LOCAL JEWBOY MAKES GOOD, TURNS ARAB


A commission to build several waterfalls and an underground sex grotto for the world's most successful gangster seemed like a wonderful opportunity for an aspiring young environmental sculptor. I was assured that money, women, and access to power were part of the deal, all I had to do was to was to satisfy the peculiar desires of a tyrannical client. Those who would commission such works are by nature idiosyncratic. The artistic placement of hundreds of tons of stone is easy enough, for that is my regular business; but pandering to the whims of others is not my forte, so perhaps the project was doomed from the start.

Like the devil, Big Al was a man of wealth and taste. His rise to fortune, as reported by rumor, innuendo, and the tabloid press, is a tale worthy of the Arabian Nights. It seems that once upon a time Jimmy Hoffa, Meyer Lansky, and several of their old gangster cronies got together to discuss their role in a changing world. They realized that the future did not belong to aging thugs who carried machine guns disguised as violins. They needed someone young, dynamic, and cosmetic to carry on the good work. After a worldwide talent search they found Big Al graduating from law school at the head of his class.

Al is big in influence only. In his mid fifties Big Al looked like a pixieish college student. When he actually was a college student he probably resembled a pre adolescent poster child. The man is positively cute. Perhaps, like Dorian Grey, he keeps an aging picture somewhere in the bowels of his vast art collection. Only his eyes reveal the cunning ruthless intellect within, the insatiable will to power.

He became Jimmy Hoffa's protege, and prospered through manipulation of the Teamster's Pension Fund. Many years of such dealings made him a very wealthy man. He eventually tired of associating with such troglodytes and struck out on his own. It is said to be difficult to disassociate oneself from such a business; but, conveniently, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared. Other than one embarrassing mention as an unindicted co-conspirator in the Abscam investigations Big Al remained squeaky clean.

One day while vacationing in London Al had the good fortune to meet Prince Turki bin Abdul Aziz, the brother of King Fahd of Saudi Arabia. Prince Turki had been temporarily banished from the kingdom for an indiscretion concerning marriage with a commoner. He had disgraced the royal family by making the beautiful daughter of the infamous Al-Fassi clan his number one wife. The Al-Fassis are best remembered for painting the genitalia of their statues red at their mansion in Hollywood. At that time the Prince commanded a fortune of many billions of dollars, had an income of between one and two million dollars per day, lived a life of unbelievable extravagance as an expatriate, and was surrounded by a vast entourage and harem. For all of that he was a miserable jerk. Big Al, as an accomplished libertine, saw the potential in the situation, seized control of the Prince's fortune, and in exchange taught him how to live life to the fullest. This was a fair deal, for to what other purpose could the money be put? Mere cost should not stand in the way of a man's happiness.

To cement the deal Big Al, who is Jewish, married his already married son to the already married sister of the Princess, and thus into the Saudi royal family. This was a nifty trick, for infidels are not welcome in Mecca. His instant conversion to Islam prompted a local wag in Miami Beach to quip, "Local Jewboy makes good, turns Arab".

With his position as a potentate secured, Al turned to the daunting task of spending all of those millions. Part of Al's job was to help the rather dim witted Arabs to envision and build pleasure palaces which would put Xanadu to shame and make Kublai Khan look like a piker. So it was that to further this effort I was called up by an prestigious architect and told to meet Big Al at the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington, D.C.

I had no idea who or what Big Al was, other than that he was supposed to be some kind of gangster, so out of deference I wore an ill fitting three piece suit which looked especially ridiculous with my great shaggy mop of hair. We all know that gangsters are supposed to wear zoot suits and be rude and crude, so when the friendly limp wristed young man in a tee shirt opened the door I supposed he was a servant and breezed on by to address the fellow that looked like Kojak. My first mistake was to wear a suit. The second mistake was to ignore the little man. Big Al was not affronted, for he rather enjoys disarming people with his innocuous appearance. Kojak and his equally ominous pals were "security specialists". Al's actual bodyguard sat quietly in the back. A secretary hovered over every conversation with notepad in hand, and a hairdresser flitted about taking random snips from everyone's hair except mine and Kojak's. (Kojak had no hair, and mine was presumably infested with bugs.)

