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Tanned and lean and new to the neighborhood, he looks like he’s stepped straight off Sunset Boulevard. My mother says. ‘That boy has a foot gene pool from Troy Donahue and foot Sandra Dee’. Then foot she sings, to the tune of Barbara Streisand ‘Papa Can You Hear Me?’ ‘Malibu eyes in Port Jefferson’ Anties, cousins and every girl in the neighborhood speculate about Mickey’s bad boy allure, but it’s wasted. He watches us watching him. He ignores us. We try harder. He remains unmoved. Only once did he say words that altered my take on the world. ‘Those pictures of yours?’ Then followed without a question mark. ‘They‘re crap’. I stopped taking photos. Not long after Mickey left Long Island. My mother said. ‘They didn’t have time to unpack the furniture’. My father said, ‘What for?
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