Lapham Rising by Roger Rosenblatt Read Free Book Online Page B

with achievement and magnitude, and people will expect big things of him, as he will of himself. Eventually, everyone on the East End and beyond will be thinking of Lapham at the expense of everything of value. Soon all they will see is Lapham. He will have invaded the minds of the great wide world, as he has invaded my mind, as he has invaded Noman.”
    Hector shakes his head to suggest that I am a hopeless case, then walks away. I expected no better.
    “Here’s my point,” I call after him. “My island sits in a creek, the creek opens to the canal, the canal opens to the bay, and the bay to the Atlantic. See what I mean?”
    “Oh,” he says without turning around. “ Our Town —right? Loved it!”

Six
    H ombres!” I raise my megaphone and shout to the Mexicans. “How much to stop work on Lapham’s house?” It is high noon. They have been banging all morning.
    They shout to me, “You don’t have enough money, Señor March.”
    I shout to them: “How do you know?”
    They shout to me: “Because we can see you!”
    Everyone can see me; that’s the trouble. This state of affairs did not exist before Lapham and his fellow vandals came to the shores across the creek. In those blissful days, there was no one to see me but the cormorants, the egrets, the moles, and the frogs. Now, not a week passes without some stranger’s taking advantage of the sight of me by jumping into any available flotation device and cruising over for a chat. One thing to be said for living by yourself: no one can leave you. But people can visit.
    In the past few weeks alone, I have suffered the forays of a string of uninvited guests. In dealing with such people, I have found that the straightforward approach works best, and so I try to be both forthright and as helpful as possible.
    A delegation of Shinnecock Indians came over by canoe (as if that touch were necessary) to enlist my support for their plans to establish gambling casinos in Southampton. I gave it gladly. They were very grateful and made me an honorary member of the tribe. My Indian name is Walks Alone Awkwardly. They offered me twenty cartons of Marlboro Lights tax-free, but I declined. I asked if they realized that the land across the creek, on which the big houses are going up, had belonged to the Shinnecocks since 1561, or three hundred and thirty-three years before Southampton was incorporated. They said they were unaware of this. I assured them that the land was theirs and encouraged them to seize it at once. They said they would check their land records, which I knew would prove me right, since at one time or another the Shinnecocks have claimed every inch of the East End from Remsenberg to Montauk. We shook hands warmly and high-fived one another. Then they went home.
    They were followed shortly afterward by the Southampton Hurricane of 1938 Society, a group devoted to commemorating everything connected with the hurricane of 1938, and to inserting mention of it in every possible conversation. Theymeet twice a week to recall the disastrous event, to look at faded black-and-white photographs of smashed boats and floating houses, and to lament that life in the Hamptons has gone “down, down, down” since those early days. They asked me if there might be some way to drive the Shinnecocks out of town, west toward Mastic and Bellport, or perhaps toward the northern jaw, whence they might paddle over the Sound to Connecticut and link up with their Pequot comrades in craps and blackjack. I told them I would give the matter serious thought and added that I was sure the Indians would not mind being expelled.
    The Panel People (one man, one woman) from Panelle Hall in East Hampton came by to ask me to serve on a panel on the topic “Whither Literature?” I declined. How about a different panel, they asked: “Whither History?” The woman’s hair was the color of bubble gum, and the man’s eyelids covered most of his eyes, like the slats of a venetian blind. When I told