with the devil, bring a long spoon.” Or, in this case, long chopsticks. Better yet, cancel that dinner.
This was my first trip to the village since I’d returned, and as I approached I noted the familiar landmarks. This area was settled in 1667 by the English, including my ancestors, and the residents have been resisting change ever since, so there wasn’t too much new in the quaint hamlet. It’s all about the zoning.
I turned onto Birch Hill Road, the old main street, and cruised through Station Plaza, where I used to take the Long Island Railroad for my fifty-minute commute into Manhattan. In the plaza was McGlade’s Pub, where Susan would sometimes meet me when I got off the train. Thinking back, I now wondered how many times she’d had afternoon sex with Frank Bellarosa before having drinks with me.
I slowed down as I approached my former law offices, where I used to put in a day or two each week to break up the commute into the city. The Locust Valley branch of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds had been housed in a Victorian mansion at the edge of town. The mansion was still there, and it was still a law office, but the ornate sign on the front lawn now read: joseph p. bitet & justin w. green, attorneys-at-law.
I didn’t recognize those names, and not seeing my name on the sign was a bit of a shock, though it shouldn’t have been.
If this was a
Twilight Zone
episode, I’d now enter the building and see that the furniture was different, and I’d say to the receptionist, “Where’s Kathy?” and the lady would look at me, puzzled, and reply, “Who?”
“My receptionist.”
“Sir? How can I help you?”
“I’m John Sutter. This is my office. Why is my name not on the sign?”
And the lady would say, “Just a moment, sir,” then disappear and call the police, who would come and take me away as I was ranting about this being my office, and demanding they find my secretary, or call my wife to straighten this all out. Then Rod Serling’s voice-over would say, “John Whitman Sutter thought he’d just returned to his office after lunch—but he’d been gone longer than that . . . in the Twilight Zone.”
I doubled back toward the center of the village. Anyone from west of the Hudson who was dropped into this little town would not mistake Birch Hill Road for Main Street USA. For one thing, there are an inordinate number of imported luxury cars on the street, and the stores, I noticed, were still mostly antiques and boutiques, art galleries, and restaurants, with not a Starbucks to be seen.
I’d been avoiding Locust Valley, where I probably still knew a lot of people, but now that I was here, I could imagine a chance encounter with a former friend or neighbor. “Hello, John. Where have you been, old boy?”
“Around the world on my boat, then London. I left about ten years ago.”
“Has it been that long? How is Susan?”
“We got divorced after she shot her Mafia lover.”
“That’s right. Damned shame. I mean, the divorce. Why don’t we have lunch at the club?”
“I’m never allowed to set foot in The Creek or Seawanhaka for the rest of my life.”
“You don’t say? Well, you look wonderful, John. Let me know when you’re free.”
“I’ll send my man around with some dates. Ciao.”
Anyway, I turned onto Forest Avenue and found a parking space near Rolf’s German Delicatessen, which I used to frequent whenever I got tired of Susan’s organic compost.
I was glad to see that the deli was still there, but inside, I discovered that there had been a Mexican invasion, and the English language was not on the menu.
Nevertheless, I ordered in my usual brusque New York manner, “Black Forest ham, Muenster, mustard, on pumpernickel.”
“Mister?”
“No,
Muenster
.”
“Muster.”
“No. Good Lord, man, I’m ordering a
sandwich
. What part of that order couldn’t you understand?”
“Blaforesam. Yes?”
I could hear the soundtrack from
The Twilight Zone
in my
This was my first trip to the village since I’d returned, and as I approached I noted the familiar landmarks. This area was settled in 1667 by the English, including my ancestors, and the residents have been resisting change ever since, so there wasn’t too much new in the quaint hamlet. It’s all about the zoning.
I turned onto Birch Hill Road, the old main street, and cruised through Station Plaza, where I used to take the Long Island Railroad for my fifty-minute commute into Manhattan. In the plaza was McGlade’s Pub, where Susan would sometimes meet me when I got off the train. Thinking back, I now wondered how many times she’d had afternoon sex with Frank Bellarosa before having drinks with me.
I slowed down as I approached my former law offices, where I used to put in a day or two each week to break up the commute into the city. The Locust Valley branch of Perkins, Perkins, Sutter and Reynolds had been housed in a Victorian mansion at the edge of town. The mansion was still there, and it was still a law office, but the ornate sign on the front lawn now read: joseph p. bitet & justin w. green, attorneys-at-law.
I didn’t recognize those names, and not seeing my name on the sign was a bit of a shock, though it shouldn’t have been.
If this was a
Twilight Zone
episode, I’d now enter the building and see that the furniture was different, and I’d say to the receptionist, “Where’s Kathy?” and the lady would look at me, puzzled, and reply, “Who?”
“My receptionist.”
“Sir? How can I help you?”
“I’m John Sutter. This is my office. Why is my name not on the sign?”
And the lady would say, “Just a moment, sir,” then disappear and call the police, who would come and take me away as I was ranting about this being my office, and demanding they find my secretary, or call my wife to straighten this all out. Then Rod Serling’s voice-over would say, “John Whitman Sutter thought he’d just returned to his office after lunch—but he’d been gone longer than that . . . in the Twilight Zone.”
I doubled back toward the center of the village. Anyone from west of the Hudson who was dropped into this little town would not mistake Birch Hill Road for Main Street USA. For one thing, there are an inordinate number of imported luxury cars on the street, and the stores, I noticed, were still mostly antiques and boutiques, art galleries, and restaurants, with not a Starbucks to be seen.
I’d been avoiding Locust Valley, where I probably still knew a lot of people, but now that I was here, I could imagine a chance encounter with a former friend or neighbor. “Hello, John. Where have you been, old boy?”
“Around the world on my boat, then London. I left about ten years ago.”
“Has it been that long? How is Susan?”
“We got divorced after she shot her Mafia lover.”
“That’s right. Damned shame. I mean, the divorce. Why don’t we have lunch at the club?”
“I’m never allowed to set foot in The Creek or Seawanhaka for the rest of my life.”
“You don’t say? Well, you look wonderful, John. Let me know when you’re free.”
“I’ll send my man around with some dates. Ciao.”
Anyway, I turned onto Forest Avenue and found a parking space near Rolf’s German Delicatessen, which I used to frequent whenever I got tired of Susan’s organic compost.
I was glad to see that the deli was still there, but inside, I discovered that there had been a Mexican invasion, and the English language was not on the menu.
Nevertheless, I ordered in my usual brusque New York manner, “Black Forest ham, Muenster, mustard, on pumpernickel.”
“Mister?”
“No,
Muenster
.”
“Muster.”
“No. Good Lord, man, I’m ordering a
sandwich
. What part of that order couldn’t you understand?”
“Blaforesam. Yes?”
I could hear the soundtrack from
The Twilight Zone
in my
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