When my Dad, in 1956, decided to move to the Elephant's Graveyard, it was a mega-amp culture shock for watashi. We came from Charleston, WVa, which wasn't NYC but did have 120,000 population, pot-holed paved streets, a jillion traffic lights, speakeasies, and a few hookers. All the amenities a cosmopolite expects. Naples, on the other hand, had two traffic lights and most streets were paved with crushed Coquina shells. (They did have three lights--the third in the 3rd Street South shopping area--but folks complained about it so much they'd turned it off.
I'd been going to Marshall, trying to win a football scholarship. I was awarded, instead, a cranked knee. So, the move to Naples didn't interrupt my very indefinite plans. At first, I enjoyed the fishing--wonderful at the time--then decided I should engage in something productive.
I waited until the bi-weekly edition of the Collier County News came out, then looked in the employment section. Didn't take long. Two jobs, one as a stake-holder for a surveyor and the other for an ambulance driver at Pittman's Funeral Home. On exploring these opportunities, I found the previous stake-holder had been bitten by a rattler while surveying the Big Cypress. No thanks. And Dick Pittman really wanted an apprentice embalmer. Nope.
Having worked part-time in construction since I was a pup, I started exploring that old trade. Found a job open the first day. Fritz Thurner, at Naples Construction Company, was building Naples' first beachfront condo, The Bahama Club. Asked Fritz what he needed and he replied "Laborers." Asked him what it payed. He replied, "a dollar and hour."
Now back in West-by-God a laborer was paid two-fifty and hour, so I told Fritz I'd look around until I found something closer to my scale. Fritz just smiled. Didn't take me long to figure out why. He had the only construction company in Naples! So within a few hours I was pouring the tie-beam, concrete bucket by bucket- full, with two Seminole Indians.
Lasted about two weeks. I'd never experienced such heat and when the two Seminoles almost passed out, I decided I was in the wrong tee-pee.
At the time every young male had a seven-year military obligation. Since I'd been in the Navy Reserves over two years, I decided to get on the Bloodhound bus, go to Miami, and ship-over to the Regulars.
In Miami, the recruiter said he couldn't take me for two-weeks, but a Marine recruiter, lurking around the office, said he could take me the next day and he'd put me up in a nice hotel overnight. He was honest in telling me that the Marines weren't any picnic, especially boot camp at Parris Island. He wondered if I was up to that. I answered, "Sir, if it's any harder than what I've been doin' the last two weeks, I'm gonna be real surprised." And I was.
And, irony of ironies, years later, when I went to work for the NPD, the money was so short I had to take a part-time job. Yep, you guessed it: working at Pittman's Funeral Home. Driving an ambulance.
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