Along the dotted line
I spend the odd weekend at Fort Myers Beach with Andy and Elle , who live in a cottage on Estero Island now, a short walk from the Gulf. It’s a comfortable old place, both leafy and sandy-sere, full of whitewashed wood and colorful throws. Carpets and cane. After a slow start, coffee, coffee talk, we wander into town. Spring Break and its annual influx of college students, along with their local teen infiltrators, was upon us. We stopped at a local fast food joint to grab some snacks. Once inside, we were engulfed in a crowd of nearly naked teenagers, which wasn’t as pleasant as it sounds. Amassed locker-room style at the counter, all that rangy, nervous, slightly unformed adolescent flesh was barely this side of odious. “I don’t understand pedophilia,” said Andy. Elle snorted. “Neither do I,” I said, “At least not from the adult side.” Some of the nearby girls giggled, the boys grew restive and alert. “I was d...
