This is the longest post I have done in a while.

You might want to schedule a good trim to read it. And make sure wine is close at hand.

 

Last year I listened to two audible books about time-travel. Each book shared a common theme about people traveling to their own past while retaining memories of their current lives. Thus, they were able to correct mistakes, avoid problems, and so on.

I love books about time-travel but these two books really captured my special attention. They got me thinking about my own past and what changes I would make if I could go back yet retain my current memories. I ponder these thoughts while driving, working on the Cross House, or before falling asleep. I would much rather ponder time-travel than count sheep.

 

I graduated high school in 1975. My childhood had been extraordinarily difficult with physical, sexual, and verbal abuse, and all I wanted once released from school was to escape from my family and from the life that I had known.

Soon after graduation I went to my first gay bar, Rene’s, in Tampa. Upon stepping into the bar my life dramatically changed in an instant. For, during my whole existence I had been a despised minority but upon walking into Rene’s all of a sudden everything was different. Every single person in the bar was just like me and none of us despised each other. What I experienced was something I doubt any heterosexual can ever understand as they are born into a majority and can never know what sexual minorities go through. My first night at Rene’s changed everything. I had stepped into a brand new reality. I could never go back.

During the last few years of school, most of my fellow classmates prepared to enter college but the last thing I wanted was to add four more years of being told what to do, four more years of being a despised minority, and four more years of having my life dictated by others. And to do this voluntarily seemed an act of breathtaking masochism.

So I made a decision: Rather than spend four years in college, I would pursue freedom and having a good time. There was though a self-imposed caveat: Upon my 22nd birthday I had to be doing something that would be at least an introduction to a serious professional career. At 18, I was not sure what that something would be but I had a few years to make that decision.

Meanwhile? Party on.

 

After a few job missteps, I ended up waiting tables at the famous Tiki Gardens for three years. The restaurant was on the west edge of Pinellas Peninsula while I lived on the east edge. The drive was 45-minutes. Each way.

I worked the night shift so my days were free. This, I loved. For six nights a week I would finish work around 10-11PM, drive home, meet with my friends, and we would gather in my 1966 Thunderbird and drive to the discos. We would dance till 2AM, then drive home. Unless…an encounter revealed itself. But, mostly, I was home by 3AM.

Sleeping till late morning I would wake and then spend 2 hours getting a tan. This was required of all Florida residents.

After showering, I would often get together with a friend to haunt antique stores and thrift shops. Or see a movie. Saturday afternoon was the big thrill: the flea market.

This is how The Party Years years elapsed. Yes, I had a silly life.

 

 

 

There were however brief moments which would presage a deeper, richer, more complex life.

I met Howard in a disco. We got together. Unusually, we also became friends as we discovered a mutual passion for historic preservation. Bit by bit, my afternoons became less about antique shopping and more about looking at fabulous old building in danger which abounded in the city. I also wrote my first letter to the editor:

 

 

 

For my whole life I loved architecture and old buildings, and had fantasized about buying houses, fixing them up, and selling them. I tried to buy one of my apartments, which was the 1st floor of a converted 2-story 1920s house. I returned to the downtown bank which had finance my Thunderbird, and spoke to the same officer, Mrs. LaDuke. She gently laughed at my aspirations. “Ross, the house is listed at $28,000, which is twice what you can afford.”

Me: “But the upstairs unit will pay half the mortgage!”

Officer: “That may prove true but we can’t count on it. Your salary needs to be enough to pay the mortgage. But, I’ll tell you what. If you can find a house for no more than $14,000, in decent shape, I’ll be happy to provide the mortgage. Something tells me that, if we invest in you now, over time you might prove one of our best customers.”

After dancing for three years, by 1978, overnight, antique shopping and tanning vanished and I spent my afternoons scouring neighborhoods for a $14K house. My silly life had made a dramatic detour.

On First Avenue North I found my dream: A 2-bedroom 1920s bungalow, listed at $13,800. It was in good shape but hippies had painted the interior in LSD-induced colors and this scared off buyers. I knew that by simply painting the interior the house would be worth $18K. I suspected I could get the house for $12K. I planned to offer $10K.

My parent’s approved of the idea. “It’s a nice house. We know you can do wonders with it.”

