This Florida Scene

Some Unusual Social Aspects of the Newly Exploited Everglades State

THEODORE DREISER

JUST where arc the socially élite in Florida anyhow? Where, "the smart rendezvous to which visitors and guests are welcome"? I read of some of the "socially élite" to be sure —in Palm Beach, St. Augustine, and Miami— but I found very few. And not for the want of trying, either. I sought the advice of those who knew, locally. Following directions to this or that club, or hotel, or restaurant, I invariably sat down—as you may well guess—with realtors and their wives, their employees and their girls, travelers like myself wearily in search of that life "glamorous with ravishing beauty and colourful adventure", or perhaps, who knows, nothing more than a decent meal or surcease from the bawling grind of real estate selling. Now and then one ran across a reputed millionaire from somewhere; now and then a celebrity of the social, stage or motion picture world—A1 Jolson, Will Rogers, Gloria Swanson—but where exactly will one fail in these days to encounter a celebrity, or two, or three?

At St. Augustine, to be sure—(a small town or city of true historic charm and beauty) — the élite assuredly winter—for fifty a day, or more, at the Ponce de Leon, with its very grand Alhambraesque walls—and towers and great courts. And at the Alcazar. Here is the old Spanish fort—amazing even in this day for its size, the thickness of its walls, the defiance, the significance—and might I add, the cruelty—of its spirit. And Ponce's reputed Fountain of Youth, in charge, alas, of an old lady—so old that she belies the merits of the fountain, to say nothing of the dream of Ponce. And surely there must be some of the elite at Daytona, in the Ormond, or some of the residences adjacent. I know I read of three. Besides, at Daytona, and apart from Ormond, are to be found several good hotels, if no outstanding restaurant of any real reputation. (Florida is surely no place for an hungry man.)

And again, of course, there are Palm Beach and Miami proper—which is a thing entirely apart from Miami Beach, as you may or may not know, on the west side of Biscayne Bay and all of two miles over water from the beach development. These are the two cities of which one hears the most and concerning which it is impossible for me to speak with anything but irritation. The rush and clutter and the tawdriness of Miami, for instance, with its sudden excess of population, its wretched, narrow streets near the business heart, lined with homes such as would grace any railroad track in a western city, and crowded, crowded, crowded with that type of the hopeless and the botched that somehow vaguely and meagrely follow, at the heels of prosperity or fame. The pity of such people! The wretchedness of their lives! The deprivations! And always at the gates, the very doors of the Dives. And getting „what? The crumbs they do not even know have fallen.

AND apart from that—in the outer reaches of Miami—to the west and north—truckand automobile-cluttered streets—totally inadequate for the pressure put upon them. And lined with tawdry stores, garages, real estate offices, houses with rooms for rent. And crowds. And delay. And then, in the very centre of all, perhaps fifteen or twenty skyscrapers (some of them hotels) with interlacing buildings crowded with all of the shopping life of southern Florida. And thousands (I assume) of real estate offices. And wretched, wretched restaurants. And then lectures with music—or music with lectures—in all of the more impressive offices of the more important real estate developments—or, pardon me, pre-developments. And crowds and crowds attending these. (Can you believe it?) And with the larger hotels here—and across the bay in Miami Beach (the most successful or substantial of all the developments so far) crowded with a type of adventurer and adventuress such as, perhaps, it is worth something to see. Harlots and madames, gamblers, racingmen, ex-pugilists or trainers, touts, "nuts" with and without money, down and out society men and women, crooks and would-be crooks, hard-boiled money-makers and moneymakercsses from Cleveland, Pittsburgh, San Antonio, Minneapolis, Denver—the easygoing, free-spending, high-living and always exotic and inartistic and cold and swift and eager life-lover and "kick"-seeker, who is out for a time and to make something wherewith to spice it all up and pay for it.

THE yachts! The houses! The cars! The "Rolls". "Where's that head waiter?" "Where's that bootlegger—send him up here!" "What do you want to bother me now for with that scheme? Cantcha see I'm out for the evening? Call Jack and tell him to get the yacht. I've got twelve lined up and more coming. But Friday we gotta be back for the races, see, sure. Talk to me then. If I win, I'll be easier." And the night clubs, the dancers, the free and open gambling, drinking, prostitution in the private rooms. Money, money, money! And yet with all of those weary, dreary crumb-pickers in those wretched down-and-out houses near the business heart. Oh, I loathe it all. All.

And Palm Beach. A lesser Miami. But of the same kidney. And " 'opes to be"—you know the story. The same grandiose visions inspire the one as inspire the other. Eighty-dollar a day hotels, if they can get it; as good night clubs and gambling houses as anywhere else on earth. And so on, and so OR. And a perfect roar and clatter of cars and buses the day and night long. And always wretched restaurants—outside the best hotels.

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Yet, outside in the lagoon or lake, blue waters facing both cities. And any number of delightful yachts—

lighted and with diners, dancers, drinkers aboard.

And in the garages, expensive cars. And great houses on the ocean side — but with

high walls. And cocoanut palms waving in the wind. And hibiscus. And water hyacinth.

As for the rest of the state—

There are Tampa and St. Petersburg—lesser Miamis and Palm Beaches —although by some thought more beautiful. And apart from that the lake region in Central Florida, which, apart from Orlando, intrigues me not a little. Already that little city of twenty-two thousand is almost, if not quite, as blary and crushy, if not as vulgar, as those others. Ah, by no means as vulgar, though. More simple and homelike, if anything. And then, there are Ocala, Palatka, Haines City, Gainesville — well, business towns. Do you like Waycross, Georgia? Then, you might like these places.

