The gavel which Mayor Harold Harper had been banging on the scarred oak table in a steady rhythm, like percussion punctuation, slipped out of his hands. As he stooped with an ‘oof’ to retrieve it, none of the Wyndham-by-the-Sea Board of Village Trustees could distinguish the rest of his words, but they didn’t care. They were too busy twisting in their seats, eyeing the young man sitting towards the back of the large, mostly empty room. Muscular youths in tight blue jeans, black motorcycle boots, and leather jackets with little chains on the pockets worn over artfully ripped white tee shirts were not an unknown item in tourist-ridden Wyndham. But they were rare at Village Board meetings. Sensing the mood of his audience, the mayor raced through formalities and reports and stopped on a dime at the point: “This young man, uh Mark Daniels is his name, is the personal manager—” here he paused to garner the attention of all the board members. An unnecessary ploy—they were rabid with curiosity.
