The intersection of Dale Mabry Highway and John F. Kennedy Boulevard is a conflagration of two of Tampa's busiest commercial corridors. Five lanes wide, Dale Mabry runs north and south, built in 1943 to connect MacDill Air Force Base at the end of the South Tampa peninsula to Drew Field, the predecessor of Tampa International Airport. Its namesake was a native of Tallahassee, a test pilot who died in a 1922 plane crash in Norfolk, Virginia, that killed 34 people, the greatest American aeronautics disaster of its time. His brother lived in Tampa. It's a road to be avoided that cannot be avoided. Commercial and residential development crowds it, squeezing and releasing for an occasional middle turn lane along its busiest 12-mile stretch.
A constant flow of traffic flies by chain grocers, big box stores, banks, car dealerships, Verizon stores, Starbucks and fast-food restaurants, as well as local staples like Wright's Deli and BJ's Alabama BBQ, then past the more well-known New York Yankees spring training camp and finally by the Raymond James Stadium, where Tom Brady recently won the pandemic Super Bowl for the Buccaneers, a team best known for its losing seasons.
The intersection marks the split between the South Tampa aristocracy - who joke (though they're really not kidding) that if it's north of Kennedy, they don't need it - and the bourgeois inhabitants who suffer life living north of Kennedy. Kennedy is a renamed portion of Highway 60 which, if you continue west will run you into the Gulf of Mexico at Clearwater Beach, and if you follow it east, will dump you into to the Atlantic Ocean at Vero Beach; in between you will pass horse ranches and orange groves, the best that interior and exterior Florida has to offer, notwithstanding Disney World, of course. In the early 20th century, it was called Grand Central Avenue, but was renamed after Kennedy's death because he had visited Tampa on Nov. 18,1963, four days before he was assassinated in Dallas. Tampanians like to claim their city as his last visit before his death. It's a rather morbid claim to fame, but our country loves a martyred politician, regardless of his politics.
The intersection is devoid of any kind of organic matter, concrete and asphalt the only materials necessary to carry mankind from one destination to the next. A mirrored high rise with a For Lease sign sits on the northeast corner, and a small strip mall that proves difficult to access sits kitty-corner. A nondescript store called The Vitamin Shoppe sits across Kennedy. Overbearing billboards advertise hair extensions and law offices.
The intersection is marked by the perennial CVS, which anchors the southeast corner. A small stand of irrepressible bamboo defies all odds at the back of the parking lot, providing needed contrast from the pavement and glaring white concrete of the drug store's exterior. A bench on the Dale Mabry side is usually occupied by someone who is tired and hot, drinking something out of a Styrofoam cup with a straw.
The intersection is hot. It is pounded 12 hours a day by the South Florida sun, which is relentless 10 months of the year; the other two it is merely single-minded. The Florida sun produces a kind of hot you can see as it radiates off of buildings, cars, pavement and people, distorting vision and perception. It's the kind of hot you breathe in, despite the air conditioning blowing at full blast from the vents on the dash of your car, which is undulating in the heat. The billboard for hair extensions has a shimmering gold logo that adds to the incandescence of the intersection, intensified by the length of the red light required to manage the flow of five lanes of traffic, each way.
The intersection is a mass of mechanized humanity. But regularly, a human steps into the stopped traffic. Skin leathered by hours spent in the intersection, his corrugated cheeks match the small sign he carries, black Sharpie on a piece of cardboard: Homeless. Anything will help. He walks between cars, slowed by the heat and the hope that a window will roll down, letting out some air conditioning and perhaps a little bit of cash. He passes by the wealth of South Tampa that must travel this road in its Audis, Mercedes, Teslas, Mazeratis, and Porsches. He might be invisible. Few roll down their windows; they can't spare the air conditioning and don't carry cash. His feelings can't be hurt by this work, rejection suffered a dozen times each red light. On his face you can see how hot his feet are from walking the dotted line between cars. He exits dangerously as the light turns green and wheels begin to move regardless of his position.
The intersection employs only men who are brave enough or strong enough to endure the rigor of the work of begging in the South Tampa sun, on asphalt that melts old shoe leather. For regular drivers at the intersection, there seem to be so many beggars, a different face each stop light. Or, is it the same man, unremarkable to the driver of the Audi, the Porsche, the Tesla? They surely have more important matters weighing on them: 30-year mortgages, 72-month car payments, endless credit card debt, the stock market, misbehaving children, elections. The man standing in the intersection worries about dinner, or his next fix. Just what he can barely see. There is no long game for him.
The intersection caused me to wonder which life is easier. So I started getting $20 cash at the grocery store, asking the clerk to give it to me in five-dollar bills. I tuck those in the console of the car. There was a tired man who was two lanes over, north of me on Dale Mabry, on my passenger side. He wasn't walking the usual narrow route through the stopped cars. I rolled down the passenger window, smiled, and waved him over. For real? he said as he approached the passenger side of my Subaru with rainbow and Episcopal shield bumper stickers. I nodded, and he took the $5 from my hand. Thank you, he sighed. I smiled, never sure what to say. Because nothing I can say will make it better. I simmer in anger at the wealth around me at the intersection that won't share. Maybe they write a big check to church, or to the relief agency, I hope. The man was inspired to walk between cars, and continued behind me.
The intersection wasn't stifling that day, just a couple of days before Christmas, so I didn't roll my window back up, thankful for not-hot - that's the temperature between hot and less-than-hot in south Florida. The man returned suddenly to my window. You know, he said, thank you for smiling at me. No one ever smiles at me. You just made my day. Happy Holidays, or whatever, he said, he even concerned with political correctness. I nodded, tried to smile again, which was harder because I had to cover my sorrow at his experience. I see you, I managed to eek out. Merry Christmas. Yea, he said. Merry Christmas.
The intersection responds sometimes, when I give a guy money. Sometimes, the driver behind me will do the same. Yaaaaassss, I think. You got it. It's ok. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, I take it as a personal victory.
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