Moment Magnitude

A Single Girl's Caesar

Caesar salad, that is. With grilled shrimp. And a glass of white wine (I prefer French chardonnays, but I'll go with what's available).

I got it into my head that I would sample grilled shrimp Caesar salads among some of the East End restaurants - now that I am living out here 90% of the time.

Since I run - okay, drive - around a lot (the real estate biz), I often like nothing so much at the end of the day as a solo-stop into a restaurant, a stool at a bar (if there is one, either a stool or a bar), a newspaper or book, a glass of wine, and that salad.

So far, I've sampled restaurants in Bridgehampton and East Hampton. I try to keep the meal to $30, tip included. It is off-season out here, so that price point could work, hypothetically. The challenge of it is, I seldom have just one glass of wine - and the bill reflects that.

Since this idea popped into my head, I've sampled World Pie (two times) and Bobby Van's (once) in Bridgehampton, Nichols (once), and The Lodge (once) in East Hampton. I have a way to go. Good thing I like Caesars.

So far, The Lodge's salad is hands-down, the best. The dressing goes beyond the expected, piquant, salty tang of the usual Caesar (I "get" the anchovy requirement). Some would aver that when it comes to Caesars, it's all about the dressing. If that's so, then The Lodge's chef worked special magic. It had an additional lemony tang that made me want to gobble it in a pico-second. The Romaine lettuce was crisp, crunchy, and just cold enough. The dish included eight (maybe more), fat, perfectly grilled shrimp, a tinge of charring to spike the flavor. Yum. I sat at the bar (the bartender served me a lovely French white), and recollected the first time I dined in that room, back in the mid-late 1980s, off-season, when it was The Laundry. The room has lost nothing of its ambiance, even with the change of proprietorship. If I had stuck to one glass of wine, the tab would have been $30.

World Pie's iterations are serviceable, and tasty enough. The price is right. One of the quibbles I have is that the serving plate is too small. I have made a mess both times. The salad could be a bit more crunchy, and the croutons feel like an afterthought. The upside: The fellows at the bar are real pros, from service to personality. Classic guys. I wish they had a French white by the glass, but the sauvignon blanc does almost as well.

I have to give Bobby Vans another go. In truth, I was with Surfer Girl (she performed the heroic act of driving out from the city, fetching me from LaGuardia after a week-long stay with my Mom in New Mexico) in the early evening, and driving my ass all the way back to East Hampton). We popped in, sat at a proper table, gabbed nonstop, and chowed. I could have paid more attention to the food, but didn't - but I've never gone wrong at Bobby Van's. The staff is always first-rate - especially to folks they know (nod to Surfer Girl). It'll bear a re-visit. Or seven.

I like Nichols. It's an easy place to go - precious little attitude, a warm cluster of two small rooms, the feel of a rustic, old building, the outside patio in the warmer months. The bar is tiny, and often fully-occupied, so I sat at a table. The low lighting made it hard to read, but the conversation at the table next to me was entertaining enough, looping from modern psycho-analysis, to books on philosophy (Nietzsche in particular), to film (Elizabeth for chrissakes!), to HBO's new series, "Tell Me that You Love Me." The party seemed tweedy, city-intellectual, professorial, with a dollop of Woody Allen. I wish the salad had been half as interesting, although I know I will return to Nichols in spite of that dish's ordinariness.

I'm enjoying this, the foray and the forage. 

I Change My Mind

I change my mind. Because I can.

I have learned that opinions cannot afford to be fixed. Nor initial impressions, or goodness-gracious, not even time-tempered judgments.

In this changeable world, I choose to change my mind.

Of course, sometimes, I have to be the progenitor of change.

I will limit the descriptions to a distinct group of men, some of which I know too much, others a slighter amount. For loyal readers, you will recognize that group, the summer tennis pros.

The first one. Two summers ago, I was thrown into the company of a visiting pro. He traveled up from Texas, his full-time residence, after he departed his homeland, one of the northern European countries. He was invited to stay by and with The Savior, a former tennis pro himself. I was staying there as well. This fellow, however, made a poor first, second, and forty-fourth impression. He came off as arrogant, self-absorbed, hyper-sexed (or in want or dire need of sex), and generally uncouth. He lounged about the house, watched a lot of television, and presumed that someone, or I would run him around town. He lacked an internal edit function, and would utter the most outrageous, pre-1970s-sounding-macho-sexist statements. They and he were laughable. I could not take him seriously, and in short order, snapped tough sentences at him, in an attempt to keep him in line.

