16
Good Girl in a Dirty World

Even though it was early spring, I still was wearing a hat, scarf, gloves, and a heavy coat. A horrible winter in 1996 was lingering in New York City, and I was miserable, so I couldn’t wait to leave for Florida later that week. It had taken Christopher and me three years, but we had finally made plans to visit my father’s stores.

Just days before my trip to Central Florida, I slowly climbed the stairs to my third-floor office at the Burden Center for the Aging in Manhattan. With each step, hot coffee spilled out of the cup I held, slightly scalding my freezing hand. And the weight of my winter clothing was giving me a slight aerobic workout.

I had now been a full-fledged social worker for two years, and at the Burden Center for the Aging, my job was to help homebound clients live independently in their homes. Most of them lived in rent-controlled apartments nestled among the fancy residences and boutiques on Fifth and Park Avenues. Many were former maids, seamstresses, or bus drivers who had come to America to escape World War II. For the most part, my clients had outlived their savings and had no family. In many cases, I was the only person who ever visited them.

The office door let out a low, mournful sound as I opened it. Edie, my boss, immediately poked her head out of her office to get my attention. The entire office space itself was really just two small apartments combined into one, with a wall knocked out and cubicles created from movable panels.

“Love, come quickly before you get settled in,” Edie said in her thick German accent. With a cigarette in one hand, she waved me in her direction. Smoke spilled from her office doorway.

“Just let me put my bag down,” I said, sighing. I’d heard that urgency in Edie’s voice before; it probably meant something had happened overnight to one of my clients.

Edie had been the director of the Homebound Unit for more than twenty years. She was a large, intimidating woman, with blonde hair cut in a sleek bob that neatly framed her square jaw line. As a teenager, she had moved to America from post-Nazi Germany because she was disgusted with her country’s role in the Holocaust, and this disgust had then morphed into a strong sense of social justice. By the 1990s, Edie had the Upper East Side wired. She knew virtually everyone at all the nearby hospitals and senior centers. She didn’t have master’s degree in social work, but she was an expert on case management for older adults and her assistance was often sought out for the most difficult cases throughout the city.

I hurried into Edie’s office, taking my last breath of fresh air before being enveloped by her smoke-filled bubble. I hated the smell of cigarettes, but I tolerated it because I liked Edie so much.

“Look,” she said as we sat down, “I know you are running off to Florida, love, but before you go, I need to know who your most critical clients zat might need friendly visitor calls.”

“Okay,” I said. I gave her my list of clients from memory, all the time thinking, That can’t be all.

“Also, let’s talk about what’s going on with your cases at the end of the day,” Edie went on, pausing to take a drag on her cigarette.

“Is that it?” I asked, waiting to be dismissed.

“No, I’m not done yet. There’s more. It’s Mr. Murphy.”

“Oh, no. What?” My heart sank—James Murphy was one of my favorite clients.

“He was found in the hallway of his apartment building, muttering to himself and having all kinds of hallucinations. The neighbors called the paramedics, but zey didn’t take him to the hospital. He didn’t seem to vant to harm himself or anyone else.”

I nodded, taking a deep breath. “This is odd behavior for him,” I said.

“It seems serious, love. He is only sixty-five. Something else must be going on, and I vant you to get to the bottom of it. The mobile geriatric team from Mt. Sinai is going to Mr. Murphy’s today to do an evaluation. I vant you to sit in on zat meeting.”

I was truly alarmed. I had just seen Mr. Murphy two weeks ago and he’d seemed fine, so I wondered how this could possibly be happening. I went through the standard mental checklist. There had been no signs of psychiatric symptoms. He had diabetes, so maybe he hadn’t checked his blood sugar. He was also a Korean War veteran. Was this a PTSD symptom I had missed?

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go there today.”

“Keep your head about you, love. I know how you feel about him.”

I nodded, and thanked Edie for her support.

Later that morning, I arrived at Mr. Murphy’s with my stomach in knots. I knocked on the door and Mr. Murphy opened it a crack.

“Oh, it’s you!” he said in his normal joking tone. “Come in and join the party.”

“Hey, Mr. Murphy,” I said, studying his face. He opened the door all the way, and I went in.

In every respect I could think of, Mr. Murphy seemed to be perfectly fine. He was dressed normally and his full head of white hair was neatly combed. Once inside, he politely introduced me to the psychiatrist from Mt. Sinai, an older woman with a kind face, who was sitting on his mottled sofa. As I moved through the cave-like room, I looked around to see if anything was unusual. The piles of dishes, an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the kitchen table, and untidy surroundings were pretty typical.

