Dans Papers - June 8, 2007 -

I swear, if Rip Van Winkle woke up after a twenty-year sleep in front of the offices of Dan's Papers on Friday, he would think we are so bizarre.

I am not talking about our building. It's the same building, with the same clapboard shingles, the same sculpture out front and the same neon sign by the front door. What's different is the group of seven people on the front lawn. Four were wandering aimlessly around, occasionally gesturing with their hands or doing something with their heads and not saying one word to one another. The other three were standing in one place, looking dreamily into space, occasionally exhaling cigarette smoke.

It was the most amazing thing. Here it was, a beautiful day in early June, with the sun shining and the temperature about seventy degrees and here I was, heading westbound on the Montauk Highway with my turn signal on, waiting to turn into our driveway. What I should have been seeing, if it were a situation where seven people would be out on the lawn 20 years ago, is seven people chatting happily with one another.

But oh no. The active four were gesturing and pacing back and forth, sometimes coming so close to the others that those standing still had to slide out of the way to avoid getting shoved aside. Those on their cell phones were Tom Swinimer, our delivery manager, Jean Lynch, our North Fork sales executive, Janine Cheviot, our assistant editor, and Victoria Cooper, our coordinating editor. Considering the paper bag in Janine's hand, I figured she was just coming back from Bob's Village Market next door with her lunch when her cell phone rang, stopping her in her tracks. Tom Swinimer's delivery crew was in the back, loading up bundles and skids of Dan's Papers into white pickup trucks and he was up front having a one on one conversation with somebody because he needed privacy. Jean Lynch was apparently headed next door to the market to get her lunch when her phone rang, and I have no idea what Victoria Cooper was doing out there.

As for the other three people, I will not say who they were, because they know who they are, but they were there because they could not be inside. They stood almost motionless, staring out into space, and every once in a while, they would each raise a hand to their mouths to take a drag and then remove their hand and blow out the smoke. None of the three moved much, and none of them spoke to any of the others.

"Rip," I said to the imaginary old fellow sitting next to me, "make of it what you will, the place has gone nuts."

As for me, I knew that sometime soon there had to be a break in this long line of cars, so I could end my viewing of this little front lawn playlet and pull into the driveway and into my parking space.

But then I saw, in the line of cars next to me going eastbound, a vision I will not soon forget.

I don't know about you, but while driving around the Hamptons, I often find myself turning my head to watch a really interesting-looking couple drive by in a really interesting-looking car.

It's always a convertible. Sometimes red, sometimes yellow, sometimes powder blue. And in it is almost always some very prosperous looking older fellow with slicked back hair sitting next to a slender fashion model with blonde hair, dark glasses and a big white hat with a ribbon.

I know it's sort of silly, but these visions participate in my mind as a sort of contest. Somewhere out there, there is the perfect car and couple. And this is one of the entrants.

Well, waiting to turn into the zombie driveway at Dan's Papers that morning, I had found the winners -- there was no mistaking it.

The vehicle was an enormous HUM-VEE. The real thing, the military version after which the Hummer was copied. It had oversize tires, a roll bar, a camouflage paint job and no top. And it was splattered in mud.

And here was the couple. The driver was a man of about forty, naked from the waist up, with a crown of unkempt curly blond hair, dark sunglasses, a flower-patterned bathing suit and a suntanned, hairy chest.

His left hand was on the wheel. His right arm was draped over the shoulders of this amazing creature next to him, a 120-pound-soaking-wet, beige water dog sitting obediently on the passenger seat, facing forward, his pink tongue hanging out from what had apparently been a glorious run on the beach.

The entry glided by, the driver turning his head neither left toward my front turn blinker nor right toward the zombies. Just so cool.