Two years later, my attitude has softened. He is spending the summer here, teaching, like so many others. And he is no longer acting like the super-uber stud. He seems to have been humbled, and is living in a group tennis pro house (much like a filthy fraternity). I realize now that he has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of tennis statistics, which in throw-down conversations, serves a useful purpose - when you want to prove a point. He also stepped up, and did me a solid, about which I cannot describe further, given the hint of illicit, though benign activity it entails (and no, I did not have sex with this guy - that remains non-negotiable). And he grew his hair out - aesthetically more pleasing than the baldy-look. My behavior toward him is generally kinder, now.

The second one is well-known. Tennis Pro. A couple of run-ins in the onset of summer were uncomfortable, to put it mildly. I was angry, but not in a knock-down-drag-out way. No. I was disgusted with what I had let transpire, and his physical presence reminded of the bonehead mistake I'd made. Still, the couple of times I saw him, it looked as though he was frightened, his eyes growing wide, as if he expected me to brandish a machete and run, roaring for his jugular. Okay, that was fun to write.

A few weeks back, I saw him at a local favorite watering hole, the one on the harbor. (To wit, the heartbreak of three summers ago has shown his face there. I saw him once, noted, it, and during the course of the evening, forgot about it completely - only recollecting it in the light of the next day, or a few day later. Brava.) Tennis Pro was alone, and looking, I thought, uncomfortable. I knew The Savior's arrival, was imminent (lawdy-be), and after a while, reached out, and introduced TP to some of our crowd. I made the point of being easy and light, magnanimous, entertaining, and happy to be entertained. I believe it worked. 

At some point, he did put his hand on the curve of my butt (good-sweet-jeezus-already), but I turned out of the way, out of reach, and kept up the banter (persiflage) among our little crowd.

Since then, I have a lightness in my mind, if not in anatomical parts south from my head, but not too south. It feels as though the angst has passed. I stepped up, walked into the fray, and determined to make it easy. Yes. Easy.

There is a third. And a fourth. I have formed first opinions, and they are both in the process of changing.

I feel a little like Annie in Bull Durham.

"What do you mean, you can't touch your toes? Your lower back is that tight?"

"Yeah. I try to keep loose. Yoga helps."

"Seriously, you can't touch your toes."

"It's a distant dream."

(More than that, I will not divulge. Yet.)

Persiflage

A snippet of light conversation from last night, after at least one too many glasses of wine:

"I don't want to talk about tennis," he said.

"Then what do you want to talk about? Do you...read?"

"No, not much. I'm a simple guy. But, we could make out for, like, forty-five minutes."

"What, what, what what, what?"

(Why did I sound like Jennifer Anniston just then, I thought, in that almost unwatchable film, The Break-Up? Mortified, face gone scarlet.)

"What?"

"I just wanted to stop that big intelligence of yours..."

C'mon, Eraser.

The Good G

This one ends his name with two "n's."

But there's much more to distinguish him. To recommend him. (And maybe a single worry -that I shall not detail here.)

I have man-friends. And I like them: A lot - individual, in aggregate, as a habit. My man-friends keep me honest - they have done so for over twenty years. There are among them, however, in my opinion, a smaller, elite group.

One in particular, a new man-friend, has been my man-friend since last summer, courtesy of The Savior (who is often top-of-the heap among man-friends, a surrogate brother).

He is The Good G - since he shares his first name with a dreadful, former other. He's different by one "n," and so much more.

One of the best things about him are his axioms, proverbial as they are.

When he makes a snap judgment about a person's character - more likely accurate than not, he says, "He's a real piece of shit." There is no equivocation. A story then ensues, an anecdote in which the person's unlikable traits are revealed.

Another: When a friend complains to him of perceived mistreatment by a lover, a girlfriend or boyfriend, or a friend, The Good G is likely to remind, "It doesn't get any better." I sense - no, I know - that he speaks from experience: his accumulated own as well as years of acquaintances' pitfalls and pratfalls.