I returned to the bank. Mrs. LaDuke smiled. “I knew I’d see you again.”

The paperwork was begun.

Driving the 90 minutes back/forth to work all I could think of was my new house. After years and years thinking about old house I was soon to own one.

The plan was to move in upon closing, and spend my afternoons repairing and painting. The outside needed no work. The kitchen needed a new counter which Dad offered to do.  After six months, I figured, the bungalow would be re-offered for sale at, say, $19,500. But I would accept $18K. The profit would be more money than I had ever seen.

This would be plowed into yet another purchase. Then another and so on. I figured that in 5 years maybe I could quit waiting tables and work full-time fixing up old house. I fantasized about being a real estate mogul by the time I was 40.

My tan faded. As did my silly life. I was twenty-one.

 

My mom shattered my new dream.

But, I had an older dream: moving to New York City. This seemed vital to realizing my pact: having my toe in the door of a serious career by my 22nd birthday, and the big city seemed the only place to afford this possibility

However, the new house dream profoundly conflicted with the older NYC dream. Then I had an idea: what if I simply delayed moving to NYC? I could flip, say, two or three house, and then move. This would put some cash in my pocket, something I did not have at the time. Surely moving to NYC with $10K would be vastly better than with $100?

I conveyed all this to mom. A few days later she wanted to talk with me.

“If you don’t move to NYC, you might spend the rest of your life wondering: What Might Have Happened? No matter how successful you might be in St. Pete, you may always wonder how much more successful you might have been in NY. At forty, you might think: If I had moved to NYC, I might own the Empire State Building by now! And, this may eat at you. It might destroy any sense of accomplishment. Instead, I think you should let the bungalow go, move to NYC, and see what happens. It might prove overwhelming and you will come back to Florida. But at least you will have tried! It might prove, well, so-so and after a few years you might return. But at least you will have tried! You might, of course, realize your wildest dreams and you’ll be forever grateful you made the bold choice.”

What Might Have Happened?

What Might Have Happened?

What Might Have Happened?

This phrase gnawed at me as I could envision exactly such a thought eroding my happiness in the decades to follow, like an ever-growing cancer.

Thus, more than anything, the phrase pushed me to embrace the big decision. In the fall of 1978, I moved to New York City so that, upon my 22nd birthday, I would…it was hoped…be on the road to a serious life.

Many years would elapse before I understood that I had already been on the road to a serious life.

 

My new life was hard. Breathtakingly so. The first year in particular. This, looking back, was to be expected. I had moved to the city with…gasp…$200 in my wallet. I had no contacts, no formal education, and only a vague idea of what a Serious Life would be.

After about eight months, and desperate, I got a job as…sigh…a waiter.

The same job I had in Florida.

Fuck.

 

Near the end of my first year a miracle happened. A job that I had interviewed for months previously became available. Did I still want it? Why yes. Yes I did.

The job was crap. It paid crap. But it was in the prestigious Donghia furniture and fabric showroom in the prestigious D&D building on Third Avenue, Upper East Side. My thought was that, no matter how crappy the job was, I would likely have the opportunity to meet the best of the best in the design community. And this assumption would prove accurate.

I quit the job after a year and in 1981 took a position working for an actual interior designer. I had been recommended by John Hutton, who was the furniture designer for Donghia. In 1985 I founded my own company, had a dazzling party in the Crystal Room of Tavern on the Green in Central Park, and invited John as my VIP guest. He beamed with pleasure.

While my first few years in the city were overwhelmed with financial stress, the latter half of the 1980s was blessed with success. I did very well, and occupied a huge duplex apartment in Little Italy, purchased a gorgeous 1929 70-foot wooden yacht, Alondra, drove around in a classic 1972 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, and spent weekends in the 3-story Colonial-era house in Newport, Rhode Island.

I. Had. Made. It. What I had accomplished in ten years was astonishing.

The price? Unrelenting hard hard hard work and constant financial worries. New York City is an expensive, tough place.

By the very late 1980s I began to weary of this life. While I had surpassed my wildest dreams the price paid was too much. My life was 99% work and 1% play. In 1987 I had turned 30.

There had to be a better way. This awareness nagged at me.