I was invited to join the conversation and review the plans which were spread across the desk. Most prominent was a rendering of what appeared to be a flying saucer. I naively asked what it was, so Al explained everything. The plans, which he was designing, were for the Prince's pleasure palace to be located near Jiddah by the Red Sea. The flying saucer was the castle. It was wholly composed of glass and had no external features such as doors. Should the Prince wish to enter the castle he would simply say "open sesame" or some other such appropriate phrase, and the walls would part. No one else could do this, for the building would recognize his voice alone. Should he wish to take a mid afternoon nap, or in the event of a breach of security, he would simply command the glass to turn black. The entire building and all systems within it were controlled by voice. When receiving distinguished visitors the Prince would sit on his throne in a vaulted chamber separated from the guests by a moat into which would cascade a thunderous waterfall. When the audience was over the waters would close behind him like the waters of the Red Sea after the passing of Moses.

The castle, though huge, occupied but a small portion of the grounds. Should his highness wish to take a stroll while listening to his walkman radio, great fountains, costing millions, would erupt from the ground around him and dance in time to the music. No need to worry about water, because he had his own desalinization plant. Of course, the grounds featured the usual recreational facilities such as zoo, stables, race course, tennis, olympic sized pool, etc. Most interesting to me was the underground complex which featured a bomb shelter, bowling, and a big game hunting range so that you could hunt lions, tigers, oryx, and various other endangered species in the comfort and safety of your own basement. This is not a sick joke, this really was on the drawing board!

Al had not brought me to Washington to discuss the Prince's project, but rather his own. One must keep up with the Joneses; besides, it is part of Arab hospitality that one must entertain one's guests in the style to which they are accustomed.

Al actually lived in a condo in Miami, but kept, for his pleasure, a hobby ranch in an exclusive suburb of Boca Raton (Rat Mouth) Florida. Keep in mind the irony of using the word "ranch" to describe a ten acre subdivision lot located in what is arguably the most plastic city in America. In Boca Raton a tract house in a poor neighborhood might cost a million dollars. Everything is illegal, and it is mandatory that your house be some shade of pink. Negroes, hippies, and other undesirables who do not own a yacht or a waterfront lot are required to fish in a chain link mesh cage suspended over the intercoastal waterway. In many cities it is difficult for the servants to find affordable housing reasonably close to the wealthy neighborhoods where they work. Not so in Boca Raton, for a high concrete wall separates the country club estates from the Haitian refugee camps which are a few feet away. Nowhere else in America is such disparity of wealth to be seen in immediate juxtaposition.

When Al first arrived the ranch site was a perfectly flat treeless bean field. This tabula rasa was perfect for a megalomaniac who does not feel constrained by mere nature. His first act was to hire a talented architect and a fleet of draglines. Overnight the beanfield was transformed into a graceful landscape of hills, streams, and lakes. Interestingly enough, this monumental work of earthmoving coincided with the disappearance of Mr. Hoffa. The lake is now known as the Jimmy Hoffa Memorial Pond, and is famous for the big ugly but unpalatable fish that it produces.

When I arrived the ranch featured a superbly designed "cabin" made of white coral rock and cedar shakes. It included the usual bunkhouse amenities such as indoor pool, jacuzzi, etc. Initially my quarters were in a luxurious bachelor pad, but I was soon demoted to the servants quarters which were still under construction. The stables were filled not with thoroughbred Arabian stallions, but rather with a fleet of Rolls Royces which were kept under wraps and started once a month to keep them from rotting away. These automobiles were not used because Al doesn't drive, and prefers to travel in his large well appointed helicopter. No rush hour traffic for Big Al. This was no ordinary helicopter, but was rather an airborne limousine equipped for all sorts of orgies, entertainments, and quick escapes. Need anything from the store?

