Within Close Range: Florida Days – the teen years

Driving from the airport

to a new winter retreat – 

a 20 story high-rise in Pompano Beach –

it’s clear things aren’t as they have been.

Gone are the Mid-Century neighborhoods 

with small, tidy bungalows 

and pastel-colored apartment complexes. 

Gone are the small, neat streets 

crammed with big, American cars 

and the quiet, inland canals 

with their 90 degree curves.

Modern high-rises now loom along the coast, 

casting long shadows over these old ghosts.

Smothered by “The Strip”, 

a popular stretch of beach –

and the only way to their new place,-

Nonna and Papa are forced to face

nubile, bikini-clad, beer drinking youth 

balanced precariously between child and adult

unkempt, 

half-naked 

all god-forsaken. 

But Gina and I crave this uncharted world, 

which we’re slowly cruising past 

in the back seat of a tightly sealed Cadillac, 

filled with the sounds of Perry Como 

and the smell of Jean Nate.

The closer we get to Nonna and Papa’s, 

the older the demographics begin to slant,

until beers and bikinis are soon replaced 

by beer bellies and Platex bras.

The upside to the new zip code 

is a bigger abode – 

and a separate door to the outside world –

or at least to a corridor,

and an unused stairwell.

To Marlboro Lights 

and poorly rolled joints, 

and late night escapades with girls from New York.

Gone are our grandparents’ halcyon days 

of minding their ways.

These are the carefree days of youth. 

Of baby oil and B-52s.

Getting stoned in the sauna. 

Drinking beers on the beach.

Somehow convincing Nonna 

to hand us the keys.

Of cranking up the radio

and rolling down the windows

to inhale the salty air

and the sweet smell 

of being newly licensed. 

Of boys on the beach noticing us 

and Nonna – 

from high above –

noticing them, noticing us.

These are the Florida days 

of pushing boundaries, 

especially ones so poorly guarded.

Well past our very strict curfew.

Nonna is waiting and bleak.

She’s worked herself into such a state,

she’s lifted off her bunioned feet.

She cross-examines, 

reprimands, 

and threatens to send us home; 

then leads us in to Papa 

in the unlit living room, 

Leaden and pacing. 

My heart is breaking.

When all is said – 

which isn’t much – 

he turns his back 

and sends us to bed. 

The first thing we see in the morning

taped prominently to the fridge

is a newspaper clip with a giant headline, 

“Girls Found Charred on Beach”,

and Nonna, 

with her back to us.

Sighing and tsk-ing, 

but not saying anything.

Until behind closed bedroom doors, 

on an all-day call with her sister, Rose,

we can hear her tell of all her woes; 

heralded, at times, in a pitch so high, 

dogs throughout the high-rise begin to cry.

This leads to quieter Florida days, 

of shorter visits 

and solo stays.

Now more observer than the observed; 

studying Nonna and Papa 

in their Florida world.

In their well-aged routine of marital malaise.

Wondering if I know what a happy marriage is?

Hours of watching old ladies by the pool; 

with their sun hats and cigarettes 

and bad romance books;

their games of Canasta, 

and over-tanned skin… 

wondering if any 

were ever really young?

When Papa leaves to tend to the store, 

it’s hours of Gin Rummy, 

and little more.

Alone with Nonna, 

playing round after round 

on the windy, high-rise balcony, 

sixteen floors from the ground.

Where 8-track cassettes 

of Liberace and Lawrence Welk 

teach me tolerance, 

and the importance of a wickedly good game face.

Happy to see the rainy skies. 

Happy to stay indoors 

and in our nightgowns.

The condo is especially quiet. 

No washing machine 

or television 

reminding us of other things. 

Other lives.

No dinner out 

or big meal in.

We barely move. 

Rarely talk.

Occasionally, Nonna disappears, 

returning with something powdery and sweet

or cheesy and crusty

and hot from the oven.

Such deliciously quiet moments 

of simply doing nothing.

Oh these my Florida days.