The early 1990s were scary as the economy took a dive, interest rates went through the roof, and new projects vanished. It seemed a precipitous time to leave NYC. I finished my projects and moved, full-time, to my house in Newport. I had no idea at the time what a disastrous decision this would prove.

Then, in 1991, I embarked on a real-estate adventure with three other people: At last, at last, buying up houses, fixing them up, and selling them. I had no idea at the time what a disastrous decision this would prove.

In 1992, two of the partners fucked over the other two. I was part of the unlucky duo.

During the ensuing years it felt like my skin was being flayed off as, bit by bit, I was unable to prevent total financial catastrophe. By early 1996 I was homeless. In July, I arrived via a bicycle in very rural Kansas, penniless, but with a room and food offered for work. At the time I would have laughed at the idea that in 2023, twenty-seven-years later, I would still be in Kansas. I have never lived anywhere for so long.

It seems a miracle that I managed to rebuild my life, get two books published, and create a company in 2006 that would prove wildly successful, even surpassing my best NYC gross income, an achievement I never, ever expected could happen again.

My 12 years in NYC were, mostly, unhappy. It was all so backbreaking and soul-killing. My years though in Kansas have been the best of my life.

Had somebody predicted this when I was, say, twenty, I would have laughed out loud. I mean, Kansas? Really?

 

WHAT MIGHT HAVE HAPPENED?

My mother had warned me about the danger of not pursuing a dream. Ironically though, her prophecy proved correct but not in the way she meant it, nor the way I took it at the time.

What Might Have Happened?

To this day I am haunted by this idea: What if I have never moved to NYC? What if I had, instead, purchased the 1920s bungalow and spent my life saving fabulous old houses and buildings in St. Petersburg?

There is no way to answer this question but perhaps my life would have been deeply more satisfying than the life I experienced between late 1978 and, say, 2006. These 28-years were like nails on a chalkboard.

Of course, had I stayed in Florida I might have died in a car crash at some point. Meaning, that the grass might not have proved greener had I stayed in Florida. Or, I might have proved a huge success but lost everything when the economy collapsed in the early 1990s. Thus, the financial ruin I experienced in the early 1990s might have happened nonetheless had I never left Florida. Or, maybe not.

Yea, time-travel is weird.

 

What if though I could travel back in time but with my current memories intact?

What if?

It takes my breath away how many things I would do differently. And it has been great fun these past months fantasizing about What Might Have Happened?

 

CHANGE:

In high school, I would have taken a course in photography. Today, anybody can snap a photo and print it out. It is effortless. This was not the case in the 1970s.

I wish I had learned this. With such an ability I could have scoured the city documenting houses, downtown, commercial buildings, the stunning destruction by the new Interstate being rammed through the city, and so on. Today, this would be an extraordinary, unique archive. I could have published several books about the city. I would have ADORED all this.

CHANGE:

I would have walked up those steps and hugged Tom Payne.

CHANGE:

I would not have spent a single hour getting a tan.

CHANGE:

I would have gone disco dancing only rarely.

CHANGE:

Rather then get a job so so so far away, waiting tables, I would have gone to the downtown Cadillac dealer and offered my services. “I would like to clean Cadillac’s that are traded in. I’m really good at this. I’ll offer my services for 5 days, free. If, at the end of this period you like my work, I’d like to be paid for those 5 days, and then be hired. I’d like to work at night, like between 4PM and 11PM.”

Would this offer had been accepted? If so, my life would have been vastly easier driving so much less, and doing something I would have loved. I was a Cadillac aficionado at the time.

Had this happened I would heve perhaps become a salesperson with an attendant increase in income.

By having my days free, I could then have scoured the city looking at real estate, only leaving the dealership when real estate could support me.

CHANGE:

I would have tried to purchase a house as soon as possible. Would Mrs. LaDuke have given me a mortgage when I was, say, nineteen? Maybe. But she would have done so with the 1920s bungalow when I was 21. I would have focused my attention on the Old Northeast Neighborhood, which I loved. It was just north of downtown, filled with wonderful houses, but had long ago lost its prime status. During the late 1970s and 1980s I would have snapped up every house I could and kept most as rentals. In 1972 my mom and dad and myself looked at a house on 7th Avenue NE which was listed for $13,000. Today, the neighborhood has become white hot and the 7th Avenue house is valued at almost $1.4 million.

