The Move

I just moved from New York City to Florida. Hollywood Beach just south of Ft. Lauderdale. It's June and its hot and muggy. I drove. In the past when I have driven south I always was on the lookout for the first Waffle House. Ate my first grits at a Waffle House.

Somewhere in Georgia there it was. I was the only customer. It was good. Had to make some noise to get someone to take my money. Other than gas this was my first stop since DC and the only such stop till Ft. Lauderdale. That night just north of Ft. Lauderdale and well past Midnight on I-95 a gray ghost appeared with a high whine, for a second, no lights, the rider leaning to the right a bike slipped past at over 200 mph.

Florida, South Florida, has changed since Arthur Godfrey ruled and I was there selling Paradomes to Montgomery Ward. Murf the Surf had recently found a home in New York after being caught with the Museum of Natural History's Star of India Diamond. His beach bum friends were all still there on Key Biscayne along with Candy Mossier and her defense team and the press. My boss, former member of Murf's posse and me were there too every night. He had flown to Miami while he had me drive a Ford Falcon station wagon, no air, with a Paradome in the back. The restuarant was packed and everyone stayed late eying each other. Candy was the star for awhile then attention drifted to stories of big fast boats, rum running, breaking and entering on the inter-coastal and women.

Florida was hot then too but much more laid back. Boss had a gun runner friend also with Roy Rogers and Nixon as neighbors on Key Biscayne, large house. A modern day Huntsman look-alike of 50 something with a 22 year old Daisy Mae friend, correctly outfitted, who served us spiked lemonade or something that made me very jealous of all things gun runner. His current trade was to Selma.