Article
Courtesy of The Miami Herald
By
AMY SHERMAN
Published
May 1, 2006
Ken McCrillis says he wakes up around 6 a.m.,
before the sun's first rays stream through his windshield.
The 77-year-old sleeps in the driver's seat of
his Toyota, under a green blanket, head resting on a small faded floral pillow.
Scattered around the car lie a couple of bottles of water, a change of pants, an
extra pair of socks. A handful of white button-down shirts hangs above the back
seat.
When
he needs to brush his teeth, he grabs his toothbrush from his glove
compartment and uses the bathroom at the pool in his condo complex,
Sunrise Lakes Phase Three. When he's hungry, he drives to Arby's or Publix.
He eats roast beef sandwiches in his car or drinks cold Chunky soup
straight from the can by the condo pool.
''The only electricity I have is a
flashlight,'' says McCrillis, who is the last man standing in his ravaged,
modest condo building.
His neighbors have fled for other temporary
homes. McCrillis has taken a slightly different tack from his neighbors,
who own more than 350 units that are unlivable because of Hurricane Wilma. |
CRAMPED
QUARTERS:
Ken
McCrillis sleeps in his Toyota in the
parking
lot of the Sunrise Lakes condominiums.
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While others have found temporary apartments or
moved in with family or friends, McCrillis has decided to make do living out of
his car and third-floor condo balcony.
'LIFESAVER'
But somehow, he manages to keep a smile on his face and a
crease in his trousers. He's always looking at the bright side.
''We have hot and cold running water in the swimming
pool,'' he notes, referring to the shower and sink by the pool. 'That's a
lifesaver. Without that none of this could happen.''
He says he isn't angry that his one-bedroom unit is
lacking walls, electricity, water, or a carpet.
''It'll be ready when it's ready like everybody else,''
says McCrillis. "And complaining isn't going to make it any faster.''
When pressed to name something -- anything at all -- he
misses about living in a typical home, he says he misses watching television
before going to sleep. Doesn't matter what program, he just likes to watch.
''I don't absorb much,'' he says.
BALCONY LIFE
McCrillis spends much of his time on his condo balcony. He
puts his hand against the wall to steady himself as he climbs over his cot and
sits down in the chair in the corner by the window, resting his feet on the cot.
He hollers to a man fishing in the canal below, "Hey
you doing any good?''
''Got one,'' the fisherman responds.
On a recent afternoon, he dashed to his car in a downpour
to retrieve his books and a pillow so he could read before he ran out of
sunlight. Wearing large gold-rimmed glasses, he slowly read Albert Einstein's Relativity
-- his thick knobby fingers moving across the pages.
Sometimes he hangs out on his balcony even as workers are
hammering away, their music blaring from a portable radio.
When the workers leave, McCrillis wanders around almost
like an unofficial building inspector to survey their progress.
''I want to see what they did today,'' he says, as he
carefully climbs over boxes of electrical supplies. "I'm very anxious for
them to finish.''
He wants things to be right again. When he discovers that
a worker put a neighbor's chair in his unit, he returns it to his neighbor's
gutted home.
YOUTHFUL 77
He's a youthful 77. He's a sturdy six feet tall and has no
problem dashing ahead to show a visitor where he parks his car. He likes to wait
until just before bedtime to move his car -- he doesn't want to take anyone
else's space but he says a police officer recommended that he park in an area
with more cars and lights.
Ken is an outgoing loner. He's happy to kibitz with anyone
who happens by. He's eager to please and crack a joke. But he doesn't join clubs
with the other seniors.
''I don't socialize that much,'' he says. "Not
because I'm not sociable. I go along and talk to them if they want. I'm always
into something no one else is interested in, mechanical, electrical,
airplanes.''
BACKGROUND
McCrillis doesn't remember how long he has lived liked
this. He says his short-term memory isn't good anymore.
But what he does remember is that it started after that
day when he used a knife to tear out his drenched carpet during a hurricane.
At some point he said he stayed with a neighbor.
Ken always adjusted to life's circumstances. He was born
in 1928 and grew up in Buffalo, N.Y. He says he joined the Navy at age 17. He
later got married and had two daughters and a son. His ex-wife and children live
in Florida, he says.
To fill in some of the holes in his life, you have to talk
to his 44-year-old daughter, Theresa McCrillis, who lives near Orlando. She says
her father's memory has been fading for several years.
He spent most of his career building homes in Buffalo and
Atlanta. He moved to Florida in the 1980s and got divorced.
In 2002, he moved into a condo that is jointly owned with
one of his children. He lives off about $1,000 in monthly Social Security
benefits, Theresa said.
After Hurricane Wilma, Ken's son-in-law brought him to
stay with Theresa, she said. But by early January he vanished.
''He was very anxious to get back to his place,'' Theresa
said. ``I came home one day and he was gone. He felt kind of displaced. . . . I
think he felt like he wanted to be there with his place, see how it was coming
along.''
Ken says he doesn't remember any of that. He can't come up
with much of an answer when asked why he doesn't see his children more often.
''Miles,'' he says. ``Distance.''
'A SIMPLE GUY'
Theresa says she spoke to her dad once on the telephone
since he left her home when he happened to visit his ex-wife, who lives near his
place.
But she's not surprised her dad is making do. "It
probably does not bother him to live like this. He was never one for having a
lot of luxuries. He was always happy with just a meal, the simple things in
life.''
Before the hurricane, people took normal life for granted,
Ken says.
"I'm
kind of roughing it. To me it's not that bad. It'd be nice to be the other way.
It's not going to last that long. I imagine it will last another two, three
months.''
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