Under The Sun

By Madeline Blais

I was the first to see the sign on U.S. 1:

“Looking for a safe spacious apartment? Inquire within. Ask for Jay.”

“Within” was the interior of a tall bank building on at the corner of U.S. One, down around 104th Street.

Even today, with its impressive columns and soaring ceilings, the building has that solemn temple motif down pat: a serious setting for serious business.

Jay turned out to be a well-knit young man with a ready handshake.

It was late on a Saturday, after five p.m. when he ushered us into a large airy conference room in an otherwise empty building.

Jay was so friendly.

He cared about us so much.

Where were we from? What drew us to Miami? How long did we think we would be living here? What kind of place were we looking for, ideally?

We were from the north, John had a job at the Miami News, and I hoped I would have one soon as well, we didn’t know how long we would be here — newspaper people move around a lot —, but I assumed for at least a year or two. Yes, we wanted a safe neighborhood, naturally, but charm mattered too, and it would be great to have at least two bedrooms. If you added up all my siblings and his siblings, his folks and my mom, and all our friends: well, there was likely to be an avalanche of guests who would surely find it in their hearts to visit during the winter months. Pretty soon, Jay had the whole family tree at his disposal, for what it was worth.

How were we finding Miami thus far?

Well, we weren’t so thrilled with the land crab we saw in the elevator of the borrowed apartment where we were staying for a couple of weeks.

Oh, yeah. Land crabs are the worse. Those babies get big: what? Five, six inches across the shell? Did you know that in the old days the farmers used to poison them? On the bright side, they’re vegetarians. They won’t eat you and if you boil them for about a half hour so, you can eat them. Mighty tasty little buggers.
Encouraged, we confessed our other small misgivings. We were a little uncertain about the way people drive in Miami: was there a reason why no one slows down for a yellow light? And we were wondering if all the people who spoke Spanish ever spoke English too.

It was different, we said, but we were adjusting.

“What you clearly need is your own place,” he assured us. “I already can tell exactly what would work for you.”

For a fee, in cash and up front, he would evaluate our data and because he had access to the Miami Herald classifieds before the public did, he would get first dibs on any new rentals on the market.

“I’m friends with the truckers,” he said.

We forked over money: five crisp tens.

And since we weren’t the only ones in line —-several other couples were behind us, waiting for Jay —-we allowed him to hustle us out with a hurried good-bye.

“I’ll line up a bunch of great places for you to look at in the morning. Can you be here at ten o’clock? I would suggest earlier but it’s Saturday night and I am sure you have plans to have some fun . . .” He gave John an especially oily wink.

The next morning, there was no sign of Jay, no sign of other couples who had been swindled, no sign of anything other than the placid morning sun embracing an empty bank building in South Miami.

We were supposed to be reporters.

We were supposed to be trained observers, professional cynics.

If were this easily taken in by Jay, what would happen when we came up against the big-time hustlers of Miami?

I cannot pass that bank even today without wondering: who was Jay? A bank teller who stayed late? A friend of the janitor? The janitor?

I have done the math. Fifty dollars in 1976 is about two hundred dollars today. Multiply that by however many other equally naïve customers fell for his spiel, and I would venture that Jay not only prospered that evening but also went onto a lucrative career in mortgage fraud, junk bonds, and phony investments schemes. Maybe he wound up like the King of Foreclosures rumored to have a yacht named “Su Casa Mi Casa.”

Over the years, I have wasted tons of money: on shoes that pinch, on meals that were tasteless, and on vacation rentals that gave me the willies.

I never think about those vanished sums, but every time I pass that tall indifferent bank on U.S . One, I want to know:

How can I get my fifty bucks back?