Robert and the future Congressman first encountered one another decades ago. It was a summertime bash at Two Harbors, the tiny, remote village at the other end of the Island where beer flowed and pre-fame groups from L.A. pumped the sounds of the ‘sixties into the starry night. To get there, Robert had hitched a ride on the shore boat out of Avalon. The twelve-mile trip took over an hour on the water but it would have taken at least three hours driving the dirt roads, not that he’d owned a car. Only a few privileged Islanders were allowed their own vehicles. He scrounged rides on whatever mode was available, at whatever time he could beg.
He arrived at the party unfashionably early, before the music started. Most of the tourists sipped cocktails and barbequed steaks on their boat decks; others had claimed picnic tables on the beach. Everyone looked healthy and blonde and sunburned, in shorts or swim trunks. Robert, on the other hand, wore wide bellbottoms, a leather vest, and a beaded headband around his forehead. He leaned against the beach wall, far enough away from the water’s edge to protect his moccasins. From his vantage point, he could watch the boaters as they finished their suppers and hopped into their dinghies to shuttle ashore for the party.
The sound of raucous laughter and fragments of profanity drew his attention to the outer bank of the cove. A gaggle of kayaks skimmed into the harbor with a dozen shirtless, bronzed young men brandishing paddles in a race to the shore. They rocketed onto the sand as picnic-ers jumped out of the way with shouts and cheers. The Boy Scout camp staff from Cherry Cove had arrived. They jostled and chided each other in apparent good humor. Robert watched with veiled disdain and remembered a D.H. Lawrence quote, How beastly the bourgeois is, especially the male of the species. One of the kayakers caught him staring.
“What are you looking at freak?” shouted the apparent winner of the race.
Robert averted his eyes but didn’t move.
“What are you fuckin’ doing here, freak?” The angry young man moved toward Robert.
One of the others blocked him, “Hey! Trey, be cool man!”
“On Monday I leave for Basic at Fort Georgia while long-haired freaks like him burn flags,” declared Trey Scheinheilig.
Robert remained at the beach wall, eyes focused on a distant point, the name ‘Trey’ stuck in his mind like a burr, reminding him of his caste.
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