TROPICANA

Before the brass arrived, 120 Ocean Drive stored rental beach umbrellas. Upstairs, people repaired ribs and counted canvas covers, always one short when the stock came back. Their damp circles still mark the floorboards. When the depot closed, it left a cutting table, a key cupboard and the smell of warm canvas that salt makes almost sweet. The room overlooking the pier was cheaper because its window would not quite close. For a radio station hoping to let the bay inside, that sounded like a reasonable business proposition.

Tropicana moved in during June 1984. A turquoise lamp lit the console on the cutting table; the old compartments became a record library, arranged by sleeve width. The first broadcast was supposed to last twenty minutes. The building immediately began a longer career: neighbours brought up a chair, then coffee, then asked whether the chair could stay. The cupboard kept its umbrella labels. The compartment marked “strong wind” holds the quietest records, a programming decision for which nobody has volunteered to accept responsibility. An empty hook beside it is reserved for anything that cannot be filed.

The first difficulty came through the roof: rain crossed the tar and landed precisely between two buttons. The console moved, followed by the leak, on a schedule understood only by the roofer. Salt troubled the aerial more than wind; its fastenings were replaced individually, never during a solo. In August 1985, a sound check near the pier accidentally accompanied Dolores Van Pelt’s inauguration of a beach umbrella. Local shopkeepers recognised their station in the municipal loudspeakers. The recording returned upstairs with sand inside its case and became the first archive stored flat rather than upright.

Today, the stairs smell of coffee and drying rope. From the control chair, you see pedestrians choosing between the pier and one last ice cream; arcade coins can be heard whenever the door stays open. The setting sun crosses the imperfect window and lays an orange rectangle across the main fader. A cloth protects the equipment, a chair waits against the wall, and the umbrellas have passed their trade to the music: making a little patch of shade where everybody can stay for another record.

LITTLE STORIES

• The “children” compartment holds oversized sleeves.
• An umbrella rib points to entries on the schedule.
• The official recording keeps its original sand.
• The third stair squeaks off the beat.
• The visitors’ chair still has a cloakroom number.

THE NEIGHBOURS

• Coconut Palace : Coconut Palace at 112 sends sandwiches upstairs in a box reserved for empty record sleeves.
• Pixel Pier Arcade : Pixel Pier Arcade at 116 lends change for the landing telephone.
• Bluewave Rentals : Bluewave Rentals at 128 reports spray before the window makes its own announcement.