Purple Golf Cart: The Misadventures of a Lesbian Grandma (17 page)

As we approached the Coral Gables area on Biscayne Bay, a huge quick-moving storm blew in. Although the water was shallow, the boat was tossed around like a toy. I was so frightened that for the second time—the first time being our entrance into Key West—we donned our life vests. I threw anchor to keep us from being blown out into the open expanse of Biscayne Bay because it was several miles wide at that point. The anchor helped but it was a rough ride until the storm blew over. The day cleared quickly as it does in the tropics. Miley and Farley and I collected our scattered nerves and continued north until we reached the Venetian Causeway, one of the many bridges that connects Miami with Miami Beach. We headed east, just north of the Venetian Causeway, making our way over to the Flamingo Marina at the 79
^th
Street Causeway, docking at our new home in Miami.

20.  Home Sweet Miami Home

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1987

U.S. President
: Ronald Reagan

Best film
: The Last Emperor; Moonstruck, Fatal Attraction, Broadcast News

Best actors
: Michael Douglas, Cher

Best TV shows
: Unsolved Mysteries; The Bold and the Beautiful; Married…With Children; 21 Jump Street; Matlock; A Different World; Thirty something

Best songs
: I Wanna Dance with Somebody, Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now, La Bamba, Open Your Heart, You Keep Me Hangin' On

Civics
: U.S. Supreme Court rules Rotary Clubs must admit women: Oliver North, Casper Weinberger, and George Schultz tell Congress of deception and intrigue regarding Iran Contra Affair

Popular Culture
: Prozac released for use in U.S.; AZT wins FDA approval for use in treatment of AIDS; Beloved by Toni Morrison published; ACT UP is formed to help fight AIDS; second national LGBT March on Washington on October 11
^th
and first display of the NAMES Quilt.

Deaths
: William Casey, Andy Warhol, Rudolph Hess, John Huston, James Baldwin, Bayard Rustin

__________________________________________________________________

I went to work at my IRA office in Miami by bus and MetroRail. Miley rode the motor scooter to her new job as the assistant dock master at Miami Beach Marina. We’d meet on the
Curious Wine
at the end of each day and walk across the street to Benihanas where we ate free hors d’oeuvres, had a cocktail, then returned home to enjoy the Miami evenings on the docks. My friend Barbara who I'd met while living in the Jacksonville Beach Marina was docked next to us at Flamingo in her 45-foot Gibson houseboat. She was a colorful itinerate type, in her late 40s, who slept with nearly every sailor who docked at the marina as long as the sailor had a big, uh, boat.

In December of 1986 unrelenting winter storms raged in South Florida. For almost a week, from Christmas to New Year’s, seven-foot swells pummeled Biscayne Bay. Boats in every marina came loose from their moorings and slammed into each other causing tremendous damage. We who lived on our boats at Flamingo spent almost the entire time running up and down the docks, tying, untying, and retying other people’s boats. We were happy to help save the boats in the marina, but we were really just protecting our own. It was a 24-hour watch. We—Barbara, Miley, two guys who lived in the marina, and I—took turns around the clock, keeping watchful eyes on the neighboring vessels. We were all exhausted from both fear and lack of sleep. By New Year’s Eve, I had had it. It was time to smoke the long-forgotten joint that had been in my freezer.

I happened to have this joint thanks to a former girlfriend’s ex-brother-in-law. Rhea, with whom I had lived in Jacksonville just before I bought my boat, had a sister who was in the midst of a nasty divorce. The soon-to-be-ex husband and I became friends because he owned a battery company and I needed more than just the one battery that came with my boat. Bob installed the bank of batteries that, he assured me, would take care of all my electrical needs. We bonded by sharing our versions of the wicked sisters. When he finished the battery work and we finished complaining about our exes, he took out two joints. We smoked one on my boat after which he left and I promptly fell asleep. For twelve hours! I put the second joint in a baggie in my freezer and forgot about it. Now, several years later, voila!