As for the type of people going to the state, or now there—well, it is decidedly impossible to generalize about anything as complex as that. At the same time, distinctly, there are some keys—or bits of evidence which will tell you something. Among the first of these are the car licenses—as well as the models of cars, of which there arc not less than two or three hundred thousand roaming about the state at one time, and these derive from every single state and province in the United States and Canada— Alberta and Saskatchewan—as well as Oregon, Washington and California. Yes, Florida has been sold to them, too. And Nova Scotia and Maine, Quebec and New Hampshire —along with Texas, Wyoming, Minnesota and Michigan—they are all there—although, in Florida, where, if anywhere, the best judges should live, they calmly announce that all of Georgia but two have come down —and those two stayed up there to look after the roads. (After traveling the Georgian roads you will begin to believe it.) And after Georgia —Ohio and Indiana have perhaps most contributed to the swelling population in every part of the state. Certainly I was personally impressed by the feeling that for the most part I was encountering the middle class American as he is to be found from coast to coast in drug store, garage, restaurant, laundry, hardware or other store or plant—either as owner, manager, clerk, stenographer, windowwasher, or what you will. And in addition to these, the younger and more restless or more ambitious (commercially) of all the doctors, lawyers, dentists, ministers, chiropractors, et cetera. They crowd the restaurants and roads to and from the different cities .or resorts in the state and fill the smaller and less pretentious of all the homes and apartment houses. Also they greet you in all the stores, and pack the few moving picture theatres and real estate concerts, race or baseball meets, as the case may be— and fill the few churches—as well as the beaches or lake resorts at such hours as they are free. And they move and talk and think and plan exactly as these people do anywhere —hello-ing and back-slapping and shaking each other by the hand at the same time that they talk real estate, the opportunity for profit in this or that—and also of religion, travel, sickness and death. In that sense at least I could see no difference between Fort Lauderdale or Orlando or Ocala, Florida and any other place in America from Oskaloosa to Manunka Chunk—the back-slapping, hand-shaking, whistling and moneydreaming American as he is now, ever has been and probably—(may one predict from the past?) ever will be —nation without end. E pluribus Unum. In God We Trust.

But one thing that does arrest the eye and the mind, and that is the number of real estate agents—or realtors —as they so nobly dub themselves— that one encounters traveling through Florida. It—as well as they—grow fantastic. Their signs! Their lyric enthusiasm. The bluffs and lies of some of them. Truly they are a tribe and they even look and dress alike —well fed, well clothed, cool, speculative,—a little song to sing or story to tell. And the number and the grandeur of their offices. In every city and town of Florida it was my observation that they occupied from twenty-five to forty per cent of all of the best or most pretentious of all the stores and offices in all of the most prominent—meaning the most central—locations. And the equipment of the same! The rugs, the flowers, pictures, maps, grandiose wicker furniture, desks, mirrors. By far the greater majority of the smaller hotel lobbies and club entrances could in no way compete with them. And they, themselves, in their light, smart clothes and swaying their palm leaf fans. Upon my word! Did ever realtor in all time or place before ever attain to such grandeur and security? Certainly theirs have been the bonanza days—down there. For, of course, real estate was and still is, even now, in the air and the blood. It is like a contagious disease. It gets you whether you will or not. Even the man or woman who runs a restaurant, a cigar store, a barber shop, a hotel, deals in real estate as a side line and has a little snap or plot which is introduced in the first lull in the conversation: "Here is something less high priced and more certain of a rise than some of the other things you have been shown." You cannot, by any chance, get rid of this unless you take a long and solitary walk to where solitude truly is. And even there the blare of it will haunt you after a time —like an unescapable murmur.

Theodore Dreiser

Writes

The Final Article of

This Important Series

"The Future of Florida"

in the July Issue

of

VANITY FAIR

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One would think that the natural beauty of the state might be of some interest to the native, as well as the traveler, but it does not seem so. If they tell you of a famous tree that one might well go miles to see, they speak of the value of it. In fact, they have a sign on one of the largest banyan trees in the state, near Fort Lauderdale, that informs the visitor that its worth is just about $2,000,000. If they speak of lakes, canals, harbours to be made, it is usually about what has been expended in the making or what is about to be expended. Nothing of the intrinsic beauty.

And what a situation these same boomers and speculators have brought about. Their chief error, in undertaking to make of Florida a paradise for millionaires—at their expense— was that in the matter of advertising their great find they overplayed their hand. They proceeded, as you know, to invite all and sundry to come and either help build or enjoy what was needed to make it into what they planned at the very time that they were trying to create the impression that all the necessary luxury for those who were seeking luxury only was already in place. But apart from a few—and by then somewhat antiquated—hotels at St. Augustine, Daytona, Palm Beach and Miami, there was really nothing in place.

As a matter of fact, the population of the state—up to about four years ago—a state, be it remembered, as large as New York and Connecticut combined and one-half as large as Italy—was not much over 800,000, about one-third of the population of Brooklyn. So late as 1880, everything south of St. Augustine, which is in the extreme northern part of the state, was a howling wilderness. Palm Beach and Miami had not even been charted. Tampa had only six or seven hundred inhabitants and no railroad communication whatsoever.

(Concluded in the July Issue)