The plan was to construct a "pleasure dome", the center of which was an elaborate free form swimming pool. On three sides sumptuous chalets faced the pool. On the back side was an artificial cave seventy feet across which served as a barbecue shelter. The cave had several entrances, one led to the greenhouse where the orchids were grown, another was for the resurgence of the stream that came from the large waterfall which poured out of a skylight in the cave ceiling, into the stream, and thence to the pool. The main entrance simply overlooked the pool. At the far end of the pool was another small stream originating from a waterfall nestled between two of the chalets. The sex grotto was hidden underneath and behind this waterfall. Swim in for a little sin. The entire area was contained within an enormous tension structure supporting a stainless steel mosquito net which cost almost a million dollars.

My job was to design and build the large waterfall pouring from the skylight in the cave, and to build the small waterfall above the sex grotto. Toward this end I searched the entire state of Florida in order to find the most beautiful available stone. Never one to let practical considerations interfere with my fun, I found the rocks in the most remote corner of the entire state in a mud flat exposed at low tide in the gulf of Mexico, 400 miles from the jobsite. These rocks were located at the end of the "road to nowhere" in Dixie County. This road had been built by the County commissioners to facilitate the landing of airplanes filled with dope. The Feds caught on and everybody in the town of Steinhatchee from the Mayor on down went to jail. No one lives there, so even today the road is a nice place to look for snakes. The few inhabitants who hadn't been caught agreed to help me drag rocks out of the waist deep muck. This proved to be a daunting task for the rocks were firmly attached to the bedrock beneath. With the aid of a tracked backhoe, prybars, cursing, drugs, and alcohol we were able to get a truckload before the tide came back in again. It was a superhuman effort but I was rewarded with cream colored beautifully eroded limestone boulders weighing up to 1500 lbs apiece. When I got them back to Boca Raton Big Al didn't like the color and wanted them painted white. I almost quit right then.

The rest of the complex was constructed of white coral rock from the Florida Keys. In order to integrate the two kinds of stone in the area of the waterfall I decided to search for boulders of coral rock on Key Largo with which to make the transition. I had been told that construction was underway on a big project named Port Bougainvillea, and that rocks would be available. I contacted the construction manager and we drove to the site. What had once been the last tropical hardwood hammock in the entire United States, filled with endangered endemic species of plants and animals, had just been blown off of the face of the earth. The idea was to create canals and lakes in a place that was already surrounded by water on all sides. The devastation was unbelievable, the scale was vast. Hundreds of acres of bare white shattered rock was all that remained. I was amazed. I asked him how much time and explosives had been required. He explained that environmentalists were lurking everywhere, so they had set thousands of charges and blown them all up at one time in the middle of the night before anyone could stop them. Windows must have rattled in Miami. It was a fait accompli. I asked him if there had been any caves or sinkholes prior to the blasting. He said that there was one very nice one that was filled with old Indian bones and pottery. I asked to see it, but he assured me that there was nothing to see. After the blasting they had filled it with rubble to make sure that no archeologist could cause any trouble.

When I first drove up to the construction office no one was there but the construction manager. No one knew who I was, or where I had come from. We were alone. It occurred to me that I could ritually murder the son of a bitch, make a clear example of him, perhaps pin a note to his nose, and get away with it. Unfortunately I didn't do it. To this day my conscience bothers me that I didn't undertake such a worthy action. Others might argue that such drastic action should be directed at the owner and evil mastermind behind the scheme. Perhaps. After all, this fellow was just a poor worker doing his job. I would counter that "he is the universal soldier and he really is to blame". He directed the devastation, let him suffer the consequence. In an age of diminished personal responsibility we are all just poor soldiers and we are all equally to blame. A soldier's job is to do and die, so don't expect much sympathy out of me. I am a warrior, not a soldier.

Such sobering thoughts sent me in search of a drink, so I headed for the nearby Caribbean Club. This is a famous and venerable establishment which once served as the set for a Humphrey Bogart movie. The place is a den of iniquity and depravity which is open 24 hours a day 365 days per year. It is frequented by geeks, freaks, Bogart fans, and motorcycle hoodlums.