Conversely, when someone is stand-up, he might say, "He's the real deal." Lest there be any doubt.

The Good G is generous and thoughtful, has developed his own sensibilities and tastes. I have been privileged to be the recipient of his kind nature. I have stayed at his house, been counseled when in distress, have shared hours of easy and funny conversation.

I would recommend him to any woman, knowing in advance, as I do, his preferences.

I told him of my recent sort-of date - the one where the fellow made a "move," but I felt nothing, and pulled away. He said to me, "You sound as though you feel guilty for not responding. Why? You have nothing to be guilty about. I don't know about women, but if you don't feel it 'in your pants,' then you don't."

"Yes," I said, "We women do feel it in our pants. When we do."

"Well if you don't, then you should feel no guilt."

He was right. I was over it in a second.

"Some of us," he added, "may not be meant for long-term relationships."

Indeed. Maybe not.

A sound observation. A reminder, for when I am next asked that question.   

Sammy's Beach

This is about a mile from the Ho-Ho House, on Sammy's Beach looking northward (and west to east and back again), across Gardiners Bay.

Late morning...

The same area as the sun started to set.

Further east along the spit...

And then, on the westward return...

   

Where Have I Been?

I have not vanished from this virtual world.

The real world has occupied so much of my time, that I have been left with almost no brain energy to write or update.

Okay, maybe I updated a little. Intrepid readers, take note: Some newer images in one of the photo albums. Comments management on this wildly popular post. Tweaking the first chapter on Plot Participant - heck, tweaking the entire archiving mechanism for Plot Participant. I dare you to go and hunt.

Rather than go into a lengthy diatribic/diatribical (I don't have my Websters dictionary with me; note to self: Self, bring your second copy out here) essay, I shall opt for an enumerated list of activities that have kept me from writing:

1. The IRS audit. I completed the third and final session of the first round of this damned process - the piecemeal review of all receipts and income for 2004. The next step is an appeal. I wrote the appeal request. Done. How's this for irony? The IRS agent admitted to me at the end of our last meeting, that if she were me, she would do exactly what I am doing (i.e., challenging the IRS, reviewing the tax return and receipts, making an appeal). So folks, take note. If you are an independent contractor, and you get audited, fight it. Be appropriate, but stay firm, take one thing at a time, and push back.

2. The Savior, my canny, dear friend as substitute-brother, convinced me to take the New York real estate sales agent licensing course and exam. I've been freelance writing, etc. for him since July, so... I did it, via the NYREI. I could write sitcom episodes out of those classes. Still, I took it dead-serious, studied well and diligently, passed the course, passed the state exam, and am going to work for one of the big-ass agencies, out of its Bridgehampton office. If a former Ralph Lauren supermodel from the late-197Os and 1980s works here, then I suppose I can do it too. Seems as though there are a few Mets fans in the house. That bodes well.

3. I got me a wee place in East Hampton. We're calling it the Ho-Ho House. Up in the Northwest (as it is known on the South Fork), and a stroll away from Sammy's Beach (glorious in the mornings - the Great Peconic Bay smacks of Winslow Homer), I am renting it from a British gal (mentioned here earlier), whose surname begins exactly as mine does: "Ho..." Ergo. Photos to come.

4. It's the last season of The Sopranos. I watch. I love. I am devastated.

5. I also watch Entourage. And The Tudors. These two are not as brilliant as they were (the former), or ought to be (the latter).

6. I made the mistake of watching an episode of one of the early try-out round episodes of American Idol. Let me say this right here. I have never watched that show before. Ever. I watched that one episode, and pow! That crap is crack. I am hooked. Strange, a core of my sharpest friends are long-time hooked. Go and roam here and here, by way of excellent NYC fan-based examples.

7. I started reading that Russian novel in translation, whose main character is a Sister Pelagia, and it didn't grab me. However, I read the first paragraph of Alice McDermott's Child of My Heart, and I stopped, until I realized I was holding my breath. I chose it because it is set out here, in East Hampton, and I was gratified to remind myself that Ms. McDermott won the National Book Award for her novel, Charming Billy. I dove into Child. I could not stop reading it. It made my chest hurt. I'm telling everyone to read it. I ordered a copy from Amazon and had it sent to my mother, for Mother's Day.

