Boca Knights

by Steven M. Forman

  “What heights?”

  “The heights,” I said. “You know, like in Boca Heights.”

  “There are no heights.”

  “Then why is it called Boca Heights?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to the community names around here,” Mike said with a chuckle. “There’s no point at Boca Pointe as far as I know and Boca West is east of Boca Isle, which isn’t remotely an island. Broken Sound, just down Yamato Road, isn’t broken as far as I know and I can’t hear a sound. Can you? Boca Vista doesn’t have a better view than Boca Green, which isn’t any greener than St. Andrews, which isn’t a church. You can’t hunt at the Wood-field Hunt Club and I don’t know what the story is with Boca Teeca. Le Lac has a lake but then again so does Boca Lago. I don’t know, I come from a place where the North End is in the north end.”

  “No you don’t,” I disagreed.

  “Why?”

  “The North End is east of the West End and southwest of East Boston,” I told him. “Remember, I know the neighborhoods and streets like the back of my hand. There’s no school on School Street and no church on Church Street.

  “There’s no court on Court Street and no water on Water Street. And Back Bay was filled in years ago.”

  “Thanks for the tour.” Mikey Scarfetti laughed.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “So, are all the gated communities similar here in Boca?” I asked.

  “For the most part,” Mike said. “Some are more expensive than others. Some have better facilities than others. But, yeah, I’d say they all offer about the same basic amenities. It’s a nice way of life for a lot of people.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said.

  “Perfect it ain’t,” Mike said, shaking his head. “These places have plenty of problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “When the members of a club take over the management from the developer, the shit usually hits the fan,” Mike explained.

  “What happens?”

  “Member-owners can’t seem to agree on how anything should be run,” Mike said. “We have major problems here at Boca Heights.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “First of all, like I told you, there are no heights.” Mike poked my shoulder playfully. “Seriously, when the members took over the management of Boca Heights they inherited a nightmare. There were two classes of golf club membership sold here. If new property owners wanted a golf club membership they could join just the One Course, for one price, or they had the option to join both the One Course and the Two Course for more money. Now, the One Course members are fighting with the Two Course members over who should pay for what.”

  “Sounds like a difficult situation,” I said.

  “It’s a horror,” Mike agreed. “And Boca Heights isn’t the only club having this kind of problem. Our neighbors at Broken Sound have exactly the same problem with their East and West Courses. Boca Heights and Broken Sound are like mirror images of each other. They were both built by the same builder around the same time. Other clubs have other problems. There’s one big dysfunctional family of gated communities here in Boca.”

  “Am I crazy to be moving here?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” Mike told me. “Boca is great. It’s just not perfect.”

  “Like everyplace else,” I said.

  “No.” Mike shook his head. “Boca is not like every place else. Boca is unique. You’ll see.”

  Steve introduced me to a real estate broker he knew and the three of us looked at apartments in the area. With their help and advice I found a nice, affordable one-bedroom apartment near Boca Heights. After I signed a one-year lease, Steve took me to the Boca Raton Historical Society to gather several pamphlets about the city and its history. I took some census information and a few environmental pamphlets as well. Driving back to Boca Heights with the top down and the sun warming my face, I saw a large, gold sign that read “Memories.”

  “What’s that?” I asked Steve.

  “It’s a new concept in life after death,” he said.

  I asked him to stop the car. He pulled off the road and parked near the dusty construction site. The entrance was grand and gated, and a few hundred feet away two large, ornate buildings faced each other. The place looked like Rome, and it wasn’t going to be built in a day. Steve said there were two facilities in Boca like Memories. One was called the Garden.

  “A cemetery?” I pointed.

  “You be the judge of that,” Steve said. “But why are you interested?”

  “My wife is dead.”

  “I know. For twenty years.”

  “I was thinking maybe I’d move her here.”

  “It’s too hot here.”

  I opened the door and got out of the car. “Do you want to come with me?” I asked.

  “I’m not ready for this place. I’ll wait in the car.”

  I entered the gates of Memories alone.

  I was on a plane back to Boston that night. Mikey had given me two weeks to straighten out my affairs and return to Boca. I settled into the middle seat on the Delta Song plane, grateful I didn’t need much legroom. There was a huge guy on either side of me, and they were cramped and grouchy. When the plane took off, I started to read the pamphlets I had gathered. After two hours of reading on the three-hour flight, I stuffed the material in the seat pocket in front of me, put my seat in the reclining position, closed my eyes, and tried to convert the Boca data into my own terms. I didn’t bother with the ancient history of the Tequesta or the Seminole Indians but went directly to what was relevant today.

  There were about 90,000 people living in Boca Raton. Perhaps half of them were Jewish, which is about forty-eight percent above the national average. On Yamato Road, down the street from Boca Harbor, there were six impressive churches and one synagogue standing side by side. Steve referred to the area as the University of God campus.

  Boca Raton translated literally from Spanish to English means “mouth of the rat,” but it could have other meanings as well. I learned that the proper pronunciation of Raton rhymes with tone and not lawn.

