Randy Gresham is the founder and president emeritus of NewTown Writers. He is founder and original editor of Off The Rocks anthology. His novel, The Palace, was serialized in the Atlanta Midtown Times from 1991 through 1992. He is author of several plays, including Boys Night Out and All's Fair. He is an actor and has appeared in several venues in the Chicago and Atlanta area. He is an artist. Included among his works is an original interpretation of the Tarot.
As he has for decades, an elegant gentleman takes tea with friends in their habitual Florida winter resort. Familiars of many years, following their seasonal out-of-date traditions, he and the group seem a relic of the past to the current world. Time remains frozen until one afternoon the elegant gentleman spots a handsome young man staring into the courtyard. Startled at what he sees, the young man's appearance reminds the gentleman of...something...and everything changes.
The story unfolds in a series of vignettes or “snapshots”. It travels back and forth between the present and events from the elegant man's past. Two men of different generation seem drawn together through destiny. A tragedy from the older man's past is revealed, and the two discover something that surprises both of them.
The resort’s disintegrating old courtyard is enclosed by painted concrete walls whose original salmon color has faded. On the side facing the ocean, an old wrought iron gate gives to the beach. Seasons of relentless Florida sunlight have left their legacy. Decades of tropical rain and hurricanes have streaked and discolored them. Bougainvillea drips down their facades. In the middle of the courtyard, there is a washed out ocean-themed mosaic consisting of sea horses, crabs, fish of various colors, and young boys riding dolphins. In its center a chipped fountain trickles. Afternoon shadows inch their way across multi-colored, uneven marble slabs marking the passage of time. At regular distances small cement planters, turning moss-green with age, support fragrant tropical flowers. Larger vessels, one in each corner, contain cycad palms, trees known as living fossils.
Surrounding the fountain are little cabanas providing shade for the guests sitting at the small low tables found within the booths. The tables are covered with white linen cloths, napkins, and china. Slightly removed in a shaded cove, a harpist plucks fond memories. There are little clinking noises and the soft buzzing sound of conversation punctuated with an occasional laugh or exclamation. Accents of every variety, from all sections of this country and Europe, spill out into the open air.
The visitors are taking their afternoon tea. The guests drink from eggshell thin cups bearing the monogram of the hotel. Everything is very fine and delicate like the elderly guests themselves, who claim this resort as their own, and enjoy this daily ritual. They are a study: hair, light gray or white, perhaps a rare golden girl dyed blond, pastel outfits, porcelain skin. Although this is Florida, not one of those gathered here appears to have ever spent time in the sun. Many have been coming to this resort for the season since their youth. Some sport the fashions of their earlier years. Were the surroundings not so declined, one could easily imagine this occurring sixty years ago. Those here seem completely oblivious to the time that has passed since then.
Waiters hover around the patrons. The wait staff is made up of men of near uniform height and appearance. They are of advanced middle age and serve in tuxedos and white gloves. The exchange between server and customers suggest the manners of a former time, a curious “on holiday” camaraderie that doesn’t violate the old standards of propriety. The waiters are attentive without being obsequious. They bow ever so slightly as they place the tea service on the tables. It is all very gracious. The waiters, passing each other en route to or from the resort’s kitchen, exchange knowing glances, as if in on a commonly held secret.
There is a slightly musty smell in the air, barely discernible. It is the smell old resorts get in hot, humid climates, an odor that persists in spite of antiseptic cleansers and regular scrubbings. It is something primal, not disguised by artifice. It suggests salt water, brackish ponds, the elemental and forbidding jungle. This scent is mixed with that of spices, citrus, seasonings and flowers. The heavy combination produces a sense of somnolence.
Beyond the walls, outside, there are the sights and sounds of the other world, the modern world: flashing neon, traffic, skateboards, the roar of automobiles, motorcycles, motorboats, all impinging on this insular world of tea in the courtyard. The sun is hot and glaring on the beach. Dark, near naked bodies lie on towels, or walk by, speaking of things and in tones that are vulgar beyond example to the ears of these elegant patrons. The smell of tanning oil, cheap liquor, tobacco and pot waft into the cloistered space, bruising the afternoon ambiance.