“Mr. Murphy, thanks for letting us come over today,” the psychiatrist said. “We’re here to make sure you’re feeling alright.”

Mr. Murphy smiled and said that he was just happy for the company.

“What day is it today, Mr. Murphy?” asked the psychiatrist.

“It’s Monday.”

“What year is it?”

“1996.”

“And who is the president?”

“Bill Clinton.”

“Great,” the psychiatrist said with a smile. “What did you have for dinner last night?”

“Peas and carrots and spaghetti,” Mr. Murphy said proudly. I nodded at him in approval since he was adhering to a healthier diet to keep his diabetes in check.

“Is there a reason you have the windows covered?” the psychiatrist asked, looking around the room at the newspapers and cardboard taped to the windows.

“I hate the bright sun,” Mr. Murphy explained, “because it shines in my eyes early in the morning and wakes me up.”

That sounded reasonable to me. I looked at the psychiatrist, trying to gauge her reaction.

“Do you ever hear voices, or think someone is watching you?” she asked.

“No,” Mr. Murphy said, his voice turning in annoyance. “Do you think I’m crazy or something?”

The psychiatrist and I looked at each other.

“Mr. Murphy,” I interjected, “do you know why we’re here?”

“Yes, you’re here to make sure I’m okay. But I don’t understand why the doc is asking all these questions.”

I marveled at the child-like expression on his face. “Did the paramedics come here last night?” I asked.

“No.”

I glanced again at the psychiatrist. “But Mr. Murphy, we got a report that your neighbor called the paramedics last night because you were in the hallway having hallucinations.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked. “I made some supper, watched the travel channel, and that’s it.” A smile crept across Mr. Murphy’s lips. He seemed amused by all the fuss.

“Are you sure you have the right Mr. Murphy?” I asked the psychiatrist.

It took a few minutes on the phone, but we finally discovered the Mr. Murphy they should have been interviewing lived a block away. John Murphy, not James Murphy, was in desperate need of psychiatric evaluation.

After the psychiatrist left, I stayed to spend time with my Mr. Murphy, whom I was more than relieved to discover was okay. We both laughed a lot about what had happened.

“How long will you be in Florida?” he asked a little later.

“Just for a long weekend. Someone else will be on call if you need anything. I’ll be back on Monday.”

“And what are you going to be doing down there? I always wanted to go to Florida to enjoy the warm weather.”

“I’m visiting my dad.”

“That’s nice. What does he do?”

I smiled. I didn’t even consider explaining to Mr. Murphy that I was going see my dad’s porn stores but instead spun the same old story about his being involved in real estate. I often found it helpful to share a few details about myself in order to establish rapport with clients, but I had never shared the fact that my father was in the pornography business with any of them.

I had lived this balancing act my whole life, always wondering how or if to describe the details of my father’s career.

There never was, and never has been, an easy way to explain it.

*

In Orlando, I was welcomed by the warm, humid air that I so desperately missed. Dad met me at the airport, wearing a Phillies’ cap, sunglasses, and his typical collared polo shirt with a pen stuck in the pocket. (He would never admit it, but he now looked like a Floridian in every way.) He stood there, smiling at me and waving. A newspaper was tucked under his arm, and I knew he had already devoured every article and the crossword puzzle.

After we greeted each other, my father said quickly, “Christopher’s flight arrives in just a few minutes. We should meet him at his gate. Let’s hurry.”

“Hang on one second,” I said. I dropped my bag on the floor and started rifling through it for my sandals.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Dad, I have to change my shoes! I’ve been waiting to do this all winter. It’s been arctic in New York since November.”

He laughed. “I guess your blood permanently thinned after all those years in Florida.”

On our way to Christopher’s gate, we talked about New York City and about my recent plans to move to Washington, DC, with Brian, the guy I’d been dating off and on since college.

“I would have loved to live in New York City when I was young,” he said. “But DC is a good choice, too. You can’t go wrong there.”

“I think Brian and I will like DC,” I said. “He graduates in the spring, and job prospects for someone with an MBA are looking good.”

“Brian is a nice guy,” my father said simply.

And I knew that he meant it.