CHANGE:

I would not have purchased a 1966 Thunderbird. The car needed endless work and guzzled gas.

CHANGE:

I would not have slept around. Rather, I would have sought out a man to have a relationship with. I vividly recall Daniel Troy who was smart, gorgeous, and adored me. He wanted us to become a couple. I recoiled from this, terrified at losing my freedom. Yes, I was an idiot. In 1985 I found the many letters Daniel had written me and I sobbed. Just gushes of tears. He was a remarkable, generous man and I causally discarded him. Yes, I was an idiot.

How things might have proved different had I said yes to Daniel?

And there were a few others. Wonderful men that I was blind to. Hello, Merrill! Hello, Dave!

NOT CHANGE:

A cat came into my life when I was 18. She later had babies. I would not change this.

CHANGE:

When I lived in Florida I was constantly coming across vintage lights for nothing or next to nothing. My parent’s garage ended up being filled with lights.

I could have turned this into a business, and opened a small store downtown opened, say, every Saturday. This would have offered a third income source. Then, when the internet happened, oh boy would I have been ready!

CHANGE:

I would never have spoken to Motherfucker Rob From Hell.

CHANGE:

Above all, I regret, profoundly, moving to NYC. I had made myself a promise: Upon my 22nd birthday I had to be doing something that would be at least an introduction to a serious professional career.

But decades would pass before I realized, to my horror, that my promise had already been underway in St. Petersburg. Mrs. LaDuke had offered to finance a dream of mine. I found a dream home.

My promise was already unfolding. The universe was already working to fulfill my promise and I did not see this.

What Might Have Happened had I stayed? Ignoring the power of the universe is profoundly stupid.

 

AND WHO, PERHAPS?

And who, perhaps, would I be today if time-travel were possible?

I would still be 66. Damn.

I would…perhaps…be happily married to a wonderful man, our relationship now spanning four decades. Perhaps his name is Daniel.

We would be living…of course…in the penthouse of the Snell Building, after having purchased the building in the 1980s and then embarking on a meticulous restoration. The lighting showroom would be in one of the storefronts.

I would have a sensible car. Not a Thunderbird or Cadillac!

I would have cats. One of the few things unchanged.

I would have restored many many dozens of houses and commercial properties.

Along with comrades, like Howard, we would have help preserve (even more than has been done) the historic qualities of the city.

Because this is a fantasy, in the 1980s I would have put together a development group to purchase the long-closed Vinoy Park Hotel, downtown, and carefully restore it. This would have been the pinnacle of my life. (The hotel has been renewed but not as I would have done it. I mean, FFS, they discarded the original chandeliers in the foyer and Pompeii Dining Room. Idiots!)

 

BACK TO 2023

All of this is an enjoyable fantasy. If if I could, in fact, time-travel, my life would shift and I would not likey have ended up in Kansas. And thus never purchased the Cross House. While I regret moving to NYC, I have never, even for a moment, regretted buying the Cross House. My decades in Kansas have been, as mentioned, the best of my life. I immensely enjoy the people in my life.

My biggest regret is that I have been single almost all of my adult life. Would this have proved true had I stayed in Florida?

 

During my decades in Kansas I have been able to provide refuge to a great many cats (and a few doggies). I have also helped opossums and skunks and raccoons. It delights me that I have been able to help so many creatures. And what if my whole existence was to simply help White Paws? If so, I would not change a thing.

It is also unbearable to think of not having Gilda in my life for 17 years.

 

I worked incredibly hard in NYC. Yet, I experienced little joy.

I have worked incredly hard in Kansas. And have experienced a lot of joy.

The difference in the locals is partly obvious: New York City is a tough place to live. Kansas is not. The difference is also, likely, attributed to my getting older and developing…can it be?…some wisdom. I am much better at discerning good paths to follow rather than destructive paths. This is one of the few benefits of age. It is a very good benefit.

It has been great fun these past few months thinking about all this but with this posting I know I will finally let go of a decades-long nagging: What If?

It is a question that can never be answered.

And even if it could, the answer might prove…unexpected. Perhaps unpleasantly so.