Chapter 13
There used to be this unwritten understanding in Bratenahl that everyone would share the main path down to the waterfront, even though technically it runs through private land.
It had been this way— a gentlemen’s agreement—since the dawn of the twentieth century.
In recent years, though, the families in the abutting estates got together and decided that the clock had run down on free beach access for every slob in the neighborhood.
I’m all for a man’s home being his castle, but I will venture that this is bad parenting on the part of this Leland woman.
I mean, sure, you can manage like that for a while, in a suburb.
You can make your advances on Whole Foods in Rocky River and Crate & Barrel in Beachwood in your souped-up SUV tank, with maybe a concealed-carry in your glove box for good measure.
But sooner or later, real life is going to hit your little brats like a load of artisanally crafted bricks, the way this world is going.
My own father, God rest his soul, was a big believer in getting young persons ready for the harsh environment we live in.
He sent me off through Central Park late at night on my shiny new bike (goodbye, bike!) and let me ride the subway alone as soon as I could see over the turnstile (hello, pickpockets and muggers!).
There was no greater badge of honor than when I was thirteen and some guy in a ski mask held a gun to the back of my head right in the middle of Fifth Avenue.
And you survived to tell the tale, was what my father said afterward. Good for you kid!
I did survive (goodbye, wallet!), and so I can tell you, based on all of my years of practical experience in the field, that stranger danger is not what you should be worrying about. It’s the people you know who will really fuck you over.
Someone should tell Mrs. Martin Leland this, before one of her landlocked neighbors finally loses it and burns down her house because of a three-foot gate across a cobblestone path that leads to a beach that’s too cold to sit on for ten months of the year. Stranger things have happened.