We arrived at the gate just in time to see Christopher emerge into the terminal. I gave him a hug and Christopher extended his hand to my father. They shook hands and I could tell by my father’s broad smile that he was pleased we were both there with him. As we left the airport, Dad reviewed our itinerary. “We’ll head south to the Fort Pierce store first, then circle back north to the Cocoa Beach and Orlando stores. Fort Pierce is only about a two-hour drive from here. Sound good?”

We agreed. I didn’t mind the drive and looking out at the barren space along Interstate 95 was a welcome change after viewing countless city buildings from the bus, or the underground darkness of the subway. My father never really asked why we wanted to see the stores; instead he seemed proud that he finally had a chance to share his story.

“So, Uncle Anthony,” Christopher said awkwardly. “Which store opened first?”

“The Premier in Orlando opened in 1973,” my father said. “Then, in the late seventies we opened the Todd in Tampa, and later the Lakeland and Daytona stores. Uncle Coke, Cousin Danny, and I opened the Beach Video about ten years ago. And about five years ago, we opened the Fort Pierce store that Cousin Carl and Steve now manage for us.”

“That’s quite a lineup,” Christopher said.

“Well, it keeps me traveling all over the state,” my father said nonchalantly. “The hard part is that for years the conservative officials in the local governments have tried to close us down. The legal battles have lessened recently, though. It’s nothing like it was back when I started out in the business.”

Then he talked about Deep Throat and how he had first become involved in the pornography business. Christopher was finally hearing the story his parents had never told him, and I, too, was hearing some aspects of my father’s life for the first time.

*

“I never imagined that distributing a movie would lead to the legal troubles I faced,” my father told Christopher and me. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard him say this, but he seemed no closer to coming to terms with it. “Not to mention that Deep Throat started a life-long career in pornography.”

As our drive continued, my father talked about the current adult business, from the types of products he sold, to how the industry had changed over the years. As I sat in the back seat and listened, I realized just how many of my family members were involved in the business. A part of me actually felt left out. My father would never want me in the family business. Did I even want to be? I’d never considered working in pornography or working for my father, but I knew I could be good at it. I had held a few sales jobs in high school and college and did fairly well. And with my father’s guidance, I could easily learn how to run a retail business.

*

After our two-hour drive, Dad pulled up to a small storefront in an average looking strip mall. We had arrived at Southern Exposure, the store in Fort Pierce. I climbed out of the car and stretched my legs. I was tired from the long trip but curiosity gave me extra energy.

A jingle of bells signaled our arrival as we opened the glass door to the store. My cousin Carl appeared immediately from behind the counter to greet us. Carl was the son of my father’s first cousin, Danny Dicolla. I hadn’t seen Carl in a long time, and I noticed that he’d gained a lot of weight. But he still had that sweet round face, which was now framed by a beard, and those crystal blue eyes that I remembered as a child. His curly black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. My father reintroduced us, then praised Carl as a good manager—he was grateful to have a reliable family member running the store.

“How’s New York treating you, Kris?” said Carl.

“It’s okay,” I said. “But I might be moving to DC soon to be closer to Christopher.”

“It’s been a long time, my man,” Christopher said, shaking Carl’s hand. “How are you doing?”

“Been pretty good,” Carl said with a casual shrug. “Business is always good.”

The front section of the store looked to me like a regular video rental and magazine shop. The latest copies of Time and Newsweek stood neatly on small racks next to the cash register, and to the left side were shelves of regular mainstream rental movies.

“Where’s all the adult stuff?” I asked, confused.

“Oh,” my father said. “The adult products are in the back. Fort Pierce’s licensing ordinance mandates that to sell adult material, at least half of the inventory must be mainstream items.” My father didn’t seem uncomfortable with my presence and finally acknowledged I was an adult. He motioned us in that direction, and Carl followed behind us.

As we walked toward the rear of the store, the merchandise on the shelves went from VHS cases featuring comedies, to naughty cheerleaders and women in strained bodices. Finally, at the back wall of the store, movies were piled from floor to ceiling, with a variety of titles categorized by fetishes, series, or actors and actresses. There was even a specialty section for gay pornography. And then, of course, there were adult toys—penis pumps, bachelorette kits, his-and-her bondage items, and vibrators and dildos in different shapes, sizes, and colors—all displayed neatly on wall racks. Outwardly, I looked like a customer browsing in a supermarket but inside I was blushing. I was not a sexual free spirit and everything here was so explicit. Nothing was left to the imagination on these shelves.

