We South Floridians are a cynical lot, although we don’t call ourselves “cynical;” we simply say we are “realistic.”
For example, recently when we were out to dinner and I saw a staggeringly unattractive middle-aged fat man canoodling with a gorgeous young woman, it never occurred to me that it may have been unconditional love: I just assumed that money would be changing hands that evening. Wouldn’t you? Similarly, last week I was chatting with a couple of neighbors, both women in their mid-50’s with not a gray hair or a wrinkle between them. Did I think, ”Wow! Good genes!” Nope – I just assumed that they had had some work done. Who wouldn’t?
As I see it, the problem is not when I let my cynicism influence me, the problem is when I don’t. I think of this now because about a year ago I was looking for tenants to rent my mom’s condo which she vacated when she moved in with my sister. Selling the condo in the current real estate market seemed foolish so I placed an ad on Craigslist and prospective tenants beat a path to our door.
A more fascinating cross section of Fort Lauderdale has never been seen. There was the man who was so heavily tattooed that he looked like he had slept in a printing press. There was the woman who had so many piercings that she resembled a chain link fence brought to life. There was the 20 year old boy who came in attached to a leash held by the 60-year old man he called “Daddy.” There was the nice couple with the cute baby who seemed perfect until the Condo Board’s background check revealed that they had both been convicted of assault on their previous landlord.
Seeing this cavalcade of losers made me think we should just leave the apartment empty until the market improved but then two very handsome, clean-cut young men came knocking on the door. They both looked like they had stepped out of a toothpaste commercial. They were respectful and eager to rent the apartment. They said they could cover the first and last month’s rent and the security deposit. They called me “Sir” and earnestly assured me they would have no trouble passing the background check.
What these two paragons did not have were jobs, and this gave me an uneasy feeling as I watched them get into their black Escalade and drive away. “They’re drug dealers,” I told my partner when I went home.
He disagreed “You are so cynical,” he said. “They’re probably Trust Fund Babies.” That seemed plausible, after all this is Fort Lauderdale, so I buried my apprehension. Soon after I was told that they passed the background check with flying colors, so when they wrote a check and signed the lease, I was ashamed of my cynicism.
The boys were ideal tenants. They paid the rent on time and I heard from them so rarely that I pretty much forgot about them until last month when the Condo President called. “Did you hear about the raid?” she asked.
My heart skipped a beat. “No,” I said faintly, “I didn’t.”
At 3 AM the previous night the boys had been busted for selling crystal meth to an undercover Broward Sherriff’s agent; apparently they had been under surveillance from the moment they moved in. The boys were in custody and the sheriffs were systematically tearing the condo apart looking for drugs, cash and weapons.
“It may be a while before you can rent it again,” said the President, while I considered burning the building down and sowing the ground with salt. “Next time don’t rent to young people,” she added. “It never ends well.”
“That’s awfully cynical,” I said.