Tuesday, July 16, 2013

HOW TO FULFILL YOUR DREAMS ...KEY WEST STYLE

 
 

 
 
 
 
     Hearken to the life of Michael Avery: surfer, sailor, street vendor, handyman, author, drug dealer, raconteur, convicted felon and dedicated gentleman.
      I’ve long struggled to capture Michael in a single phrase; but all I can say is he occupies a unique space between Peter Pan and Jack Kerouac. For example, he and a friend once tried to sail from Hawaii to Australia by following the contrails of passenger jets. They weren’t sure whether their first landfall would be Australia or Japan. It turned out to be New Zealand. On another occasion -- sailing alone in the South Pacific-- he was thrown from his boat and clung to a chartreuse toilet seat for two days until someone --no doubt drawn to the seat -- rescued him.
     But those were only waypoints on a journey that led to Key West in the late 1980s.. He was by then in his mid to late thirties, and was searching for a home; a place that not only tolerated eccentricity and individuality, but encouraged them; a community where you were rarely asked why you were there or what you did; and where most people lived hard in the present. Key West seemed to him a perfect fit.
     He also fell in love with a local girl who was blond, bright, attractive and gregarious. I’ll call her Charly to protect her privacy. She was at the time a bartender -- popular and well respected -- in a town whose bars were the principal venue for almost all serious intercourse; conversational, political, and otherwise. Michael fell so hard for her (and she for him) that on their first date, he trusted her with his longest-held and most-cherished dream which she promptly forgot until one afternoon twenty years later.
     In those days, it wasn’t easy to make a buck in Key West. The cruise ship boom was in its infancy, the real estate developers were exploiting the geriatrics up on the mainland, and the local bankers were sleepy. In fact, it was sometimes hard to tell the difference between the oddballs and iconoclasts who were ’down and out’ and the oddballs and iconoclasts who were ’up and coming’ (Come to think of it, it still is.).
     So for a number of years Michael --with Charly as a stabilizer -- lived a life of conventional unconventionality. He worked at a lot of things, including selling jewelry as a street vendor, writing short stories for a local newspaper, house-sitting for snowbirds and, when things were slow, dealing cocaine to a select group of friends. At the time, half the town seemed to be selling drugs to the other half. Even a Key West fire chief with the exquisite name of Bum Farto had been convicted of dealing. (Three days later he jumped bail, never to be heard from again.) Michael was also convicted, served time in prison, and came back to Charly in a less adventuresome frame of mind.

     Then, sometime in mid-1998, his life went permanently awry. He was diagnosed with liver disease and told by doctors that he wouldn’t survive without a transplant. Two years later (’two bumpy years later’ according to Charly) it became clear that no transplant would be forthcoming. And as predicted, Michael became more and more ill; his behavior sometimes normal, sometimes nearly irrational. He was drinking heavily, still hanging out with buddies at his favorite bar, and as always reading books about life and death. But he was slipping physically as well as mentally and, in Charly’s eyes, struggling to come to grips with the inevitable.

     On a November day in 2000 -- when the nation was riveted to Florida’s Bush/Gore election battle -- Charly asked Michael to go to the bank and make a payment on their car loan. He agreed to go that afternoon; so she gave him a check and the payment book and left for work.
At some point in the day, he did start out for the bank but stopped first at his favorite bar for a few drinks with cronies. When he left the bar, he said he’d be back shortly to pay his tab.
     He then drove to the bank -- the Key West Federal Credit Union -- and fulfilled the dream that he’d confided to Charly twenty years earlier. Instead of paying the car loan, he robbed the bank.
     After passing the teller a note demanding money, he politely told her he wouldn’t harm her and asked her not to include any coins because he wasn’t planning to travel through any toll booths. Frightened anyway, and following strict bank policy never to interfere, she complied. So carrying a sizeable bag stuffed with cash, he left the bank as quietly as he’d entered it. When he reached his car, he turned to see if anyone was following him. Surprised that no-one was, he started the car, took time to fasten his seat belt and drove away.
    
     And that’s the dream he’d had since early childhood; the fantasy he’d confided to Charly: he’d always wanted to rob a bank. And over the years that dream had been nurtured and sustained by the mythological lives of Jesse and Frank James, Butch Cassidy, the Dalton boys, and later by ‘Baby Face’ Nelson, Bonnie and Clyde, John Dillinger and Willie ‘The Actor’ Sutton. And now Michael Avery had done it!
 