The club doesn't really start to rock till about 3 AM, so it was a bit slow in the late afternoon, but at least I was treated to a bit of theater. There are virtually no rules. There is, however, a large sign stating NO DOGS ALLOWED. Dogs wander in and out all the time anyway for there are no doors. While I sipped my beer two fat ugly tattooed motorcycle hoodlum molls began to argue. This quickly led to a knock down drag out cat fight. The bar tender stepped in and began kicking at the women while screaming at them, "What's the matter with you bitches! Can't you read? The sign says no dogs allowed, so get the hell out!" So that's what the sign was for.

Feeling somewhat refreshed from my libations, and in the mood for an adventure, I resolved to spend the evening in Coconut Grove. If only I had known what an adventure it would be. The Grove was once a hangout for artists and hippies, but a massive influx of wealth had transformed the entire community into a boutique. Typical of this transformation was Mayfair in the Grove, a yupscale shopping mall where a pair of designer jeans might cost as much as $1000 dollars. The architecture was magnificent, with sculpture, fountains, and greenery everywhere. The rich are different from you and me, they have interior designers.

I had heard of The Ginger Man, a watering hole for the rich and famous located on the top floor of the mall. The mostly Latin American clientele was reputed to be an interesting mix of drug lords, right wing revolutionaries, and Venezuelan oil magnates. It is a tenet of modern eclectic mall design to make the place look as large as possible through the use of trick mirrors and confusing hallways. So it was that even though I can often find my way through the jungle, I was at a loss to find the Ginger Man. I roamed the nearly deserted halls of the mall in vain, searching behind potted plants and peering into closed shopfronts. At last I found a tiny obscure door, opened it and went in. I was dressed in tattered jeans and a skin tight black tank top, wholly inappropriate evening attire for such a place. Had I tried to come in through the front door I would have been thrown out immediately, but I had found the servant's entrance and the guard wasn't looking, so I headed straight for the bar.

No one noticed me except a strange dark haired woman at the bar who flashed an evil leering grin and mumbled "I like black" as I walked by. She could not have been more than eighteen years old yet she looked jaded and was dressed in rags. She was by no means pretty, yet she exuded dark violent sexuality. Mick Jagger would have loved her. She was wholly occupied by a man in bermuda shorts old enough to have been her grandfather, so I went to the other end of the bar and paid her no further attention.

When I looked around the old man was gone and she was staring at me, so I moved next to her. Without a word she put her hand on my crotch, then stuck her nipples out of the strategically placed holes in her ragged tee shirt. In all of my chequered career this was a first. She explained that the old man was a multi millionaire and that she had been purchased in Los Angeles as a sex slave. They had come to Coconut Grove for a little vacation. I noticed numerous bruises on her legs. When I asked why, she replied, "I can take it, and I can dish it out too". When I asked what she did for fun, she showed me her lacerated feet, and explained that when there was nothing better to do she would cut strips of flesh off of her soles with a razor blade. I have always considered sado-masochism to be a true perversion, and am not into it. Any prudent man would have run screaming out the door, but I was seized by a powerful morbid fascination. The witch had me under her spell.

One thing led to the next, so within minutes she had hung her butt over the back of the bar stool to give my hand easy access to her genitalia through the legs of her extremely baggy shorts. The bar was elevated on what had once been a stage, and indeed it was a show for those seated below. Heavily made up Venezuelan housewives and their dumpy husbands stared up in amazement as we had sex at the bar a few feet away. We failed to notice that the old man had returned from his lengthy sojourn in the men's room until he loudly announced, "Excuse me Sir, but would you please take your hand off of my girlfriend's ass?" This brought down the house, the audience loved it. When he looked around at the giggling throng, he was chagrined into silence, so rather than be rude I offered him a drink. The girl reminded him that the deal was that she could do anything she wanted. She then turned to me and announced that they had reserved a suite at the most expensive hotel in town and that I should come by for a drink after they had freshened up. The old fart glumly acquiesced and gave me the address.