My father rattled off all the different brands he stocked, and he preached the importance of offering customers a wide selection. As he pontificated, I couldn’t help but smile; he sounded like a walking porn encyclopedia and he clearly understood what it took to sell this merchandise. He also told us that he regularly attended conferences to check out the latest products, and I realized that any retail shop—whether in the mainstream or more on the fringe—would benefit from my father’s knowledge.

“What’s your hottest selling product?” I asked my father.

“That’s easy,” he said. “It’s the Pocket Rocket.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a miniature vibrator. Women love it because it’s small enough to fit into any handbag.” My father picked up the box on the shelf and handed it to me. I took it awkwardly, unable to look him in the eyes, and I noticed a sticker on the front of the box that read “waterproof.”

“Clever,” I said, realizing I was having perhaps the strangest conversation that any daughter has ever had with her father.

Over the next few minutes, I took a good look around to get a feel for the place. It was clean, organized, and well-lit, and there was nothing seedy about its appearance. It seemed to me exactly like any other retail store.

“Do you mind if I take a magazine for the road?” Christopher asked.

“Go ahead,” said my father with a wry smile.

I, of course, would not be asking my father for porn. I couldn’t even imagine it. Not only was I mostly uninterested in watching pornographic movies or looking at nudie magazines, I knew that expressing anything beyond an anthropological interest in his stores would just be too strange.

*

An hour later, we left Fort Pierce and headed to the Premier in Orlando. This was the store I most wanted to see. In its heyday, the Premier had been a popular adult theater before being converted into a retail store in the 1980s. It was the first operation that my father and Tony Arnone had launched back in 1973, for $25,000, an investment that they had recouped after only one month by showing Deep Throat.

There was nothing flashy about the white stucco building on the outside, but what caught my eye was a sign that read PREMIER SINCE 1973. I couldn’t believe that after more than twenty years, this place still was in business. The Premier was an established landmark in Orlando and people tell me today that they still remember the Premier’s radio commercial jingle from their childhood.

We walked through the Premier’s glass double doors into an expansive warehouse-like room that seemed to go on for miles, lined with many shelves laden with products even more diverse than at the Fort Pierce store. It was easy to imagine this store’s past life as a theater. I could visualize the rows of seats and the floors coated with sticky soda and crushed popcorn and a large screen positioned directly opposite from where I was standing at the entrance. The childlike part of me wanted to run up and down the aisles but I stood frozen as my father introduced us to his staff and to his longtime partner, Tony Panzino.

I felt like everyone was staring at me. They must have wondered why I was there, and the answer—that I just wanted to better understand what my father did for a living—seemed too weird to utter out loud.

Our stay at the Premier was short, and since we had been traveling all day, it was time to head to our hotel. My father had made plans for us to go out for the evening to a strip club called Club Juana, which was another landmark in Orlando and was owned by his good friend, Mike Pinter.

“Mike and I never worked together, but we fought many of the same legal battles,” my father told us.

“So efforts to close the Premier were also used to try to close down Club Juana?” I asked.

“That’s right. The only business we shared is adult star appearances,” he went on. “Whenever a popular actress came to the Premier to promote a new movie, Mike would also hire her for a performance at Club Juana.”

It turned out that Mike Pinter and my father were kindred spirits who, together, had helped bring “smut” (as Grandma Maria would say) to Central Florida. Mike had even famously created the “Macbeth in the Buff” show in the late nineties, which was a strategy he used to successfully circumvent an anti-nudity ordinance. In the show, actresses and strippers would recite Shakespeare on stage while naked. A local judge ruled the stage act was a form of art, thus creating a new loophole in the law and allowing the show to continue. This stunt landed Mike’s performers on the Howard Stern Show, and the publicity generated from the act had been great for business. The law never changed on the books but this strategy permanently changed the way nudity was handled in this community.

I had never been to a strip club before, and to make things even stranger, I was going with my father. What would we talk about as naked women paraded past us?

When we arrived at the club, we were immediately ushered past the long Friday night line. Once inside, Mike Pinter greeted us with a toothy grin. I had met Mike many times before. His thick dark hair, with a slightly receding hairline, was pulled back in a tight ponytail. He wore jeans with a big belt buckle and cowboy boots. He had just opened a country western bar, which was doing quite well, and his clothing reflected it.

My father shook Mike’s hand, and by the firmness of their grip, it was obvious that they had a deep respect for one another. Then Mike escorted us through the crowded club to a large reserved booth with white vinyl seating, purple lighting, and a small lamp in the center of the table.