8. I had jury duty last week. I've been called five or six times in my life, been empaneled three times (I think), served one time, was sequestered that one time, and we sound up hung. This time I was empaneled, questioned, not selected, and then dismissed. Sprung. Clear for the next six years.

9. I had a date, egad. Maybe a sort-of date. An older gentleman. Whaddaya know, I am so not ready. I just, I just...didn't feel it. I am convinced I am still drawn to men some nine-ish years younger. This fellow is witty, intelligent, and has great stories. But I guess I still gotta go younger. The weather is only starting to move toward summer. Only starting. Patience.

10. I am re-reading Pride and Prejudice (apologies again to Sister Pelagia). It's still so fresh. Here in the country, where land and property are all, Jane Austen's novel manages to resonate - some two hundred years later.

Good grief. This has to be enough for now. I'm pooped. I want to take pictures and post them. I have not abandoned this space. I'll be back sooner.

Summer Reading 2007

I have selected - and purchased(!) some of the novels I plan to read this summer.

They are:

Alice McDermott's Child of My Heart. This looks to be the one, decent novel whose setting is the East End.

Jincy Willett's Winner of the National Book Award. Yes, that's the title, audacious, isn't it? I have had a tough time reading, much less liking the real National Book Award Winners, and this ersatz-titled volume looks enticing - New England twin sisters are the protagonists.

Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. After the resurgent-ongoing fascination with this timeless story, I think I need another dive back into the original.

Lily Tuck's The News from Paraguay. Speaking of the National Book Award, I've had this volume (a signed first printing no less) on my shelf for almost three years. I need to give it a solid attempt.

Last summer, I read Colm Toibin's The Master. I adored every single page of it. It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize (never mind the Man), and I am a sucker for Booker Award winners. I believe Kiran Desai's book is the latest winner - maybe I'll get to it.

I've read many more Bookers than NBA or Pulitzer Prize winners - although the summer of 2005, I read Philip Caputo's Acts of Faith (brilliant in places, and trite in others, I thought).

I did get around to reading Richard Ford's Independence Day - which is magnificent (better than The Sportswriter - to me anyhow). His third in the Frank Bascombe series, The Lay of the Land will be out in paperback in June. I may add it to this summer's list.

Right now, I've started Boris Akunin's Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog, a suggestion from a friend. Maybe that's the first of the warm weather lot.

As I finish any or all of these, I'll add them to the list on the left.

Painter's Pants

I'm moving East for the summer.

Yep, over the course of next month, I'll be trundling essential stuff to a charming house in the East End, renting from and rooming with one very droll British gal.

I'm not relinquishing my NYC home. Never. But I plan to sublet it to downstairs neighbors while they undergo renovation.

I'll write stories from out there, which I've done essentially anyhow for the past two summers. I'll be blending two lines of work, but more about those in later posts.

After our handshake conversation, my roommate-lessor-to-be and I chatted about, well, men. I remarked that I happened to notice a couple of builder-contractor fellows in a delicatessen on Main Street in Bridgehampton. From behind.

She replied that she is fond of the sculptural appearance of men's derrieres. (Good girl, that.)

The fellows wore tan, canvas, cargo-style pants. Utility pockets, tool-belts, thick-soled boots, heavy jackets over thermal underwear (it was still chilly two weeks ago when I was out there last).

A familiar look among the year-rounders out there. A familiar look at the north Jersey Shore, too. My brother is a builder - of ridiculously enormous homes in Monmouth County - and that tends to be his work attire.

It reminded my of our high school days in the mid-1970s. The style among the cool boys was painter's pants. White painter's pants, close-fitting below the waist and butt, then somewhat baggy, with generous-sized pockets, and loops attached to the side seams. Construction workers' pants.

Some fellows wore denim versions.

Heck, I think I even owned a pair or two, rebel, pot-smoking, class-skipper that I was during the latter half of my high school career. And Oshkosh overalls. Never mind the National Honor Society - I wanted to be cool - and I think I was finally, by the time I was a senior.

