At the Beach, a Summer Slowdown

At the 8th Avenue Fish House and Grill, Amy Richardson stands next to an open cooler full of ice and beer bottles as Melanie Stecher watches the door. Richardson, a bartender, bends over a folded newspaper covering a corner of the long bar. Behind them, two musicians in Hawaiian-print shirts and straw hats set up a synthesizer and plug in guitars. Stecher, a waitresses, waits for customers.

It’s 8 o'clock. It’s Saturday night. They’re bored.

“We’ve read our horoscopes,” Stecher, 32, says.

“We’ve gone through the bills that did or did not pass in the legislature,” Richardson, 28, says.

“We know what’s going on in our neighborhood,” Stecher adds. They laugh.

The summer, with the heat, bugs and rain, is St. Pete Beach’s slowest season. The tide of tourists drains to a predictable trickle, and locals finally reappear in beach bars and restaurants. Tourism dollars flood the financial pool shared by the city’s 700 cooks, servers, bartenders, housekeepers, bellhops and lounge singers.

Many workers fear the tourism slowdown. When travelers leave, financial worries escalate. For some, this year may be one of the worst.

“There’s the good, the bad and the ugly,” says Keith Richardson, 45, co-owner and chef at 8th Avenue Fish House. “And this is the ugly.”

City officials, servers and bartenders alike say post-Sept. 11 travel fears, dramatic rainfall (nearly 8 inches above average) and currency exchange rates have driven away some of the coast’s visitors.

For visitors, rain means leaving without a suntan. For waitresses, it means being late on rent.

The Bureau of Labor Statistics says pay has fallen in recent years for local restaurant workers. In September 2000, hourly pay peaked at $6.66, the highest since the end of 1997. A year later, average pay was 59 cents less.

That’s nearly $12,600 a year before taxes for a full-time restaurant worker.

“In this industry, we all starve during the summer months,” Stecher says.

The tip jar is empty. The Caribbean Cowboys -- David Dubois, 53, and Julian Riviere, 32 -- move the empty plastic container from the restaurant’s floor to the top of the speaker. Outside, the dark pulsates with low lightning, and it starts raining. By 10:30, a dozen people sit at the restaurant tables and at the bar at 8th Avenue Fish House.

Riviere, who sings in island bars and hotel lounges, says he counts on his partner to plan and budget when work slows and the tip jar stays empty.

He is not alone. Many count on friendships and family ties to make it. Tracy Hunt, 40, a Wharf Seafood Restaurant bartender, asks her family to help care for her son. So does Amy Majercik, 30, a Woody’s Waterfront Bar waitress. She just moved to a new apartment, Majercik says, and already she’s late with her rent.

Like an extended fraternity, friends help friends through the slump. It’s an unwritten code: You eat at my restaurant, I’ll drink at your bar.

“I go to Jimmy B’s and tip them because they tip me,” says Julie Lauber, 53, a Waffle House waitress. “I go to Shell’s and tip them because they tip me. I’m all over this beach.”

Specific data on the beach tourism economy is not compiled locally. Most is lumped with information on Pinellas County, but the overall picture is dim. Revenue from the tourist development tax, says the county tax department, was 9 percent less this January -- the beginning of peak season -- than last. The tax is added to the price of hotel rooms and funds tourism recruitment.

The lull means one job isn’t enough for some. Maurice Carpenter, 40, a Waffle House cook, has three. The waitresses and bartender at 8th Avenue Fish House say next week is their deadline. If things don’t pick up they’ll find second jobs.

“St. Pete Beach is not an employment center, obviously,” city planner Jerry Speece says. “You have a huge amount of hospitality workers. Most of them don’t live on the beach because they can’t afford it.”

The numbers say differently. In St. Pete Beach, more than 17 percent of the employed adults work in recreation and service industries, compared with 9 percent in the whole county.

Just before midnight, the torrential rain slows at 8th Avenue Fish House. Keith Richardson checks register receipts as his wife runs the credit card machine totals. Normally, he says, they serve 200 meals on a Saturday night. Tonight, they served 40.

“It’s just one of those things where you’re supposed to put money in the bank and not sweat this,” Richardson says. “But nobody does that and everybody sweats it.”

Things won’t change anytime soon, some city officials say. In other beach communities, condos spring into lots vacated by smaller hotels. But St. Pete Beach will stay connected to its resort past, officials say, especially as competition decreases.

“Clearly, we want to maintain the tourist character of the area,” Speece says.

Richardson turns off the lights as the last couple leaves the bar. Richardson already knows next weekend’s menu: a clam dish named for a friend. It will be July Fourth, and he hopes the restaurant will be packed.

Getting into their car, the Richardsons drive north to their home in Treasure Island through the rainy streets.

Between 36th Avenue and 75th Avenue, red neon and black marquee letters decorate hotel and motel signs along Gulf Boulevard. Twelve say the same thing: VACANCY.