Mike’s girlfriend, Marlene, appeared from back stage and joined us at the table. She wasn’t a stripper, but she had free range of the club. She was a pretty, petite blonde who dressed in the typical Florida fashion: big jewelry, a tight-fitting dress that showed just a hint of cleavage, and slip-on high-heeled sandals. She sat down next to me and we chatted like old girlfriends. I had known Marlene for a long time, too, and had met her at family parties and when my family traveled to Orlando for vacations or was passing through on our way to Philadelphia

A waitress wearing a skimpy black tank top and short-shorts—basically a dressier version of a Hooters’ uniform—took our drink orders. From our table, we had a clear view of the large stage, which had four runways jutting out into the audience. The stages were just low enough so that dancers could easily bend over to collect their tips and chat up customers. And there was enough room between each stage for pole acrobatics.

I studied the dancers. They wore assorted styles of G-strings and easily removable tops that were variously styled to fit their personalities. Some donned black leather with thin chains dangling over their butt cheeks. Others wore sailor caps or cowboy hats, and one girl even managed a hippy flower-girl-ensemble—complete with a white daisy tucked behind her ear—giving her a naughty-but-innocent allure. I also noticed that all the dancers seemed to have different body types ranging from thin to full-figured, short to tall, small-breasted to large-breasted, and everything in between.

“There’s something for everyone here,” Marlene said, noticing that I was observing the room. “No two strippers are the same.”

“I guess I always thought that all strippers had big boobs,” I said with a laugh.

“This is a great place!” Christopher said to no one in particular, and I watched him lean back into his seat and laugh, taking in the view with wide eyes.

Then I glanced over at my father, hoping not to catch his eye. He barely seemed to notice the nude women all around him. Instead, he was engaged in an intense conversation with Mike, who was seated just to his right. He’s seen this stuff a million times, I thought. It must be boring to him. To me, he looked like any ordinary businessman, chatting with another businessman.

The music at Club Juana was booming, making it difficult to talk too long to anyone. And at times, I just didn’t know where to put my eyes—what with so many interactions occurring between the strippers and customers all around me. I was like voyeur in plain sight and in awe that someone could be so free with her body. I wished I wasn’t so shy.

“Let’s take a minute to welcome Brandi to the stage!” I heard the DJ announce over the crowd. “She’s from Atlanta and loves hunky cowboys!”

Throughout the night, different dancers were introduced in this way, and after a short strip performance, each girl would then disappear into the crowd to talk with eagerly awaiting patrons. Marlene and I watched the performances as if everyone was fully clothed and chatted like we were in a regular dance club.

“So,” Marlene said. “How’s New York?”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“It must be exciting to live in a big city.”

“Manhattan has been good, but I think I’ve lived there long enough.”

Marlene smiled and nodded. “I know what you mean. I love it when Mike and I go to New York to shop, see a show. But it would be hard to live there I think.” After a pause, she leaned over and said, “Aren’t you glad you went to school so you don’t have to do this kind of work?”

I looked at her in surprise. “I guess,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“You would strip?” Marlene asked, surprised herself.

I told her that I didn’t think I’d have the guts to take off my clothes in front of strangers. “But these girls seem to make a lot of money,” I said.

“Oh, yeah, they make a killer living. The best girls can make a thousand dollar a night.”

“A thousand dollars!”

“Uh huh. And some of them are going to school. This is how they pay for college.”

As a social worker, I was only making about $800 every two weeks. I looked at one of the dancers, who was tall, thin, and flat-chested. She was standing next to a customer whose drink was tilted almost diagonally. He looked at her like she was an angel and he seemed fascinated by every word she had to say. She gave him a smile, and he handed her a couple of bills that she quickly slipped into the side of her G-string. At that moment, I had an impulse that maybe I could do a job like this. But instantly the fear of performing and the thought of being naked in public just freaked me out.

We stayed at Club Juana for about two hours. I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow that night and I didn’t even know what to think yet about my porn-a-palooza day. But I was glad to have finally caught a glimpse of my father’s business. Tomorrow we would head to Cocoa Beach to see the Beach Video Store, which was owned by a collection of my family members. My father had owned this store with both Cousin Danny and Uncle Coke, who was Danny’s father, but Uncle Coke had passed away the previous year of lung cancer, leaving all his business interests to Danny. My father missed Uncle Coke tremendously, and Danny was still grieving over the loss of his father—in fact, he had left Uncle Coke’s house, car, and personal items untouched since his passing.