After wandering about town for a bit, trying unsuccessfully to shake off the spell, I found myself at the door of the Coconut Grove Hotel. Again, I expected to be thrown out, but instead the doorman said, "Mr. Morgan I presume? Right this way Sir". The door to the suite on the seventeenth floor opened and there was the witch clad only in a burlap gunny sack with holes for her arms and head, and a safety pin at the crotch.

The old geezer was a bit more lucid, and resigned to his fate, so we retired to the balcony to watch the moon over Miami and to engage in a bit of small talk. Now this is the kind of perversity that interests me. What on earth does one talk about in such circumstances? Damn if I remember what we talked about, but whatever it was, it no doubt revealed the underlying absurdity of the situation. While we chatted we sampled tidbits from his extensive collection of illicit drugs. Everything was going along fine until the witch produced quaalude tablets large enough to poison a rhinoceros. Under normal circumstances I would never be so foolish as to take such a drug, much less to take a massive overdose, but the witch had deprived me of my will. Perhaps she intended to kill me. Imagine me, starring in my very own snuff flick!

When we retired to the living room the witch produced her implements of torture. Having my penis flayed while being handcuffed to the bedpost is not my idea of a good time, so I roughly took her toys away from her. She assumed that I was being dominant, and that it was all part of the game, so imagine her disappointment when I chucked her toys over the balcony down into the bushes far below.

Shortly thereafter I began to lose consciousness, and vaguely remember an argument, then being escorted out of the hotel. I attempted to return, and was given the bum's rush by the entire staff, feet first out the front door. Somehow I found my truck, and sat there fumbling in a vain attempt to get my keys in the ignition. I realized that I was in serious trouble and should not drive, but as the police might say, my judgement was impaired. I had tunnel vision. My consciousness was reduced to a tiny spot of awareness somewhere in front of my eyes. I was utterly lost and had no idea where I was or where I was going.

I began to drive aimlessly around Miami, and didn't crash until I was on an elevated highway which was under construction somewhere in the ghetto, where I smashed into an enormous concrete road divider. When I woke up my nose was mashed against the steering wheel and my lap was a puddle of blood. Try to imagine the surrealistic horror of awakening to discover that I was surrounded by Haitian cannibals who were clawing at the windshield, grinning, drooling, and gibbering in some unknown tongue, and trying to get in. By some miracle I had locked the door. I had a vision, clear as day, that they intended to cook me in a fifty five gallon drum using creosoted railroad ties for fuel, then eat me.

The front of the truck was smashed in so that the wheels pointed in different directions making it impossible to steer. I was unable to see anything except for a circle of light where the headlights pointed up into the sky. None of this stopped my daring escape from the cannibals. Perhaps I ran a few over during my escape, who knows? It took a supreme effort to keep the truck on the road, but I had to go somewhere. Suddenly like a guiding angel, through my blurred vision I beheld a sign, TO I-95 NORTH, an arrow, and an off ramp disappearing into the night. I tried to make the exit, but missed it by a good fifty feet. In an instant the police were behind me.

During my many years as a drunken driver I have honed my skills to such an extent that, unless I have been poisoned by quaaludes, I am capable of driving drunk better than most people can drive sober just by using my spinal cord alone, and keep my brain in reserve for moments such as these which demand all of my wit and perspicacity. When I saw the blue lights the veil immediately dropped from my consciousness. This sudden awakening did not, however, affect my body, for I was still unable to walk, numb from the waist down.

"Well, I see you've been having plenty of fun!" The officer was referring to the half finished case of beer and ice which was scattered across the back of the truck. I explained that this was left over from my visit to the construction site much earlier in the day, and that I was perfectly sober. "Then why can't you walk, and why are you covered with blood?" I explained about the accident, blaming an imaginary other motorist who had run me off the road. When I got to the part about the cannibals, he and his partner solemnly nodded in agreement. It was a narrow escape alright. Since I could barely stand up, they decided to give me a roadside sobriety test. The walking part was out of the question, so they asked me to touch my nose. Now it so happened that my face had been so greatly rearranged such that my nose was now attached to my right cheek. They were greatly impressed that I unerringly touched it despite the fact that it was in the wrong place.