     Immediately after that, however, his train went off the tracks. Here’s what we know and have pieced together, partially from what Michael remembered and from what followed:
    He went home and burned all the dollar bills he’d been given because, as he later explained. ‘they were too bulky.’ When Charly got home that night, not having any idea what was going on, she found a small mound of ashes on the patio stones with a few charred scraps and a piece of George Washington’s face.
    Then, for reasons Michael could never explain, he hid a bundle of money in a Kleenex box at a neighbor’s empty house; and another stash of money in a friend’s outdoor garbage can which was due for pickup the next day!. And finally, he returned to the bar, got drunk, paid his tab and distributed fistfuls of money to everyone in the bar; cronies, strangers, a few tourists and the staff. He left behind a happy gaggle of people and disappeared into the night.

    At five o’clock the next morning, a convenience store clerk called 911 to report that a injured man had entered his store. When the police arrived, they found the man slumped in a corner with a serious gash across his forehead. He was conscious but seemed groggy and confused.
“I think I got robbed.” he told them, then added. “No, that’s not right. I robbed a bank .. and I feel awful about it.’
    Thus was Michael Avery, bank robber, apprehended by the constabulary. The cops quickly recovered the stashed money, but seemed disinterested in how their captive was hurt. And to this day, no-one knows what happened.

    For Charly, the following month passed in a fog of confusion.. Michael was held at first by the Key West police, then transferred to the Monroe County jail and put into its infirmary. Since bank robbery is a federal crime, the FBI asserted control of the case and transferred him to the Florida Keys Hospital. Charly was permitted visitation when he was under local control; but finally -- as his condition became more and more serious -- she was denied the right to visit him in the hospital for reasons only a federal bureaucrat could think of. In fact, A 24/7 guard was posted outside his door. She kept trying, however, and on one occasion -- and one only -- a compassionate guard swore her to secrecy and let her in.

    Then, on the evening of December 15, 2000 she got a terse phone call from a Justice Department prosecutor. Without explanation, he told her that Michael would be released without conditions the next day. If she wanted to, she could come and get him. Which of course she did.
     Two days later, on December 18, comfortably ensconced at home and after having said goodbye to his closest friends, Michael died. He was fifty-nine years old
    Only a month had passed since he’d fulfilled his dream.

     I have no idea what he was thinking when he faced death. But I like to think the Peter Pan side of him thought he was off on another wonderful adventure. And if not, then I hope the Jack Kerouac side approached it as just another waypoint on the road. Whatever it was, God bless.
 
 
 
 
                                                      AFTER DINNER MINTS
 
 
A few days after the robbery, the Key West Police Department issued a public plea for the return of the money Michael gave out at the bar. As far as I know, they never recovered a penny. What a surprise!

The arresting officer in Key West doesn’t remember the case. Neither do the detective in charge or the then-chief of detectives who is now the city’s chief of police. The reporter for The Key West Citizen who wrote two stories about the robbery doesn’t remember it either. He’s now a Monroe County deputy sheriff. The FBI said I could file a request under the Freedom of Information Act if I wanted to see their records, but didn’t tell me how long it would take or even whether it would be approved. And finally, a nice lady at the Key West police department’s records office found Michael’s case file and promised to call me back once she’d gotten permission to show it to me. I never heard from her again. Hmmm.

After distributing Michael’s ashes to several of his friends, Charly spread some on the lawn of the Key West Federal Credit Union. Whether the grass became greener is unknown.

Many days later, she found several hand-written notes hidden in a way that she’d eventually find them. They said, in effect, not to worry .. he’d be okay .. and she should get on with her life.

She did move away from Key West and returned to the island only recently. Although now married, she always smiles nostalgically when talking about Michael and readily describes him as the love of her life. And why not!
     Even bank robbers can be lovable.
 
 
 
 
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Thursday, March 14, 2013

"THE BEST FIREWORKS SHOW IN THE WORLD, BAR NONE!"