Whenever he traveled to this part of Florida for business, my father stayed at Uncle Coke’s house. When we arrived, we immediately opened the widows to circulate fresh air. Everything was left in its original place as if Uncle Coke might return at any moment. Uncle Coke’s dentures were still in a cup the bathroom.

“Dad, can’t you do anything to help Danny sell the house?” I said as I came out of the bedroom. “Or at least box up Uncle Coke’s things?”

“I’ve tried, but he just won’t do it. He hasn’t paid the property tax either.”

“That’s crazy,” Christopher said. Christopher and I gave each other a knowing look about the strangeness that seemed to exist in our family.

“You should call your mother,” my father said to Christopher, changing the subject.

Christopher reluctantly agreed and he picked up the phone and dialed. “Hi, Mom. We’re at Uncle’s Coke’s house in Cocoa Beach.”

I could hear my aunt asking him, “So what have you been doing down there?”

“Nothing much,” Christopher said, and he shot me a coy glance. “Went out to dinner last night, did some sightseeing.”

I tried not to laugh.

When Christopher finished his call, we walked over to the next street to visit Danny and his family and were greeted at the door by Danny’s wife, Martha.

“We were wondering when yous would get here,” she said, her Philly accent still thick.

Martha led us into the family room where Danny was watching TV. He swiveled his recliner around to face us, then struggled to get to his feet. He weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds.

He hadn’t lost a pound since his father’s funeral.

“How’s your trip been Kris?” Cousin Danny asked in his soft spoken way.

“Good, so glad to be away from the cold weather up north.”

“You’re headed to Beach Video?”

“Yes, I have never been there.”

“Well, it’s doing well. We’re quite happy with it.”

After our family visit, we all headed to the Cocoa Beach store, which was located across the street from the wildly popular flagship Ron Jon’s Surf Shop and in close proximity to the beach. It was a tiny shop—about a quarter the size of the Premier. Christopher and I browsed the narrow aisles as my father went into the back room to account for some inventory and to make note of new products he needed to order.

As I browsed, I noticed a Traci Lords video on the shelves. I had heard about this famously underage porn star who had hoodwinked the industry into believing she was eighteen years old when, in fact, she had begun performing in adult movies at age sixteen. She was later busted, and many people with whom she had worked were put under investigation for child pornography. Just before Traci Lords was discovered for this, she had started her own production company and launched her first movie starring, of course, herself. This was the only Traci Lords movie ever to sell legally, since she made it just after turning eighteen.

“Dad, is this Traci Lords title still selling well?” I asked.

“I can’t keep it on the shelf.”

I looked at the box, titled Traci I Love You, and I thought about how Lords was, at that time, beginning to have some mainstream acting success. It was interesting to me that people found her fascinating and I wasn’t sure if it was her business savvy or if she really had talent. Maybe both, but she seemed to have a lot of control over her business.

“Let’s walk to the pier,” Dad said after he finished his work. We left the store and we walked across the street. The smell of salty air filled my nose. We watched the fisherman lazily awaiting tugs on their lines. Cocoa Beach was not nearly as busy as other Florida beaches like Fort Lauderdale or Miami. It was a quiet town on the verge of being discovered.

It was hard to believe my father’s store in Cocoa Beach managed to do a healthy business but it did because there was very little competition. My father knew what he was doing. Though the exteriors of his stores didn’t look like much, they’d been successful for decades.

*

The next day, Dad drove me and Christopher to the Orlando airport.

“If you were staying one more day, you would have seen the space shuttle taking off.”

“I haven’t seen one take off since I was in middle school,” I said, thinking back to a seventh grade trip to Cape Canaveral. I felt sad to leave Florida but I was ready to return to my boyfriend, to my clients, and to the place that, for the moment, I considered home.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Christopher whispered to me as he prepared to board his plane. “We need to debrief about all this.”

“Absolutely,” I said with a knowing look.

Then we both broke down in laughter.

After Christopher left, I waited at the gate with my father as he read the day’s paper. We made small talk about his next visit to New York, and about his schedule for the upcoming week. We didn’t mention anything more about our tour of his stores, or about Club Juana, or about our family. I was reviewing Monday’s client list in my mind and steeling myself for my return to New York—which seemed a world away from my past, and from my father’s present.