A photograph attached to the archive. A tarnished brass key, its bow engraved with the city seal—a pelican, wings spread. Below it, in fading letters: St. Petersburg, Florida. Mayor. Not transferable.
They gave me the key on a Tuesday. The first one, I mean. The real one, made of brass, the size of a child’s hand. The City Council was long gone—fled to a FEMA camp in Georgia that probably doesn’t exist anymore. I was the only one left in the municipal building because the Coast Guard cutter had room for exactly three more people, and my wife was already on it. wwz key to the city documents
We talked. She became the head of sanitation. I stayed the mayor. The key became a gavel. A photograph attached to the archive
“They asked for the key when they rebuilt the city hall. I gave them a copy. The real one is buried with Elias under the banyan tree at North Shore Park. He didn’t save the buildings. He saved the idea of a lock. That’s all a city ever was.” Petersburg, Florida
I didn’t use the key to unlock a door. I used it to lock one. I pointed to the old fuel depot. “That’s city property,” I shouted. “And I’m the mayor. You take one step closer, and I will blow it sky high. I have the key to the ignition. That’s what this is.”
“Key to the city,” I said. “It means I’m in charge.”