The boys looked good in those britches. And the fellows today look just as good.

I think that may be the, ahem, diversion for this upcoming summer.

Why Not Me

I didn't feel disparaged until I received Tennis Pro's voice message.

I was sitting in Dulles airport, awaiting a late connection to La Guardia when I noted the message on my phone. I had taken less than forty-eight hours to zip down to Melbourne, Florida, flying in and out of Orlando. Why the connection (even though Jet Blue has become less the airline of choice these days)? Because I opted to use some of my United Miles, and United does not fly direct from NYC to Florida, at least not often.

No. As it turned out, the flight crew down had mucked with the on-board coffeemaker, and it took almost an hour either to fix the pot, or file the necessary paperwork. The coffeemaker.

I was nearly asleep in my seat as it was, since I had risen at six a.m. to take a seventy-five dollar cab from Melbourne to the Orlando airport. The Jamaican driver told me that he raised goats, but not before he held forth that homosexuality was not normal, that gay men preyed upon boys to turn them, that a man's penis does not belong in another man's rectum. That last bit is verbatim.

I couldn't depart The Sunshine State fast enough. I'm sure Anita Bryant would have been oh-so happy. Glory-be. Her legacy thrives.

Back to TP's voice message. Here are the words:

"I just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed having you down. I know it's probably not, um, who knows, not exactly what you had in mind, but I enjoyed your visit. And that's it. It was all fun. Kind of short, though. It was a little too short. So you are always welcome here, and hopefully you'll come back and see me again. Ciao."

My first thought was this: How many ways can I tell you to have a nice day? Right. Ciao.

How did all this come about, I wondered. True, TP and I remained in telephone contact since last September. And true, I found the conversations enjoyable, most times laugh-out-loud funny.

As this winter hit its sub-freezing stride, I felt like a shut-in. I've taken to calling the five or so extra pounds, my winter pelt. I'm wearing layers of clothing, my nose, finger tips and toes perpetually cold.

TP suggested more than once that I come down to visit him, and as the temperature hovered around 25-degrees Fahrenheit for weeks on end, I made the decision to hop south. A flash-extremity-warm-up.

Truth be told, I am not a fan of Florida. I've been many times over more than two decades: Tallahassee, Gainesville, Orlando, Tampa, St. Petersburg, West Palm Beach, Jupiter, Fort Lauderdale, and Miami. Heck, nearly everything I had was stolen out of a rental car in South Beach some twenty years ago. I can be such a snob, but after that, I've not cared for the general population that inhabits or frequents that state.

It had been years, and I figured that TP, a born-and-raised Melbourne native, and one entertaining fellow, would offer a couple of days' respite.

Our summer fling has offered diverting, memories (heck, summer flings have built-in expiration dates). However, I haven't been feeling particularly sexual - my dream-state has been very active this year so far, hurrah - and I expected to be reserved in that sense. I am aware that TP has regular assignations with more than one woman in his home town. He conducts private tennis lessons on his carefully-groomed clay home court. Yes, his home, with its pool and spa, and separate separate guest room(s).

I made it plain that I did not want to get in the way, be underfoot, that I would be content to rent a car, do my own thing...

Nope. TP sounded very enthusiastic about my visit, said he would fetch me from the Orlando, and that we would go down to Palm Beach the next day. I comprehend now that he wanted to show me some highlight places in the story of his life.

Which was fine. Conversation was easy. Kicking back and inhaling is a surefire way to relax. I made no physical move, nor did he. at the end of the first night, we turned in. I took the guest room.

The next morning, we drove south. What can I say about Palm Beach? The median age seems to be about sixty years old. Most of the men were attired in pleated-front, knee-length shorts, polo shirts, and penny loafers without socks. Um fellows, the Reagan era was twenty years ago, y'all. The women were dressed in various iterations of Lilly Pulitzer.

I cuffed-up my jeans, and tried to break in a new pair of clunky Michael Kors sandals (blisters, natch). Attired thus, with a simple, "shrunk" tee-shirt and Longchamps handbag, I felt more stylish than anyone I saw (alas, my Manhattan snobbery).