These were local cops who were out of their jurisdiction, so they called the State Police and a rescue squad. The State troopers asked me the same questions and put me through the same routine. They too found it highly entertaining that I could touch my nose. Just as the rescue squad was arriving the troopers had to leave on another call. Presumably they expected to catch up to me later at the hospital to file charges of some sort. The rescue squad examined me and announced that I was an ugly, drunken, drugged and bloody mess, but that they had bigger fish to fry. Rejected by the rescue squad! Their last words were, "Buddy, go see a plastic surgeon in the morning, maybe he can fix your nose". There I was, alone in the wee hours of the night, stoned out of my mind, with a smashed face and a smashed unsteerable vehicle, but I was on I-95 and Boca Raton was only sixty miles away. Time to put it back into autopilot and hope the tires don't pop. I had escaped again.

The first plastic surgeon I visited was much too cheerful once he ascertained that I had plenty of insurance. He intended to make a new man out of me. Who would I like to be? Sky's the limit! I asked if he could make me tall and blond, but he replied that I didn't have that much insurance. The procedure involved inserting a device not unlike an apple corer up my nose, rotating it several times, and removing the structure within that had once defined my noble hebroid schnoz. I didn't like this idea, so I sought a second opinion. The second Doctor said the same thing as the first. I asked why he couldn't just put my nose back where it had been. He cast a disgusted glance, mumbled something about bad taste and a waste of perfectly good insurance, then grabbed my nose and yanked it back across my face where it popped back into place. The procedure took less than a second, but since it was an office visit it wasn't covered by insurance. The bill came to several hundred dollars for the tweaking of my nose.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, things were not going well. I had been assured from the beginning, by the architect and others, that Big Al rarely if ever set foot on the property. I was quickly disabused of the notion that naked nymphs would loiter by the pool while I built the sex grotto, and that mysterious strangers would take me into their confidence while plotting the overthrow of foreign governments. At least I was supposed to have the place to myself during the evenings, with only Chester the crazed gunman who served as Big Al's factotum for a companion. It was my singular ill fortune that Al chose this particular period of time to enjoy a sojourn at the ranch.

At first Al was entertained by my arrogance and theatrics. He would stand around in his underwear with a bemused expression while I struggled with the huge stones. The rest of the workers were deferential, but I had the hubris to engage the almighty on his own level. I even ridiculed the absurdity of some of his nitpicking concerns. By way of example, consider the following: Throughout the complex black metal pipes emerged at various angles from the white stone walls. These were purely architectural features, and had no other purpose. They were painted black, but apparently not black enough, because rather than simply repaint them, Al had them sanded down by hand, then painted again. This shade of black was too black so he had them sanded and painted again. Again it was the wrong shade, so he tried again, and again. This time it was perfect, but unfortunately a tiny flaw was discovered. It was an irregularity in the metal, a nick approximately one thirty second of an inch deep. Several other such flaws were discovered. What an outrage! Big Al was being ripped off! All of the pipes were sanded down to bare metal and the tiny irregularities, which were too small to be seen without a magnifying glass, were filled with smidgens of putty, then painted again. Al was happy but the painting contractor went out of business. This was a harbinger of things to come for me.

The turning point in my career as a courtier came one day when Al wandered listlessly by the pool with a strange look in his eye. It was his habit while on the job to wear nothing but dirty underpants and a portable telephone hanging around his neck. Perhaps the gods on Olympus favor such garb while at their leisure. The rest of us were similarly attired. No one ever wore a shirt. Most of the workers studiously avoided noticing Al, so he acted as though he were entirely alone. I, on the other hand, found him to be as interesting as a venomous reptile, so I kept him under observation. He suddenly grabbed the phone and barked "Chester, get me somebody NOW!" The only person in the whole place who did not run around almost entirely naked was the pilot, who lounged around in a full dress uniform waiting to be called. Moments after Al barked the order the pilot ran from the house, started the helicopter, and took off before even warming it up. Less than twenty minutes later, while I was wondering about the sudden departure, the helicopter returned. To my complete amazement it disgorged ten of the most beautiful women I have ever seen, all dressed in long white diaphanous gowns. They lined up on the lawn for inspection. Al nodded at the prettiest one. The rest got back in the helicopter and off it went. The whole thing took two or three minutes. Now that's the way to pick up girls!

