybe in a year or so. Act like you are connected to huge financial backers. Have some fun with it. Let the sellers buy you lunch and drinks, but keep it all hush-hush. I’ll pay you like a freelancer.

Nathan has some contacts.

See? You have something to do already.

Okay. It’s something to think about. Mila gathered her things and left.

Gloria walked to the common mailbox drop and collected the mail for Beto Dos Passos in apartment 107. She unlocked the front door and placed his mail on the kitchen counter. Sometimes Beto could be away for as long as ten days, flying internationally, attending to business class and first class, usually in  the 747 whales. She sprinkled a little food for his tropical fish, did a walk-through for normalcy, then left. Beto was devoted, Oceanaire’s number one fan. He had been a resident for fifteen years, going back to the old days when Brandy Andersen’s organ music and her accompanying voice drifted across the property. Often the Top 40 of slow songs. Back in the days when the entire complex was invited to the courtyard for a party. Gloria reveled in memories of those better days. When people in her estimation were more well-dressed and well-mannered. Those had been special times when good will abounded, and people helped each other rather than snipe, betray, and build animosity.

She counted her blessings for the good tenants she had. Like Beto. Romantic and intuitive, he liked to tell Gloria that she and Leon were destined to be a couple. He was fond of Leon, and the two often sat up late, talking and drinking. Two different men, one straight one gay, who shared an automatic kinship. Beto had told her how they would talk – and sometimes quarrel - about anything. When he came in from a flight late in the evening, he would insist Leon come over, and they would subsequently go through a lot of beer or wine or whiskey, no matter, far into the night. Leon started an uncountable number of days by taking an upper pill to go with his morning coffee. Gloria, who failed to recognize Leon’s decline during this time, was entertained by his and Beto’s game of assigning the hangover blame to one another. It was all in good fun, and sometimes they came to her as if she would act as referee.

There was more on Leon’s plate at the time that contributed to his fatigue. He had hooked up  with a supplier and started up again with low level street drug dealing. Beto found out and told Gloria. She gave Leon hell about it, no matter how many times he insisted he was just playing around, dabbling in it for fun. Eventually he told her the story of how one night he took a skiff into Biscayne Bay to visit Urban Todd’s Chris-Craft, and he came upon drug pirates. Someone tossed a large sealed plastic package overboard. It floated towards him, and he took the bundle to shore, only to discover it contained mostly cocaine, a drug that scared him and carried harsh penalties. So he moved the hot merchandise out of his minor league dealer world and consigned it to a connection in Little Haiti. Gloria was not impressed when he told her. So he’s supposed to appear heroic for not selling that stuff himself?  For passing the danger to someone else?

It was a tumultuous year. Gloria moved out from her second husband, and she and Leon resumed their affair, letting loose their most licentious desires two afternoons a week at the Vagabond Motel. Sometime later, Gloria struggled during her divorce proceedings and asked Arturo to visit and give her counsel. He offered moral support that eventually led him into her bedroom. Leon was jealous. Gloria had no defense for Arturo or herself. She knew Leon’s resentment would never go away. Soon after, Arturo had a sideline affair with a young actress. Together they were photographed in public and Gloria saw it on television, She threw his things out. She made up to Leon, but he was slow to warm up to her again.

Then Hurricane Christine blew in and ripped South Florida apart. The ferocity of the storm jolted the local public consciousness from a chill attitude into a new era of climate change angst.

Realizations were triggered then and amplified in the two years since. Gloria saw the irony. During the hurricane, Arturo was long gone and Leon was there as her rock to get through it all. Now, with Leon unaccounted for, she would face the next perils of nature with Arturo as her rock. The difficult events in her life had a history of duplicating, folding in on themselves, and happening over again.

So once again, in an attempt to head off another dive into depression and guilt, she formally dispatched an SOS to Arturo. She outlined the reasons and in a last added phrase suggested that bygones be bygones. He responded within a day, a bit too fast she thought, causing her to wonder if her last bit of wording suggested to him more than it intended, something intimate. She fretted over her wording mistake. She had hoped for more planning time before he arrived, but Arturo was already on the road in a camper cutting east from Atlanta, eventually diverting to Florida on 95 South.

2

Arturo arrived in a giant toaster-shaped Ford van with American flag stickers and parked in front of the leasing office, blocking the sunlight to half the area. When he cut the ignition, the vehicle shuddered, and the AC compressor groaned to a close. It was a long drive from Atlanta.

Gloria came from inside her apartment, unit 101, which was attached to the office on the bay side.

He stepped out of the van, larger in body mass than she recalled. He moved closer to her and held her around the waist. She stepped back from him, graceful on her feet. Her voice was tight, with a slight tremor she hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Well, look at you. Camouflage clothes. Canteen. All this gear. You’re getting ready for the End Days, or what?

Whatever nature or the political world brings us, I’m now a survivalist edition. He smiled and tapped the middle of his own chest. An adventurer on leave from his real job.

She looked into the van’s open door. It’s like a little studio apartment in there. Do you sleep in it?

Every night. It’s exciting.

You’re still a little boy at heart.

Age is but an unnamed arbitrary object flying on the wings of years.

Gloria pretended to try and absorb it. A flying object? 

Yes, yes. Rather than advancing into decline we are eager challengers to the whims of gravity and entropy.

Well, yes, okay. I’m glad you came.

The pleasure is all mine. How often I recall our splendid times together.

Stop it. Come on in. A few neighbors are hanging around. We’re pretty informal around here these days.

A TV played in the background with the smiling news team chattering about flood advisories. Gloria, always eager to have a party, had set up a back-deck afternoon welcome for Mr. Arturo. A handful of residents roamed amid a small layout of roasted oysters, cubed cheese, and champagne. The rain persisted, so the catering company cut corners to be quick and perfunctory. Gloria canceled a second rollout of dinner items. Most guests were there for a glassful’s time, and others opted out altogether, leaving her and the guest of honor alone under a canvas umbrella.

She briefed him on Leon’s disappearance and told him how she needed a man around to help out. Looking at him, she wondered if he did much physical work. Of course not. He was more about fixing happiness and stirring motivation using words and adages, flavored with what she saw as a libertarian’s sense