THE PARTY LINE
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ISLAND BEACH REALTY ASSOCIATES
4 BULKHEAD UNITS FOR SALE
EXCLUSIVELY LISTED WITH ISLAND BEACH REALTY
BEAUTIFUL 660 SQ FT, 1 BEDROOM + LOFT, SECOND STORY, BAY FRONT UNIT WITHJ MAGNIFICENT BAY, LIGHTHOUSE, AND SUNSET VIEWS. THIS UNIT HAS A/C, A 150 SQ FT DECK, AND A 25' BOAT SLIP IS INCLUDED.
LISTING PRICE WAS $659,000. REDUCED FOR QUICK SALE $499,000
UPDATED STUDIO + LOFT, SECOND STORY CORNER UNITS FACING SOUTHWEST, A/C, GREAT CONDITION, 150 SQ FT DECK, AND A 25' BOAT SLIP. LISTED FOR $469,000
STUDIO WITH SCREENED PORCH, A/C, MURPHY BED, LIKE NEW CONDITION, WEST SIDE, 25' BOAT SLIP INCLUDED.
LISTING PRICE WAS $449,000 REDUCED PRICE $425,000
STUDIO WITH SCREENED PROCH, A/C, MURPHY BED, FURNISHED, EAST SIDE WITH EAST BAY VIEWS, 25' BOAT SLIP INCLUDED. LISTING PRICE $349,000
Al Grover's High and Dry Marina
500 South Main Street
Freeport, NY 11520
Tel : 516-546-8880
Fax : 516-378-1505
Contact J.C. Carpenter
Louis Romanzi, Jr. Landscaping
429 Brooklyn Blvd
Brightwaters, NY 11718
PAT the PAINTER
(baby on the way)
98 Oak Walk
Kismet, Fire Island
Also offering chiropractic services at
475 Main St.
ENEMIES AMOUNG US: An Investigative
Report. Part One.
By Tony Manzo
Illustration by Bret Schlessinger
Home-grown terrorist cells comprised
entirely of the elderly and infirm, the thrombotic and re-valved are spreading
from Miami across America like poison from a central source. Their objective is the destruction of
our very way of life.
The director of the FBI’s Extreme Threat
Division spoke to me at his office in Quantico, Virginia, on condition of
anonymity. His voice was altered
by frequent intakes from a tank of helium; the feather boa he had wrapped about
his face further concealed his identity. He could have been anyone.
“Last year we tracked new cells of
seniors in Mobile, Alabama. Recent
reports have confirmed their presence in Lexington, Kentucky. We think they were attracted to
Lexington by the good weather, the thoroughbred racing and the easy
availability of horse Viagra. We
think they’ll move further north, we think they’ve become emboldened.”
Emboldened. What patriotic American would hear the
word and not experience a fearful flutter of the anus.
Gauge the threat, consider this shocking
statistic: the largest and fastest growing segment of the American population,
besides fat people with type 2 diabetes, is the Senior Citizen (Senior Citizen
defined as anyone who knows the lyrics to “Who’s Sorrow Now”).
“They have the resources to destroy, they
have the time – God knows – and they have the organization.” The interview was drawing to a close;
the director’s voice, once stratospherically fluty, had deepened to a serrated
basso profundo. Clearly, he was
running out of gas.
What had happened to these aged citizens
of America, our beloved aunts and uncles, our grandmothers and grandfathers,
these people we cherish and avoid? What could have turned them savage? I had to know. But how?
Suddenly an image of cousin Ralph swam up
into memory, offering me a clue. Dead now from a terrible fall, he had been hailed by his Brethren of the
Stamp as the finest Notary Public who ever drew a breath. Legend has him authenticating documents
blindfolded by merely smelling the
“Remember,” he once informed me, apropos
of nothing, for such was his curious turn of mind, “It’s hard to have a sincere
relationship with someone once they know how you really feel about them.”
I would disguise myself! I would dress as
they do, mangle idioms as they do, take their daily rosary of pills. Hiding in plain sight, I would join a
terrorist cell and become the enemy! I sent up a prayer of thanks to cousin Ralph, and not for the first time
wondered what greatness this sensation seeker would have achieved if only he
had employed his scintillate Apollonian perspicacity to compare the height of
the cliff to the length of his bungee.
Where to start...
The director had intimated a new cell may
be forming on a barrier beach off the eastern end of Long Island, and that
secret interrogation chambers were being constructed under a store on the
Miracle Mile, in Filene’s Basement’s basement.
I booked a flight to New York and was
winging north next day to consult a friend, a theatrical cosmetologist highly
regarded in the entertainment industry for her ability to make Tom Cruise look
like an Earthling. Transforming me
into a septuagenarian would be child’s play for her.
Getting a convincing wardrobe, however,
was a problem. If there’s a place
that specializes in clothing for the elderly, I couldn’t find it. Size 44 Sans-a-Belt slacks made to be
worn directly beneath the arm pits must come from somewhere. And the
brown orthotic shoes oldsters favor, vaguely like sneakers, but plumped high
and wide at the toe to accommodate deformities: I defy you to locate a pair
this side of the Twilight Zone.
In the end, I eschewed specificity of
style for general impression, and settled on a pant and shirt ensemble so vivid
in pattern, so mouth-wateringly lime in color that it would be ridiculous to
assume anyone encased in it was under 75 years of age. Or sane.
Bags packed with theatrical make-up,
prosthetic devices (chins, wattles, tufts of extrusive nasal hair, etc.) and
instructions on their application, I took a train to mid-island, then a ferry
to Cherry Grove; from there a water taxi would deliver me to a small hotel just
east of Ocean Beach.
Perusing “A History of the Great South
Bay” on my journey, I learned that “Fire Island” derives from the Nagattonic
Indian phrase “Freggah Eyelis,” which means “flamboyant [or flaming]
homosexual.” The tribe, indigenous
to the barrier beach, circa 1670, were warriors “notable for their ornamental
body piercings and superb physical conditioning. The Nagatonnics would routinely prance thirty miles into
battle.” Though one may quarrel
with the author’s verb selection, it seems, somehow, so right.
The hotel was a large house that probably
devolved into a hotel over time. The décor was Maritime, and the theme almost farcically stressed:
lobster pots, blow fish in rictus, derelict anchors, harpoons and conch shells
were everywhere. Sitting in the
lobby was like drowning with furniture.
I entered my room and ruminated...
Terrorists. American terrorists...
A crescent moon lay among wet stars in a cloudless sky. I didn’t much care. And if the ocean didn’t care, if it
shrugged its broad blue shoulders, we’d be dead... Old American terrorists... One budgets for some eccentricities in
the elderly (my grandmother once put her false teeth in backwards and nearly
bit herself to death), but these fanatics were strategic, calculating,
lethal. The Director of the FBI’s
Extreme Threat Division suggested that the mortgage crisis may have been
precipitated by their minions on Wall Street, co-conspirators they had bought
with their vast collective wealth... Did they intend to dismantle the imperial
presidency of incurious George and his brutal Plutocracy? In lieu of anyone else rushing the
barricades, perhaps they took it upon themselves to fight.
I would face them tomorrow. Tonight I would live for pleasure.
There were women in the lobby bar, loamy,
luscious women. I
descended the stairs, dazzling in a white sea cotton shirt and matching shorts,
feet clad in irreproachable Gucci loafers. The women turned to me, as I knew they would, and the sap
rose in my loins.
As it turned out, the sex I had that
evening was so fantastic there were moments I actually wished I wasn’t alone.
Check these pages for the shattering
conclusion of “Enemies Among Us,” Part Two.