Worth Avenue's line-up of luxury-brand stores are versions of the same luxury-brand stores here in the city. Generally, however, I did like the older Spanish-Mediterranean architecture. The Breakers is a lovely building - the antique furniture, carpets, tapestries, and chandeliers are gorgeous, no argument. I did like The Seafood Bar, the actual bar, which housed tiny, living sea creatures. That was cool.

The chock-a-block mansions that line the oceanfront avenue would be obliterated if struck full-force by a hurricane, Saffir-Simpson Level Five. And they would most likely be rebuilt by their wealthy owners.

I did wiggle my toes in the sand. The sea was a deep turquoise, different from the steel blue I'm used to.

On the return drive to Melbourne, two sightings of local fauna intrigued me very much. Along the Interstate, TP pointed out a flock of wild turkeys and a family of wild pigs (!). Cool, that.

Once back at his home, I sensed the unspoken awkwardness between TP and me. And I lacked the inclination to discuss anything other than trivial amusements. We stayed up too late that second evening - I had to be up and gone to catch my return flight. Did he make a feeble attempt at intimacy? Maybe he did, but when he bid me a good night, I went off to the guest room. Again. (I learned last summer that he is not the sort of person with whom one actually sleeps.)

It has been a while, but a nasty pit in my stomach started to roil. The old separation anxiety. I lay still and took several deep breaths. I tried to think back, recall other times in my life when I felt the same. I wondered, should I have organized a longer trip? Was I missing out on something? I thought of some of the men in my past, some who left me, some whom I left, and realized that my internal upheaval was trivial. I gradually grew calm, but sleep was fitful.

A thought entered my mind, in the form of a question, "Why not me?' Indeed, why not. Why not me? Why would I put myself in a situation that is fruitless, and therefore safe? When will I allow myself to be open, when will I allow myself to venture a significant person into my life?

As for TP's voice message, or the conversation we had afterward, I wondered a bit more. I have known men who have claimed that they want (need?) me to be in their lives (somehow). It's almost as if my friendship, once given, serves to validate them. I could be wrong of course, but if I'm not, I wonder why that should matter. I don't flatter myself that I am so special. I know I can be a good friend, the best kind of good friend, in fact. Sometimes, though, it feels as though I allow such affection to be co-opted and used. Sometimes, it seems as though I get so little in return. Is TP another of this kind? Would it be such a stretch to imagine it to be so?

I was taught once upon a time, to pay attention to that "used" feeling. When I was a child, I was raised to expect cake, and what I got were crumbs. I was admonished, I was supposed to believe that the crumbs were the cake. Much later, I've come to understand the difference. I have to remind myself that I am worth more. It's difficult. I'm better at it today than I was some ten years ago. 

Will I ever make a return trip to see TP? I cannot say.

In this meaningless world, where chance and probability are physical law, all I can do is pay attention and do my best - the hardest and most rewarding endeavor - every day of my life.

    

Snow Falls, Evaporates

Some three-plus weeks ago, I attended a memorial service in Monmouth County, New Jersey. The complete story can be found here and here.

The untimely and unnatural death of Mary Dean Buckley was remembered by friends and family in the town of Rumson.

I knew Mary. She was the sister of a fellow I dated back in the early-mid 1980s (that is a whole other story). I did not know her well, but I recall clearly that she was real and true, loving, present, self-effacing, and I expect, a very good person. I'm sure she had her foibles, tics that her family forebore and forgave. I didn't know her well enough to see any of them. She should not have died. She was forty-seven, and she left behind a husband and four sons.

Her funeral was held last November.

The follow-up service was held on a cold, gray weekday, in a white, clapboard Catholic church, situated just across the Navesink River from the barrier spit of land called Sea Bright. I arrived after the service had begun, and took a seat in one of the rear-most rows.

I was oddly relieved that after so many years, I have forgotten whole chunks of the Catholic mass. I sat and watched the faithful.

I surveyed the backs of heads, trying to identify people that I am sure I had not seen in twenty years. I recognized Mary's husband, Matt, his thick head of hair still thick and full, but now completely silver.

Other faces felt familiar, and I caught the eye of some, but further recognition failed. When the service ended, everyone filed out, paying respects to the family. I spotted Mary's parents, both of whom I knew. And I waited until everyone filed out before me.