The rest of the workers were wise enough to shrink into the woodwork. No one saw anything. Big Al, always the gentleman, took the young lady on a tour of the ranch. When he got to the sex grotto, which unfortunately wasn't finished yet, I introduced myself to his guest and engaged her in a lengthy conversation complete with snide remarks. After a while Al gave me a big smile indicating that he intended to eradicate me. It was the proverbial kiss of death.

The next day I was busily engaged in the placement of the largest and most beautiful stone in the entire waterfall when Al came to take a look. He was effusive in his compliments concerning my skill and taste. "Superb! Excellent! Just what I wanted!" These were bad signs, so I prepared for the worst. He had one little problem. The keystone, the one which held up all of the rest, was unacceptable. Would I please be so kind as to remove it before tomorrow morning? At first I thought he was joking and made light of his request, but it wasn't a joke. Al was paying attention, both to the rockwork and to me. He realized that this was an impossible request, and had artfully staged a situation in which I would be forced to refuse him, both for practical reasons and as a matter of honor. Al's ranch was just like "the planet of the apes" where you could say anything except NO. No one ever said no to Al, but he knew me well enough to know that that was exactly what I would say. When a man reaches the pinnacle of wealth and power, there is no joy left in life but to test the limits of that power. There is no sport in getting subservient people to degrade themselves, so Al was generally kind to his underlings, but I was a more challenging opponent. He knew that he could get to me through my art.

Not wishing to appear to be unreasonable, he suggested a meeting the next morning with the architect to resolve the issue. The architect was a talented and subtle man, who, despite these good qualities, knew who was paying for his new Porsche. Though he affected a profound sadness that things had come to such a pass, he enjoyed the charade almost as much as Al. The crux of the issue was that Al was the artist, he was the interpreter, and I was merely a worker. I insisted that I was the artist and that they were merely troublesome clients who wanted the art to match the wallpaper. Our conversations were polite and pregnant with innuendo. Despite the fact that my fortunes were crumbling before me, I could not help enjoying a duel with two such worthy opponents.

Upon reaching an impasse as to the meaning of art, we went on to more practical matters. I had been so foolish as to sign a contract guaranteeing the client's satisfaction, an impossible task in this instance. He might be satisfied if I tore it all down and rebuilt it at my own expense; or, perhaps he might not. I replied that the only solution was for him to pay me for the work that I had done, then I would leave and he could find a more pliant sculptor. Al had no weapon left but that of money, so he refused to pay me. I expressed disappointment that a man of his means would resort to such a tactic just for the sake of personal satisfaction. He agreed that it was a dirty trick, but I had to be put in my place. When I stated that I would have no other recourse but to sue him, an evil gleam came into his eyes. He began to smile and twitch while he explained that he actually did like me and that he would hate to see something very bad happen to me. "I have a little red button that gets pushed whenever anyone tries to sue me. All I have to do is to call my office. I'll have nothing further to do with it. My minions will hound you to the ends of the earth. You will never own anything again for the rest of your life. You will wind up a homeless degenerate in the streets. My power is infinite. You will be crushed like a bug." Al was not kidding, he was giving me a fair warning. There was nothing left to do but swallow my $20,000 loss and leave.

The next morning I awoke at dawn to the sound of jackhammers destroying my work. Al must have had a guilty conscience to have gone to the trouble to start the wrecking crew before dawn. Everyone commiserated with me. Even Chester the gunman thought the waterfall was beautiful and hated to see it torn down. They all agreed, though, that I was a fool for having crossed Big Al. Perhaps they were right. If I had kept my mouth shut and cooperated with him, I would have gone directly to work for the Saudi royal family, and would no doubt have made millions in the process. As I was leaving, F. Lee Bailey the famous sleazebag attorney arrived in the helicopter to take my room in the bachelor pad. I was badly outgunned, but at least it was some small measure of satisfaction to know that I had left with my false sense of honor intact.