                   
                                                   




     It was startling.
     This man could have walked out of a John Ford western or a 19th century tintype. He was short, barrel-built and swarthy; with fast-moving eyes and thick black hair parted in the middle. Wearing canvas trousers stuffed into battered riding boots and a white shirt buttoned to the neck, the only thing missing was a bandolier hanging across his chest. And to top it off, one of his incisors was gold and glistened when he smiled.
      My first thought was of Viva Zapata! (Anybody remember it? Marlon Brando as Zapata, Anthony Quinn, Joseph Wiseman?)
      And the first thing he said to me was something like:
     ..el mas grande.. el mejor en el mundo. Me garantia!”
      Seeing my blank expression, he gave up the bandit bit and repeated himself in perfect English:
       We’ll give you the best fireworks show in the world, bar none. Guaranteed!.
       That’s exactly what he said; and in retrospect I believe that’s exactly what he meant.
       His name was Eduardo Lopez and he was --by experience and reputation -- the leading fireworks expert in Mexico, with a degree (I found out later) in electrical engineering from UCLA. My advance man -- Tom McNally -- and I were standing with him in the penthouse of a high-rise hotel looking out over Acapulco Bay toward the Pacific Ocean. Senor Lopez was pointing out a little island -- more like jumble of uninviting rocks -- in the middle of the bay.
       We’ll be out there all day setting things up  .. and when you’re ready, you just give us the signal. he said.
       We’re using Walkie-Talkies, Tom interjected.
        Yes, and then … away we go! Vamos a fuego!
        And we’re gonna’ give you a wonderful surprise at the end. added Tom..
        I turned to face him and said: We’ve got a lot riding on this, McNally… and  I’m not big on surprises. In fact, surprises make me very nervous!.
        I know that, he said reassuringly, but this will be sensational. I mean, really sensational. Trust me.  Even you’ll be impressed.
                                                                                                           
      So trust him I did. Because he was the best advance man for big management meetings I’d ever seen. And the one we were talking about -- for Xerox Corporation -- was by the standards of our little company, huge.
      Xerox was bringing 250 of its senior managers from around the world for a five-day conference in Acapulco to discuss how to improve the company’s performance and how to establish its future goals. It was the fastest growing company in the world and determined to stay that way for as long as product superiority and smart management permitted.
     The meeting’s format was to be something they’d never tried before: a ‘bottom to top’ approach that I’d sold to the CEO, and then been asked to implement because no-one inside the company trusted it or wanted to be a part of it. Recent research had shown that major communications gaps existed in large corporations, particularly at the top levels of management. In other words, policies set at the top were quickly diluted and sometimes ignored as they were passed down the line. The result was that the most senior people were often ‘out of the reality loop’.
      So the basic idea was to put together a meeting in which lower level managers could --  with no holds barred -- tell top management what they thought of the company’s policies, performance and goals, and how to improve on them. It was, in many ways, a  democratic approach in an autocratic environment, and not a comfortable concept. As one young American marketing manager said to me:
      In other words, I’m supposed tell my big bosses that they’re assholes about some things .. and get away with it? I don’t think so.
      But the meeting’s format did allow exactly that, although in more diplomatic and, I should add, anonymous terms. Finally, after four days of intense discussion and debate, consensus recommendations would be presented to top management which --on the final day -- was expected to respond to them in as much detail as possible,
      So it was a high-risk, high-pressure meeting for everyone involved; and we knew that when it was over, we’d need something to ease the tension: some kind of event that everyone from the CEO on down could appreciate and enjoy.
      We’d already chartered a tourist ship for a final-night sunset cruise on Acapulco Bay; and arranged for an open bar and an elegant on-board dinner. Tables for eight were set on a huge upper deck, and a strolling mariachi band was hired to play what Tom McNally described as ‘Guantanamera music’. In keeping with our corporate democracy efforts -- and in the hope of encouraging interaction among different groups from different countries -- the seating was open. Anyone could sit anywhere.
      And the topper, the frosting on the cake, the piece de resistance, would be THE BEST FIREWORKS SHOW IN THE WORLD BAR NONE.
      So … sound the trumpets and take it away, Senor Lopez!!

      As darkness set in, all was going according to plan. The crowd seemed  relaxed, the bar was busy, the dinner had been a success, and people were mingling with each other. No-one noticed that the ship was positioning itself with the lights of Acapulco at our back with only the vast blackness of the Pacific facing us.
      At the proper moment, Tom McNally -- standing at the rail and peering slit-eyed into the dark -- gave the signal.
      The ship stopped, the band fell silent.
      And nothing happened. Nothing.
      McNally pounded the walkie-talkie against his palm as if to wake up the batteries. Then, speaking into it, he held his hand up toward me, signaling that all would be well and not to worry. The ship’s engines came to life again and we described a long, slow circle back to our predetermined location.
        Again, as we approached, McNally gave the signal. And again, nothing happened. Not a glimmer. Not a sign of life. We were facing a disaster and the Xerox crowd -- sensing that something  they didn’t know about had gone wrong -- were beginning to snicker. By that time, I’d joined McNally at the rail.
       What the fuck is going on, Tom? I snarled.
       He threw his eyes toward the sky and said: It’s okay .. it’s okay .. I’ve got it under control now. It’ll be perfect this time.
       So for a third time, the ship’s engines came to life and we turned in a leisurely circle back toward the rocky island where Eduardo Lopez and his minions were hidden. And this time, as McNally gave the okay on the walkie-talkie, I detected in the darkness a single tiny light that reflected back toward us on the bay’s flat surface.
        That’s all I saw until, seconds later, the island exploded.