  The big guy in the window seat next to me farted, shifted in his tight-fitting seat, and mumbled something that sounded like “fuckin’ plane,” then went back to sleep. I twisted open the fan nozzle above my head and continued to review the information.

  In 1895, Henry Flagler’s Florida East Coast Railroad arrived in Boca Raton from St. Augustine. The railway quickly moved on to Miami and Key West. The state of Florida gave Flagler 1,000 acres of land for every mile of railroad tracks he laid from Jacksonville to Key West. Flagler’s Model Land Company would then survey the real estate and sell it in parcels. In 1905, Japanese colonist Jo Sakai arrived in Boca Raton and purchased 1,000 acres from Flagler for the purpose of forming an agricultural colony to grow pineapples. He named his community Yamato (yah-mah-toe), which meant “land of peace,” among other things. A Japanese man named George Morikami joined Jo Sakai’s colony in 1905 but soon went off on his own and made a fortune in real estate. Morikami never married and died without heirs. He donated 200 acres of his land to the town. That land became the Morikami Museum on Yamato Road. Unfortunately, Jo Sakai’s pineapple colony did not do as well as his land investments. In 1908, the pineapple crop, tended by only forty colonists, was destroyed by blight. By 1920 the colony was abandoned.

  “Please be sure your tray table is stored and your seat is in an upright position,” the flight attendant announced, and I complied, making both my row mates grouchier. Boca Raton 101 would have to wait.

  “I’m moving to Florida, sweetheart,” I said looking down at Patty’s tombstone.

  Patty McGee Perlmutter - 1945 - 1987 Loved by all who knew her.

  In the summer I would sit by her grave and talk to her for an hour or more. But there would not be a long visit today. It was a blustery, bitter cold New England January afternoon and I would have literally frozen my little Jewish ass off if I tried staying in that Catholic cemetery for more than a
few minutes.

  “Can you imagine me living in fancy-shmancy Boca Raton, Florida?” I asked her while blowing on my aching hands. I pictured her smile. “Me neither. But that’s where I’m going.” I paused, out of habit, as if she were going to respond. “You wouldn’t believe that place, Patty,” I continued.

  “I never saw anything like it in my life.” I was being honest. “They’re building everywhere. Expensive houses, stores, malls, you name it. They’re even building a cemetery that’s fancier than where some people live.”

  I thought back to my visit to Memories. It had caught me by surprise when I saw it from the road while riding in Steve Coleman’s car. I had never seen a cemetery so opulent and cheerful anywhere else, but Steve told me there were already two of them in Boca Raton.

  I was walking around the dusty lot trying to get a feel for the project when I was approached by a pleasant-looking middle-aged man wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. I didn’t hold that against him. Gray hair poked out from the edges of the hat. I guessed he was my age. He was taller than me, but so was just about everyone else.

  “Can I help you?” He smiled.

  “Just looking.”

  “Would you like some information about Memories?”

  “Sure. You work here?”

  “I’m one of the developers.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jackson Lehman.”

  “Hi, Jackson. I’m Eddie.” I shook his hand. “What’s the deal here? This place doesn’t look like a cemetery to me.”

  “It’s not supposed to look like a cemetery, Eddie.” Jackson went into action. “It’s a new concept in how to deal with death.”

  “You learn something new every day.”

  “Are you interested in your own interment here, Eddie?”

  “It’s not on my agenda right now.”

  “I see. Are you considering interring a loved one?”

  “Yes. My wife.”

  “I see. Is she terminally ill?”

  “No. She’s terminally dead.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  “No. I mean how long has she been deceased?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “And you’re just getting around to burying her now?”

  “I don’t like to rush things.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Okay. My wife is buried in a Catholic cemetery in Boston. I’m thinking of moving her remains down here.”

  “I assume that’s because you’re moving to this area.”

  “Yes, while I’m alive.”

  “That’s the best way to enjoy Boca.”

  “I’m sure. So, do you accept transfers?”

  “Not after their junior year.”

  “Good one,” I said. “Now it’s your turn to be serious.”

  “Fair enough. But to tell you the truth I don’t have a special program for transfers. I’m sure we can work something out though.”

  “Can I get a preconstruction discount?”

  “We don’t offer discounts at Memories.”

  “Then I doubt I can afford this place.”

  “Don’t be so sure. We have something for everyone here.”

  “Really? Then I’m dying to know more.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “We both have to get serious.”

  He nodded. We walked the area. There were two impressive mausoleums under construction. Jackson talked and pointed while I listened with my hands stuffed in my pockets, clutching my money. It wasn’t long before I was swimming in numbers. Jackson told me the project would take several more years to complete and would cost around $125 million. Upon completion, the facility would accommodate over 200,000 members, making it the largest and quietest gated community in Boca. There would be up to 135,000 full bodies interred and somewhere around 100,000 cremains.

  “Prices?” I asked.

  “You can start as low as $1,500 for a single cremation niche.”

  “Too late for cremation. My wife was a full-body situation originally. But I’m not sure how full her body is at this point. Maybe it would fit in a niche.”

  “No. Her casket will still be full size, which will require a full-size crypt.”

  “What about just an everyday burial?”

  “There will be no in-ground burials at Memories.”