It was obvious that foremost among my many idiosyncracies was my inability to deal with the idiosyncracies of others. Such a person is doomed to failure in business, especially any business such as the building of waterfalls which is dependant upon the caprice of despots such as Big Al. The hunting down of such exotic clients is good sport, but it can be an exhausting task involving endless travel, extensive research, and such loathsome techniques as name dropping and power lunchs. Buzzwords equal bullshit, and I had lost the taste. To undertake such a search in order to find another intolerable client was more than I could bear. After such a lengthy sojourn in Plastic America all I wanted to do was to return to my squalid trailer deep in the woods of north Florida.

The tiny dirt road leading to my happy home was completely overgrown. Fallen trees blocked the way. I had purchased the land, which was mostly climax live oak hammock, from a failed pig farmer who threw in the mobile home for an additional ten dollars. What a deal! When I first moved in the place had no windows, plumbing, or furniture other than a semen soaked mattress in the middle of the living room floor. Three different calibers of bullet holes pocked the walls. A friend said not to worry because all of the shots had been fired from inside. Snakes were everywhere, coiled in the kitchen, slithering through the walls! There were so many snakes that when I released a long term captive rat snake in the giant oak outside he promptly crawled through one of the many holes in the wall to find a mate inside. I returned him to the tree several times, but he always came back to the kitchen, so I went to the pet shop to get him a dead rat and put it in the middle of the kitchen floor for him to find. When I came back fifteen minutes later three snakes were trying to eat the rat! This was a place that only I could love. After shoveling out the debris and patching up the screens I made myself at home.

I became a recluse, but not for long. As fall deepened into the dread Florida winter I became gripped by the conviction that I had not fled far enough. It had been years since I had left the country. What better recourse for a misanthrope than to disappear into a hole in the ground somewhere in the jungle in some squalid little country. I reviewed the options. I was too poor to travel very far. The nearest far away place was Belize. It had a well deserved reputation for squalor, jungle, caves, and snakes. The idea began to grow on me like a rapidly spreading fungus.

As I packed my backpack the cold settled in. The unheated trailer offered no protection against the unprecedented arctic blast that was destroying orange groves throughout the state. The Christmas freeze of 83 will not soon be forgotten by Florida growers. I turned on the water to keep the pipes from bursting and huddled beneath every blanket I owned to await departure at dawn. My timing could not have been better. When I awoke the temperature was nine degrees, the kitchen sink was a solid mass of ice with icycles dripping to the floor. The pump was broken and all of the pipes were burst. The electricity didn't work because a tree had fallen across the power line. Time to leave sunny Florida.

A friend had agreed to drive me to Miami to catch a flight the following day. We decided to stay in Key Largo so that we could celebrate my departure by having a wild night at the Caribbean Club. Things were especially lively since it was Christmas, but Santa Claus was not in attendance, nor was it likely that anyone was being either good or nice. Hoodlums had come from all across the country to raise hell. The building was one of the oldest in the Keys, and featured stone fireplaces at either end. No one could remember the last time there had been a fire in one of the fireplaces, but that night there was a roaring blaze in both. Eventually someone noticed that the smoke coming up from the dance floor was not the result of joints being passed around. The floor was on fire! The dancers continued to dance while other customers rushed to the bar to buy drinks so that they could form a bucket brigade to pour their libations on the floor. Such selfless behavior in the face of adversity, self reliant citizens all! The fire department was called, and they ordered the place evacuated, but no one would listen. The band continued to play and the dancers to dance while the fire department chopped holes in the floor with axes. The sheriff hovered outside, afraid to come in for fear of starting a riot. Eventually the floor was so awash with drinks that the fire went out. The band never missed a beat. What a fine scene of pandemonium, and what an appropriate send off to a country which proved to be every bit as chaotic as the Caribbean Club.


Bruce J. Sleazeweazel Morgan
92/6/26
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