They fell neatly into three categories, Mary Ellen took notes:
Mashnee Island Employees, (who reported directly to Mr. Knight, so that would include clubhouse and bar workers, pool attendees, and maintenance workers).
off-island “vendors” who visited regularly,
and
Mashnee “hanger-outers”—those who frequented Mashnee for the pool, The Club or the beach.
With Mary Ellen taking copious notes, we came up with a list worthy of further investigation.
THE MIDNIGHT AVENGER:
It happened every weekend night throughout the summer at precisely the stroke of midnight, a loud, racing motorcycle, jetting down the dike at full speed, then motoring through the streets of Mashnee, revving its powerful engine along the way, very much to the chagrin of those Mashneeites who valued their peace and quiet or were trying to sleep. But it wasn’t just the time of night or the wall-penetrating sound of the chopper that most disturbed the islanders, it was the fact that whoever was riding the boisterous bike, was doing so,
Totally butt naked!
Oh, he did wear a green army helmet with a blacked-out visor.
And matching green camo body paint.
The older Mashneeites were in an uproar. A tizzy. A fit. Flipped out and pissed the hell off! And as much as they despised all forms of elevated noise and clamorous sounds of any non-natural origin, day or night, they most feverishly loathed motorcycles on their island. That meant any motorcycles, all motorcycles and most-specifically loud motorcycles. This, was a direct affront to their sense of respect and decency, the very knowledge of which served direct motivation for the high-revs and midnight rides.
Reginald Knight Senior called emergency association meetings to address this “dangerous, reprehensible, menace.” Residents had impromptu backyard gatherings to argue best-practices for apprehending this “no-good, low-down, obviously off-island, disgusting pervert.” Concerns and complaints came rolling in, from “Reggie Knight’s Lawn Maze” to the Mashnee Dock, and everywhere in between. The old hens in particular were losing their ever-loving minds, and the GROOVIEST part of it all was…
Nobody on the island recognized him.
Or his Harley chopper.
He drove too fast.
Revved too high.
Every midnight.
Just a darkened blur.
A loud one.
Blistering loud.
Riding nude.
Body painted.
Laughing.
One lap around the Island.
Then gone.
Into the night.
Until tomorrow.
at midnight!
Shhh it’s our secret~
PUCKER-UP, THE FRUIT MAN:
His unmistakable, rickety, old, green pickup with dozens of perilously balanced baskets of fruit and vegetables stacked recklessly high on the truck bed, would be pulled off to the side of the dike each morning at 8:45 sharp for his early run, then again at 4:30 for the largely more profitable afternoon run. Pucker-Up was a Spaniard of Cuban descent, with thick, sun-darkened skin, kind eyes, and a charming accent.
Pucker-Up sold fresh fruit and vegetables.
But not just any old fruit and vegetables.
Oh no, he sold: “The best farm fresh fruit and vegetables on all of Cape Cod!”
“Grown with love and care, at the Pucker-Up Fruit and Vegetable Farm!”
“Freshly picked each morning by Pucker-Up and his loving family!”
His daily pit stops on the dike’s sandy shoulder were for inspiration, the type of inspiration you could smell a block away, maybe two on a breezy day.
Pucker didn’t seem to give two-hoots about what anyone else thought, nor was he really trying to hide anything, (except possibly the origin of his fruit and vegetables, or the location of his so-called farm).
Most islanders had seen him take a nip or two at some point in the summer but they barely took note, thinking at worst, it fueled his magnetism. Apparently he relied solely on the pungent aroma of chained-smoked Cuban cigars to cover his tracks.
