On the Beach of the Beasts

“Money never made a man happy yet, nor will it. The more a man has, the more he wants. Instead of filling a vacuum, it makes one.”

– Benjamin Franklin

Enjoying a muggy morning on this bay where I've spent nearly half of my life now.

But yesterday I left this tranquility for the utter misery of crawling along in traffic on what used to be called Back Beach Road, limping along in a river of brake lights.

Eventually that extended traffic jam gave way to another extended traffic jam as I drove across south Walton County to Destin, where I spent a day trying to settle a case.

It all was a stark reminder of why I don't miss "The Beaches of South Walton", as the billboards proclaim, a world so far from tacky Bay County that it might as well be another country, a plutocratic playground for people with more money than you could even imagine.

And they're all so damned unhappy. It's startling if you've been away for a while. Peg and I lived barely a block from the beach over there after the Storm, and grew to dislike not only the stunning traffic--P loves to remind me that it took 40 minutes to cover the five or six miles from home to office--but also the "I've got mine and screw you" attitude of those maintaining second or third or even fourth homes there. The private beaches with armed guards sitting under umbrellas in lawn chairs, there to prevent you from committing the act of social revolution that placing a beach chair between someone's house and the Gulf represents to these people. The utter lack of community, and neighbors trying to take advantage of neighbors. The huge apartment warehouses to ensure the indentured servants aren't too far from their masters without putting them anywhere near the boutiques and restaurants favored by the very wealthy.

What strikes me about my interactions with the denizens of this dystopia is how either unhappy or sociopathic they tend to be. The former are folks who made a great deal of money and thought that buying a vacation place in paradise among others who made a great deal of money would be the key that unlocked the door to paradise. These people believed the marketing materials, sighed at the white sands and emerald green water, and figured if it was that expensive, it must also be that good. Anger and disappointment roll off of them like fog off dry ice, and the unhappiness often translates into some pretty petty behavior.

Then there are the sociopaths, the kind of people who made their money generally in some unscrupulous way (politics or marketing the Margaritaville fantasy figuring prominently in this class of resident), spouse either jacked on steroids (male) or with so much plastic surgery as to look like a monster from a Twilight Zone episode (female). Or maybe Kristi Noem, come to think of it. These people, most of whom have little or no real education, faith tradition, or anything else beyond lucre, feel the money validates them, validates the way they interact with the world. They're affable, tan, smiling, and not very nice at all. They're capable of any small cruelty that will add a check on their side of the great ledger of life.

Do I miss it? Not at all. This trip has reminded me of that.

About to embark on another mediation in a few minutes, this time representing a client who's also an old friend. I had supper with another old friend last night, and am taking the son by a different father to supper tonight. It's all a lot to pack in before I mediate yet another case tomorrow and try to race back to NY as soon as it's done. The winds are favorable. I just hope the weather holds.