The Allegory Keys
Compared to Anytown, USA, Port Summerville had its fair share of diverse incomes. We had two distinct income classes; rich and poor. There was not much in between except for a few in the middle-class. The poor worked for the middle-class because they owned all the small businesses in town, such as the gift shops, auto repair, and an insurance agent or two. In the big city, those middle-class owners wouldn’t mean squat, but they did in Port Summerville. The city leaders, zoning office, and chamber of commerce officials made sure to keep these small monopolies thriving and kept competition at bay. We also had four lawyers, two accountants, and one dentist.
If you attempted to open a business that competed with the established ones, you could bet there would be hoops to go through and hell to pay. The business food chain was well protected, and only a privileged few passed muster to get their fair share of the millions the tourists, Winter Texans, and the local citizenry spent. And the Clampitt brothers or their watchdogs kept a keen eye on you every step of the way. The Clampitts owned and controlled all the big business dealings in Port Summerville, and their fortune in oil and gas was what took them to the top. Years back, their old man invested a huge amount into Port Summerville and the surrounding area. He bought undeveloped land and a few buildings; one was the old courthouse. How convenient. To this day, the county rents the courthouse from the Clampitts. According to city records and old archived newspapers, their father started the buying frenzy back in the thirties and forties, and then the boys took charge.
Old man Clampitt died years ago, but the brothers were still buying buildings, land, and anything they could get their hands on that added to their empire. They continued to drill for oil and gas around town and in the Gulf. If you built something of any magnitude, you did not make a move without their permission and approval. They controlled all the major construction projects and owned all the heavy equipment in the county, and when they said jump, the politicians, city leaders and planners asked how high?
Like ants on a mound, the poor and the middle-class scattered themselves all over town. To further complicate things, code enforcement in Port Summerville wasn’t stringent.
But the humongous money came from the residents across the bay; they were in an income bracket all to themselves. They lived on a private island called The Allegory Keys, located on the other side of Diminuto Bay — and just like Port Summerville, one way in and one way out —and that was just fine with them. They took pride in only inviting the wealthy. The occupiers, those who lived on The Allegory Keys, represented less than one percent of the overall population but paid half the property taxes collected for the entire county. And for that reason, now and then, they tried to establish themselves as their own snobby little town. But every time they did, the leaders of Port Summerville shut those ideas down — and fast.
If you thought you could show up to Port Summerville with a fat bank account and buy a house or some property there, you would be mistaken. They had a committee who decided if you were good enough to pour a few million dollars on their island. Residents included movie stars, a country singer, politicians, retired trial lawyers, and a few plastic surgeons. A few trust babies got their piece of The Allegory Keys the old-fashioned way — dead parents. Being a descendant was the smoothest way to get in; you bypass the committee because of the lineage and could tell them to kiss your ass.
The only folks in those diverse income groups with anything in common were the super-rich and the desperately poor — neither one worked. The government took care of the people who couldn’t find a job with welfare and food stamps. Their opposites employed high-powered lawyers and accountants, brought along their tax shelters and didn’t need to work.
A geologist friend told me their island was sinking at a rate of half-an-inch annually, and if my math was right, in about forty years, paradise will be a swamp.