When Mary's mother held out her hand, and I said, "It's Holly. Holly Hodder," she exclaimed and hugged me.

Times like those strip away the years, and I am a young woman all over again, wanting so much to make a good impression.

In the next second, however, I returned to the present, to the person I am, to the person I like being, and I am happy just to offer condolence, physical touch, a smile, and a memory.

Mary's parents hosted a luncheon at their home, and I made a wrong turn or two, as I drove the three or so miles further inland from the ocean. The high school from which I graduated is probably not more than two miles further, and would, no doubt, result in at least one more wrong turn, if I had been motivated to find it. I was not.

I reintroduced myself, or was reintroduced to people I had not seen in the intervening twenty years. In short order, I discovered that I had not seen these people since the actual day that Mary and Matt were married - their wedding day, in the summer of 1985.

I stood in the family dining room when something hit me. Mary and Matt's wedding day was memorable to me, more for the day afterward. Mary's brother and I were broken up by then, only a few weeks earlier, and I was still in pain. I was fragile.

(Funny, I still devolve into a state of fragility after heartbreak, but now I know that it doesn't last quite so long, and I manage to survive, in spite of myself, time after time.)

But that evening, after the bride and groom had departed, I was hanging on by an emotional thread, at the reception pounding gin-and-tonics, when I was offered lines. Yes, lines of coke. I was no stranger to the drug, having withstood college in the late 1970s, and more than my fair share of nights at Studio, Xenon, and Mudd Club, among others. So I said yes.

And that was the last time I ever used cocaine. A watershed.

That hangover is still memorable, for its pain and duration. My whole body felt as though a tractor had rolled back and forth over it. My mother - I crashed at her apartment - either didn't comprehend, or didn't ask, and I did not return to the land of the cogent or ambulatory for forty-eight hours.

And once I did, I knew that was it. I was done, with so many things, the ex-boyfriend, the drug. I kid around today, and say that I could be surrounded by mountains of the stuff, and I would not indulge. I've had opportunities since, albeit rare, and I stay away, steer clear.

I suppose we're calmer these days. The people who attended that service, those I assume are close to my own age, now seem settled, somewhat fleshier around the mid-sections, conservatively-attired, with upscale but low-key jewelry. They drive solid and safe automobiles. They talked about their families, their children. A couple of fellows told genuinely funny stories.

And yet, I felt apart. I don't live in a pristine family-oriented community. Indeed, I have little in common with married people, raising teenagers.

I could sense the city in the back of mind: "Get back up here already!"

One fellow called me "Holly-lama." That was funny.

Another fellow, one who caught my eye at the church, when we were reintroduced at the luncheon, I asked if we had met before. He responded that he did not think so.

Hmmm. It came to me afterward, after I made my farewells, and drove back to the beach to conjure memories of summers past.

The one and only time I took a hit of Ecstasy was on a date with a guy who (I think?) resembled that fellow. I cannot remember his name. Maybe his family name was an English tradesperson-name, like Farmer or Carpenter. Maybe not. He was from Rumson, and he drank too much, way too much. I think that same guy might have turned up at Mary and Matt's wedding reception - held at a big, semi-private beach club in Sea Bright (Matt told me the place has long since burned to the ground).

When he saw me, he stumbled so slightly, and either reached for or pointed at me, and said, "I'm gonna take that girl home and drill her."

The last two words sounded like "driller," rhyming with "killer." Some things you don't remember, some things you just don't forget.

I know that, even with too many cocktails and my sinuses throbbing, I got out of there, and drove straight to my mother's place.

Funny how the memories of such events are buried, most of the time. I hadn't thought of that night in years, and yet there I was, driving to the surfer beach in North End, like I did when I skipped school, eager to sit my butt on the sand and watch the boys.

The beach is built-up in places now, new condominium complexes, enormous townhouses that abut the sea wall - sure to be destroyed in the next whopper of a hurricane.

It was time to leave the summers behind and return north.

As I drove through the toll gate onto the Garden State Parkway (whoever invented EZ-Pass needs to be canonized), snow flurries blew down and all around me. I was home inside of seventy minutes flat.