Work hard, spend a bit, save a bit, lose a lot. The bear market hits home
I was sitting on a cafe terrace on Ocean Drive, nursing a Long Island iced tea and reflecting on how much South Beach had changed since I first went to Miami a quarter of a century ago. Back then the hotels were run down. So were most of the residents, none of whom seemed to be under 70. They spent their days sitting on dilapidated verandahs playing gin rummy. And they spent their evenings plowing through enormous meals in delis which reminded them of Manhattan. It was, I remember thinking, not a bad way to spend one's declining years.
Now their equivalents were nowhere to be seen. They had been swept into retirement communities which claimed to be in places like Fort Lauderdale but were, in fact, miles inland, far, far from the ocean. They had been replaced, if not by the beautiful people then by the wannabe beautiful people. And their accommodations had been transformed into boutique hotels. In the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, I wondered how pastel shades could be quite so violent.
My reverie was interrupted by a loud 'Cooee'. It was Rose, the lady I had sat next to on the plane flying down. A travel agent from upstate New York, she was on a freebie, invited by a cruise operator to inspect one of their latest floating hotels. It wasn't a very big freebie, overnight to Nassau and then back home again.
But then Rose wasn't a very big travel agent. She had started her business from home some ten years ago when her husband had died and her children were still with her. Now she had an office and employed three others - all three were widows like herself.
Having negotiated the roller-bladers on the sidewalk, she climbed the steps, sat herself in the chair opposite and ordered a soda.
'God, they're all so slim,' she said, staring at the passing throng. 'I feel like a creature from another planet.'
'Not your scene?' I ventured.
'Right now anywhere but home is my scene,' she bemoaned. 'I really can't face going back. My accountant keeps telling me I've got to lay someone off and I'm absolutely dreading doing it. Six months ago things were looking so good. Inquiries were up, reservations were up. Now, every time the phone goes, it seems to be a cancellation.
'They tell me the stock market's down, interest rates are down and they're worried about the future so they don't want to spend. My customers are people who work hard, save what they can and sometimes like to splurge a little. They're not speculators. If they invest in the market, they stick to blue chip corporations. They didn't lend money to some Asian dictator's children or to Russian mobsters or to Wall Street snake-oil salesmen. So why should they suffer? Why should my staff suffer? Why should I suffer?'
I was trying to think of something sensible to say in reply - or, if not something sensible, something comfortable. But unfortunately nothing came to mind.
Fortunately, however, Rose's mood changed.
'Heck,' she said. 'Who's suffering? I'm off on a cruise. And I'd better get back to the ship. It's the welcome cocktail party so I've got to make myself look good. And that takes time these days.'
So I settled the check - an amount on which the gin rummy players would have lived for a week. We crossed the road and I saw her into a cab. Then I caught one myself and headed toward the airport.
As we crossed the causeway, I looked across Biscayne Bay toward downtown Miami. There, glittering in the sunshine, was what used to be the CenTrust Tower.
Banking crises are strange things, I thought. When they happen, the guys who cause them get together to sort them out. Or rather to sort themselves out. And they sort themselves out with rescue plans that let them keep their Mercedes and their houses in Connecticut or on Long Island.
The losers are the factory workers in Indonesia, the coal miners in Siberia and the travel agents in upstate New York. People who just want to work hard, save what they can and sometimes splurge a little.