I’m not a druggie nor much of a drinker. I don’t know what most drugs look like and I’m under the table after only two drinks of anything. A lightweight and a cheap date, which is why I completely forgot about the pot in the freezer until Barbara said, “Wish we had a joint!” We did. We had one joint, to be shared by the five of us who were saving boats. For me it was enough to finally put me to sleep for a full night. Such a party girl. I’ve not smoked since.

Then there was the day I found “cocaine.” Most boaters are transients in that they come to a marina for a day or two then leave for points elsewhere. A few weeks after the storms, a sailboat with some rather laid-back types docked a few slips away from us. In the Flamingo Marina, as is typical in most marinas, there are dock boxes at each slip. When transients leave, we live-aboards check the dock boxes to see if they left any goodies behind. The transient sailboat left so I dutifully checked the dock box. There it was: a bag of white powder. White powder! It MUST be cocaine! After all, this IS Miami! I wondered: What’s its value? How much could I get for it? To whom would I sell it? Crap! I’d probably just get busted! I decided to do the right thing. I called Miami Vice. The police officers came to the dock and looked in the bag. They each put a finger into the white powder then touched it to their tongues. When they finished spitting and laughing, one of the officers looked at me and said one word: Tide. It was laundry detergent! I felt so stupid.

Meanwhile, Farley enjoyed the numerous derelict boats in the marina. The junkier the boats, the more he was drawn to them. Luckily for Farley, Flamingo Marina was home to one of the most derelict boats I ever saw—a 1926 Trumpy called the Sunset. She must have been very regal in a long-gone era, and, in fact, she was the sister-ship to the Presidential yacht Sequoia, also a 1926 Trumpy. There was a third sister ship as well, the Lady Mary, that I’d seen in Ft. Lauderdale a while back. Like the Sequoia and the Lady Mary, the Sunset was 109 feet long with her original wood and ceramics and sterling intact. She just looked like hell from neglect and disrepair. Originally she was christened Freedom. I don’t know when her name was changed to Sunset, but her owner at the time bought her at a sale of impounded boats, all of which had been used in the 1980 Mariel Boat Lift. The Mariel Boat Lift was a mass movement of people who escaped from Cuba at Mariel Harbor, seeking refuge in Miami or the Keys. Many U.S. vessels of all shapes and sizes participated in the illegal operation. Many were caught and impounded. The Sunset was one of them. Now she was docked at Flamingo, a total wreck but, incredibly, still afloat. (As of this writing, a new owner is restoring her back to her original condition and name.) The Sunset was Farley’s favorite. He boarded her every day, doing and chasing who-knows-what below her decks.

Farley was a strange cat. He did his job well of keeping river rats and other unwanted critters off the
Curious Wine
. He was medium in size but, for some strange reason, his poops were gigantic! From the start of our relationship, I was astounded that such a small creature could make such big poops. One morning I was awakened by the sound of a man having a hissy-fit on the 36-foot Grand Banks trawler across the dock from me. Trawlers have high sides so they’re difficult to board without a stairway. When the owner of the stair-less trawler found giant poops on his deck and screamed that some dog had somehow gotten onto his boat, I knew it was Farley. No dog could jump that high, and I’d seen Farley sail through the air from boat to boat when he was chasing seagulls. Farley pooped on this guy’s deck, I was sure of it. I didn’t confess. Thank goodness the guy was a transient and gone before sundown.

~~~~~~

Life at the Flamingo Marina would have been fun had I not become so depressed. I was fired from International Rehabilitation Associates. What little was left of my self-esteem was shattered. The company was fairly gay-friendly yet I was fired because of sexual harassment from my female heterosexual supervisor. She had hosted a staff meeting at her house one evening. Eight of us enjoyed a collegial barbeque and a soak in her Jacuzzi in the balminess of the Miami moonlight among the Florida-gorgeous plants and trees in her back yard. Her horticulturalist husband was with us, answering our questions about his green-thumb talents. After the meeting, as I prepared to leave, my boss came on to me.

“Ronni, “ she said as she came closer, her voice lowered. She reached for my hand. “I think you’re really attractive. I never thought about this before.”

I instantly felt creepy. “Thought about what?” I asked, not wanting to hear her response. She was my boss!

“This.” She leaned over to kiss me. I did the only thing I could think to do on short notice. I ducked!

“Whoa!” I jumped back. “Sorry, but I don’t mess around with straight women or women with whom I work. You’re both! And—jeez! Your husband!” I felt panicky! “He’s in the next room. And you’re my boss!” I was shouting but in a whisper. “This is nuts!” I said as I practically ran out of her house. I dreaded seeing her at work the next day.

Around 2:00 PM that next day, a Friday, she summoned me to her office. We managed to avoid one another to that point. With an exaggerated business-like voice she said, “While your work is fine, you are being let go because you’re insubordinate. Clean out your desk now. You’re fired.” Just like that.

“I’m WHAT????” I wanted to vomit.

“You’re fired. Leave.” She was so sickeningly calm.

“Is this about last night?” I was incredulous.

“There’s nothing about last night. Get OUT.” She was emphatic.

Fuck! Fired again! I couldn’t believe it! What is wrong with me?