        Rockets and missiles and explosions of every color and description erupted from one end of the island to the other. Some went skyward, some shot nearly parallel to the water, some plunged into it, others simply burned on the rocks. And outlined in the light of that moving, twirling, shooting inferno, we could see Mexicans running for their lives, diving into crevasses, zigzagging from rock to rock and leaping into the bay. It was a deafening, whistling chaos of sound and light that held us immobile and nearly hypnotized even as rockets hit the ship’s side or roared a few feet over our heads toward the Acapulco shore.
        Who knows how long it lasted? Five minutes? Ten? All I knew was that something had gone terribly wrong.
        But when the last flicker of fire disappeared and the smoke around the island began to dissipate, everyone agreed -- with equal parts awe and confusion -- that they’d never seen anything like it. Even the ship’s captain must have been transfixed because we hadn’t moved an inch.

       Then, just I was breathing more easily and wondering how I could explain things, Tom McNally’s surprise announced itself.
       Trust me, he’d said. It’ll be sensational, he’d said.
        With loud hissing and crackling, a great glistening X appeared on the water. It must have been fifteen feet high, floating on a flat platform. Then --  seconds later -- a giant E lit up on another platform tethered to the first, followed by the R. Reflected on the quiet bay with the black infinity of the Pacific in the background, the letters X-E-R seemed to be standing magically by themselves on the water. By the time the O appeared, everyone was applauding and chanting X - E - R - O … over and over again. The fireworks fiasco seemed instantly forgotten.
       But the final X never ignited. We waited fifteen seconds .. then thirty .. a full minute ..and nothing. The chanting stopped and we were left looking at nothing .. zip .. a flaming ZERO ..  a glistening nada. All the work, the planning, the endless hours of discussion, the hopes .. everything ended with a  massive XERO glowing in judgment on Acapulco Bay.
       McNally looked as if he wanted to jump overboard; and to tell the truth, I was tempted to push him.

       I have no idea who began to chuckle; but as the ship turned toward home, someone did and it became viral; breaking into a rash of laughter that spread from table to table to bar until it seemed that everyone on board was laughing or chortling at the irony of our failure. It was, in fact. funny in its own manner and taught me a lot about keeping things in perspective. After all, I told myself, it was only a fireworks display.
      Yet, paradoxically, that was when it also dawned on me that Eduardo Lopez and my man Tom McNally had indeed delivered -- albeit accidentally -- THE BEST FIREWORKS SHOW IN THE WORLD, BAR NONE.
       Guaranteed!

     
     
 
                                                    AFTER DINNER MINTS



Luckily, aside from a few bruises and a badly-sprained ankle, no-one was hurt on the little island. When Senor Lopez sent us a long letter of apology and explanation, I accepted the former but didn’t understand the latter. An invoice accompanied the letter which -- after some discussion -- we paid in full.

A few years later we managed another large corporate meeting in Acapulco for the LTV Corporation. Although it was a success, there were no fireworks and less laughter.

I slept fitfully on that final night, and woke bleary-eyed and hung over at four in the morning. I’d forgotten to turn on my A/C and the room was stiflingly hot. So I stumbled out to my balcony for some fresh air and came instantly awake. In the distance, a giant X was glistening in the silence and darkness of Acapulco Bay.
      Friends say I must have dreamed it … and perhaps I did.
      But I think not.
     
In any case, our experiment in corporate democracy was in the end a failure. A few internal bureaucracies bent a bit, but didn’t break .. and things at Xerox quickly returned to the status quo. Corporations are and always will be the same.

When I first began blogging, an old friend and avid gardener, Tricia Lynn, urged me to write this story. Sadly, she died as this year began. But her smile, her rapier wit and her compassion will be long remembered by everyone who knew her. This one is for you, Tricia. Sorry it’s late.




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