Bottom Left: Littoral Drift

I watched "Amadeus" on TV last night, and today I had to cover a "share-hunting" party for Time Out. Somehow, as you will see, the two got intertwined. . . .

Dear friends and countrymen, I write to you with news of the most urgent nature.

The barbarians are at the gate!

I have been, as you know, in New York of late, and today I stumbled upon the most terrible of sights. I was enjoying a leisurely walk to the apothecary, when, in the windows of a small, dark tavern called Hi-Life, my eyes caught them. They were a large barbarian horde, four score perhaps, huddled in the most secretive of congregations. It became quickly apparent what was occurring; they were plotting against our precious island.

In the shadows I hid. The horde was still studying maps of the area and renderings of some of our very own homesteads. Trembling, I listened. And soon their plan became starkly apparent: They were plotting to gather in large groups for the coming summer, occupy our very houses, and use these homes to stage their invasion!

O friends, how I shuddered!

Listening further, I learned more of their plot. They were to share these houses in groups of as many as 30 per weekend, and pass themselves off as summer visitors.

They would bathe at the beaches and amuse themselves in our taverns and inns - pretending to enjoy our beautiful hamlets. Ah, but underlying this vulgar pretense I knew there ran the currents of more sinister intent.

Swallowing my fear, I leapt from the shadows and lurched for the main table.

"What, pray tell, is going on here!?" I beseeched.

"It's a sharehouse party!" said one of the leaders, smiling first, then throwing me a quizzical, discerning glance. "Interested in getting in? We have a couple half and quarter shares left. We've got two houses, one in South, one in Bridge. The one in South is awesome - heated pool, right next to Jet East. These are the photos. Take a look."

He seemed unfazed by my abrupt intrusion on their hushed meeting.

It was a ruse. The barbarians were playing coy, letting their uninvited guest know just enough so as not to arouse suspicion, never revealing a hint of their darker purpose.

I picked up the photograph, and, thinking of the humble townsfolk who had put their homesteads up for lease without ever knowing what cruel consequence would befall them, I spoke.

"Yes, yes. Mmm. Very intriguing," I muttered. I would now play along, join them in their own game of deceit. "This quarter share of which you speak, what, precisely, will it get me?"

The leader, a confident, successful-looking fellow, smirked a bit, as did his cohorts, who were trying to muffle laughter as they stared me up and down.

"Was there some kind of parade today?" he asked. The stifled giggles that followed indicated they found my attire amusing. My face tightened. They were mocking me!

I became incensed, but wisely, I revealed it not.

"I'm sorry," said the leader, wiping a tear from his eye, unable, at this point, to disguise his amusement. "A quarter share gets you a bed in a room with four others for five weekends, and - basically - parties, parties, parties!"

"But, uh, can I ask you something? Why are you speaking in an English accent? You're not really English, are you?"

The indignation! I could take it no more - this, this character assassination!

I turned without a word and stormed out. The chilling drizzle cast a gray pallor over First Avenue.

Waiting for the carts to clear so I could cross the road, I was shocked to spot a flyer pinned to a lamppost advertising more of these so-called "share-hunting" parties: one at the Big Sur tavern, one at the Trilogy tavern, and one at the Loew's Hotel. My God! I thought. We haven't much time!

As I fled down the cold avenue, nearly being hit by a reckless cart, I spotted a box carrying the Village Voice newspaper, a subversive sheet known to be read by the barbarians and their sympathizers. I scanned its contents looking for more clues, when, to my horror, there stood a section with no less than 150 ads calling for more infiltrators to join more of these so-called "share-houses." I dropped the paper and fled.

This invasion was more dire than I had thought.

Now I sit in a dark room, in fear that I am being followed by the barbarians and that my days are numbered. Only a fortnight ago a friend asked if I wanted to "join his share-house." They had gotten him, too. I will be next, I fear.

I can only pray that this dispatch reaches you promptly and leaves you ample time to prepare and defend.

Godspeed!