~~~~~~

How could she do that? Once again, I was a victim of sexual harassment, but, as before, this occurred prior to the 1991 Anita Hill/Clarence Thomas case. I did nothing wrong, and, in fact, ethically, I did everything right. But back then in Florida, as now, it’s not illegal to fire someone based solely on their sexual orientation, although, ironically, that wasn’t the stated reason for letting me go. I fought the insubordination accusation and won which entitled me to unemployment compensation, but really, I just wanted my job back. I didn’t get it. I had to job-search while again receiving unemployment checks, but because my work was so specialized, nothing was available. I had lots of time on my hands to think—but I refused to feel. Another fucking loss. Another piece of my life and my self-esteem gone. Another piece of my heart torn away. Feelings? No, thanks!

Losing that job frightened and emotionally immobilized me. Finding other gainful employment just didn’t happen. I didn’t believe or trust anyone. I dove into a deep depression and even deeper silence. I had been fired a number of times in the past for being a lesbian. I thought I was beyond that now, that I was moving up the corporate ladder in a gay-friendly company despite Florida’s seemingly ongoing commitment to anti-gay laws.

I had lived from paycheck to paycheck and had no money saved. Between my unemployment compensation and Miley’s small salary from the Miami Beach Marina, we were okay, barely, but my self-esteem was shot. I got an under-the-table job working on a 62-foot sailboat, preparing her for sale in the 1987 Miami Boat Show. What I appreciated about that work of polishing teak decks and shining silver stanchions was that I didn’t have to think about much of anything. When that job was over it was because the boat was ready, not because I was fired. When I was busy, I didn’t think much about the desire to die. Now, I did. I wanted to die.

I kept losing—people, jobs, self-esteem. There was so little left of me. So much of myself was simply gone. I cried when I could, but mostly, the pain felt so overwhelming that I was immobilized. I had just enough of myself left to know I couldn’t take any more. Enough! Enough already! What on God’s green earth does it take to be okay? I was so lost.

Once again, I felt like I had tried so hard to be normal, whatever that means, and once again I was an outcast. I decided that as soon as the Boat Show was over, I would jump into the warm waters of Biscayne Bay with a cement block around my feet. I had the block, I had the rope, and I had the drama. Sarah Heartburn, my grandma Frances used to call me.

The day came. I remember standing on the edge of the dock at Flamingo where the water was the deepest, the point that looked out into the Bay, towards 79
^th
Street, only blocks from where my grandparents used to live when they first moved to Miami Beach in the early 1950s. I felt nothing, no sadness, no sense of anything. I left no note, no message to loved ones, no need to explain this action that made perfect sense to me. I was childless, jobless, penniless, worthless. Society hated who and what I was enough to take my children away, and I was legally powerless to stop my company from taking away my livelihood. The battles had become too much. I couldn’t, wouldn’t do it anymore. The warm water called to me as it always did—the water was where I went as a teen for solace and acceptance. The waters of the Keys calmed my head and my heart when I needed to escape. The water was where I sought comfort. The water was where I lived and it would be where I would die.