Occasionally, a pedestrian or a group of them, en route to sand and ocean stops and glances inside the courtyard. A young, highly tattooed woman looks completely puzzled, a group of rail-thin teenagers finds the ritual ridiculous and laugh as they walk away from the curious scene. A deeply tanned, young man with pierced nipples reacts with curiosity. A graceful patron, balancing his paper thin china cup with supreme aplomb, glances at the youth. For the briefest instant, the guest stops talking and assumes a very strange expression. He and the young man seem to react with complete and utter astonishment. Each to the other must seem a peculiar specimen of alien life, and yet something makes it all but impossible for their eyes to part.
A quick sniff, a tightening lip, the patron returns to his partner at tea, and resumes his conversation. It is all so very lovely, really it is. He hopes it will remain like this always, always.
Surrounding the fountain are little cabanas providing shade for the guests sitting at the small low tables found within the booths. The tables are covered with white linen cloths, napkins, and china. Slightly removed in a shaded cove, a harpist plucks fond memories. There are little clinking noises and the soft buzzing sound of conversation punctuated with an occasional laugh or exclamation. Accents of every variety, from all sections of this country and Europe, spill out into the open air.
The visitors are taking their afternoon tea. The guests drink from eggshell thin cups bearing the monogram of the hotel. Everything is very fine and delicate like the elderly guests themselves, who claim this resort as their own, and enjoy this daily ritual. They are a study: hair, light gray or white, perhaps a rare golden girl dyed blond, pastel outfits, porcelain skin. Although this is Florida, not one of those gathered here appears to have ever spent time in the sun. Many have been coming to this resort for the season since their youth. Some sport the fashions of their earlier years. Were the surroundings not so declined, one could easily imagine this occurring sixty years ago. Those here seem completely oblivious to the time that has passed since then.
Waiters hover around the patrons. The wait staff is made up of men of near uniform height and appearance. They are of advanced middle age and serve in tuxedos and white gloves. The exchange between server and customers suggest the manners of a former time, a curious “on holiday” camaraderie that doesn’t violate the old standards of propriety. The waiters are attentive without being obsequious. They bow ever so slightly as they place the tea service on the tables. It is all very gracious. The waiters, passing each other en route to or from the resort’s kitchen, exchange knowing glances, as if in on a commonly held secret.
There is a slightly musty smell in the air, barely discernible. It is the smell old resorts get in hot, humid climates, an odor that persists in spite of antiseptic cleansers and regular scrubbings. It is something primal, not disguised by artifice. It suggests salt water, brackish ponds, the elemental and forbidding jungle. This scent is mixed with that of spices, citrus, seasonings and flowers. The heavy combination produces a sense of somnolence.
Beyond the walls, outside, there are the sights and sounds of the other world, the modern world: flashing neon, traffic, skateboards, the roar of automobiles, motorcycles, motorboats, all impinging on this insular world of tea in the courtyard. The sun is hot and glaring on the beach. Dark, near naked bodies lie on towels, or walk by, speaking of things and in tones that are vulgar beyond example to the ears of these elegant patrons. The smell of tanning oil, cheap liquor, tobacco and pot waft into the cloistered space, bruising the afternoon ambiance.
Occasionally, a pedestrian or a group of them, en route to sand and ocean stops and glances inside the courtyard. A young, highly tattooed woman looks completely puzzled, a group of rail-thin teenagers finds the ritual ridiculous and laugh as they walk away from the curious scene. A deeply tanned, young man with pierced nipples reacts with curiosity. A graceful patron, balancing his paper thin china cup with supreme aplomb, glances at the youth. For the briefest instant, the guest stops talking and assumes a very strange expression. He and the young man seem to react with complete and utter astonishment. Each to the other must seem a peculiar specimen of alien life, and yet something makes it all but impossible for their eyes to part.
A quick sniff, a tightening lip, the patron returns to his partner at tea, and resumes his conversation. It is all so very lovely, really it is. He hopes it will remain like this always, always.
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