  “Seems like a waste of a lot of good underground.”

  “We’re building a mausoleum city here, Eddie, not a cemetery. The mausoleums will be spectacular; all in an air-conditioned, museum-style setting.”

  “No offense, Jackson, but do you think dead people really give a shit about climate control?”

  “That’s not the point, Eddie. Memories is going to be a place where people can celebrate life without the doom and gloom associated with old-fashioned cemeteries. We’re going to have a biography library of those who are laid to rest here. We’re going to offer support groups for the bereaved. Everything is being designed to help the living celebrate the dead.”

  “Sounds like my kind of party.”

  “You said we were going to be serious.”

  “I slipped. Any religious issues?”

  “None at all. Jews and Christians will be able to visit their departed loved ones in an atmosphere devoid of bigotry, hatred, or contempt. We’re building a Christian mausoleum right over there.” Jackson pointed at some trees. “It will be made entirely of Siena marble mined from the Vatican quarry.”

  “You’re kidding. The Vatican has its own quarry?”

  “Absolutely. Other modern cemeteries are using Vatican marble as well. It’s very trendy.”

  “Yeah, I heard this place was a knockoff of another cemetery in Boca,” I offered.

  “We are not alone but we are unique,” Jackson said. “The Christian mausoleum will also have five-inch-thick cypress doors.”

  “From the Vatican cypress forest?”

  “The Vatican doesn’t have a cypress forest.”

  “So, why the cypress doors?”

  “Cypress doors last forever.”

  “That should comfort dead Christians. But what about dead Jews?”

  “Baruch - !”

  “Bless you.”

  “Thank you. But I wasn’t finished. Baruch Chaim means ‘Blessing of Life’,” Jackson tried. “It’s the name we’ve chosen for the Jewish mausoleum, which will be an absolute masterpiece of architecture and inspiration. It will even include a replica of the Wailing Wall inside.”

  “Hey, what about a burning bush?”

  “Uninsurable.”

  “So, a parting of the Red Sea is probably out of the question, too?”

  “Flood insurance in Florida? Be serious.”

  “Bummer. Can this place make money, Jackson?”

  “Not in my lifetime, but many years from now Memories will be very profitable.”

  “So why are you doing this?”

  “To make a difference. I want to change the way we all perceive death.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “That’s appropriate. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Would you like to see one of our menus?”

  “Menus?”

  “Yes. We have different menus for catered receptions and concerts.”

  “Concerts? By who? The Grateful Dead?”

  “I wish I had thought of that.”

  “Last question, Jackson. How much for a full-body transfer?”

  “I can offer you a nice crypt for $7,000.”

  “I’d rather have a plasma TV and a pool table.”

  “Life is all about choices, Eddie.”

  “And so is death, apparently,” I observed. “So, what do dead rich people buy?

  “Supreme Crypts are very popular with our wealthier clients. We inter the deceased couple side by side on a platform in the crypt.”

  “I assume they’re both dead at the time.”

  “Not necessarily. W
e’ll start with one and add the other when the time comes. They can also include pets in their mausoleum.”

  “What about substitutions?”

  “For instance?”

  “Well, let’s say the wife dies and the husband lives another few years and marries a Hard Rock Cafe showgirl. What then? Or, let’s say the wife doesn’t die and the guy is with a Hard Rock Cafe showgirl anyway. Can he substitute a mistress for a certain number of dogs or cats?”

  “That’s another interesting concept.”

  “I’m always thinking. So, what’s the cost of a Super Crypt?”

  “A Supreme Crypt,” he corrected me. “Give or take a few amenities - $4,000.”

  “Does that include an in-ground pool?”

  “Eddie, you should know better.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. Nothing in-ground at Memories.”

  “Exactly. Shall I sign you up?”

  “I’ll have to ask my wife when I see her.”

  A burst of frigid air from the Montreal Express blew up my pant legs freezing my stones, bringing me back to the frigid present.

  “Patty, I gotta go before I’m frozen into one of these statues.” There were angel statues everywhere in the cemetery.

  Next, I visited the grave sites of my parents and grandparents in the Jewish cemetery a few miles away. I placed a few pebbles on their headstones because I knew it was the Jewish thing to do. I read my grandfather’s headstone, which was actually the second monument placed over his grave since he died. I had replaced the original headstone more than twenty years after he died because of a letter he had written over fifty years ago.

  My mother died of leukemia in 1982 at the relatively young age of sixty-nine. My father died a few years later. He smoked himself to death. After my father’s funeral, I went to their house in Brookline to clean it out. In the basement, I found a small trunk covered with dust with an ancient-looking, rusted lock that I broke off easily with a hammer I found in my father’s old toolbox. I opened the trunk, and the first thing I saw was a sealed envelope addressed to my father from my grandfather. The envelope was sealed with an old-world wax stamp, and the seal had never been broken. I wondered why Harry S. Perlmutter had decided not to read his father’s message or if he had ever opened the trunk at all. Perhaps he didn’t want to know any more about his origins as a first-generation American child of Russian refugees. He had worked hard to separate himself from those humble beginnings, and maybe he didn’t want any reminders.