The Members Only Maniac

On a warm summer night, a young woman sat at her bedroom mirror brushing her hair. She was a new resident of a community called The Tides, newly nestled in Rocky Point—a lovely beach town on Long Island’s eastern north shore. Her day was spent at its private beach with her two young children, now asleep and possibly dreaming of sandcastles and blue waves. She must have drifted for a moment, maybe thinking of those same blue waves. When she returned to her reflection she was not alone. Behind her, near her bedroom window, a man stood still as a statue and wearing nothing but her bikini—the bikini she wore to the beach that day; the bikini that, minutes earlier, was hanging on her clothesline —the bikini that had just become fair picking for the new guy in the neighborhood.

As she screamed, likely the most serious scream of her life, he climbed out of the window employing the same calm and stealth with which he had apparently entered. 

The police were called, a report was filed, and that was that. 

And surely the Tides lady never looked into or at a mirror quite the same way ever again.

After that night, on occasion, and always at night, a man was seen wandering the neighborhood. He was generally described as wearing a tan Members Only jacket, white tee-shirt, khaki shorts, white socks, and sneakers. There wasn’t much detail about his face, other than looking like a normal guy in his thirties or forties. No alarm was raised, as this was a neighborhood where people would go for walks in the evening, and, on occasion, after dark. Innocent enough. Nothing to see here. 

I was a very happy resident of The Tides. Twice. First In 1965, when Mom, Dad, my younger brother and I moved into the second home built on its very first street, Whitewood Drive, named, I suppose, for its abundance of lovely White Birch trees. I started the eighth grade that September. By the end of August, our life in Rocky Point was over — Mom missed Brooklyn, so back we went. I was devastated. 

Two years later, in the summer of 1967, we moved back to The Tides, this time on Rock Hall Lane. It seemed that Mom missed The Tides more. I was elated. 

That was a glorious time for me — a euphoric return to a town I knew was home, and friends I loved. And it was made more glorious by a miracle that happened on the first Saturday of that return. As the sun went down on Broadway Beach, I met a beautiful girl, who, to this day, I’m fairly certain may have been the one true love of my life. One only falls in love for the first time — once. I’ve never felt that thrill and sense of romance and magic since.

That perfect summer seemed to go on forever, as summers do when you’ve only known sixteen of them. 

I was about to become a junior at Port Jefferson High School, she, a sophomore. And a thrilling and wonder-filled school year it was. And this new summer promised to be more magical than the last. We were still together and even more in love. And quite a memorable summer it would turn out to be, for a multitude of wonderful happenings.

And one really bad one.

I’m at the point in the story where I must name the girl. This being an all too true story, I’m torn about giving away her privacy, but every mention of her is complimentary, and this story, though chilling, casts her in quite a golden glow, and what are the odds of her reading this? So, let’s just call her MaryLou and move along.

As that summer of 1968 got underway, the Bikini Incident was quite a piece of news for those in the know, but the story didn’t spread. It shook the community but didn’t catch fire. 

And soon, the first sightings of the Members Only jacket guy began. No one knew him as a neighbor, but, again, he seemed like just some guy out for a stroll under the stars. 

One evening, a young mother from across the street had the scare of her life. (I wasn’t home — I was often not home, as I was out and about having too much fun, but this is what happened.) Mrs. Sullivan stood on our porch with her baby in a carriage. She rang our doorbell over and over. She was petrified. Here’s why. 

Some might remember that stick or precisely cut length of broomstick or dowel that you would place in the bottom track of your sliding back patio glass doors — the extra protector to back up the lever locking deal. 

It was that well-placed stick that separated Mrs. Sullivan and her baby from the guy who was trying to get in. 

It was soon after darkness fell when she heard the glass door banging against the stick. Startled, she went to the patio doors and to her horror saw a man staring through the glass and having at that door. 

Out the front door, she and the baby in a carriage fled to the safety of our house. A frantic scene it surely was, as she told her story to my mother and little brother. That was back in the day when one had to call the operator to summon the police, which she or my mom did. My mother did her best to calm the frantic Mrs. Sullivan, but she was not of a mind to be calmed. The police arrived and somewhere during her account, Mr. Sullivan arrived. 

I’m guessing he found no one at home, then saw the police at our house and rushed over. The officers documented the story, gave them a report number, and left. The Sullivan’s thanked Mom for the safe harbor and wheeled their new baby home. 

Home was surely a different place than it was when the Sullivan’s started their day. 

One would think the previous Bikini Incident, and now this would have raised a louder alarm, and possibly connected a couple of dots. Could it be that many in the neighborhood didn’t hear of this latest incident? Or the Bikini Incident? It doesn’t seem likely. This was a small community in a small town — the story should have spread like wildfire. Still, it seemed no one had, thus far, realized there were two very large dots that needed some serious connecting. 

There were other spooky incidents in the neighborhood, as well, though they were more of the peeping in windows variety. More dots. Then they seemed to stop — as did the Members Only Guy sightings. 

All too soon the stories fell off the radar. (Surely not off the radar of the Sullivan’s, and especially the bikini lady — not even a little bit.) 

The Bikini Incident had more than its share of major crazy, and The Stick in The Door Event had the very creepy horror movie factor, but no red flags. I have no memory of any mention of The Bikini Incident on the local news or newspaper. And that story had some serious pizazz. This was a sleepy beach town with no crime, so mum seemed to be the word, though recent events seemed to cry out for a Town Cryer giving the locals, at least, a heads up. 

In the days to follow, outside of The Tides, sightings of a similarly dressed, calm and quietly lurking guy were occasionally mentioned. The few sightings were always at night — a glimpse of him in the distance, near the woods, walking calmly along his way, and still no dots. 

As the sightings continued, finally, some, me included, decided it must be this Members Only Jacket guy who climbed into that poor woman’s window. And there might have been some police concern and a “Be On The Lookout” in effect—we just never heard about it. No alarms were sounded, so most people just went about their business. 

Though, I’m sure the lady in the mirror never gazed into one in quite the same way as she once did, back in her good old days; and Mrs. Sullivan surely saw to it that Mr. Sullivan doubled down on that stick and glass sliding door arrangement. 

Life in the area went about its business as if nothing odd had rocked a few lives. 

Our beloved Rocky Point Drive-In was a classic American place to practice the art of making out with your best gal or guy. If a kid had the job of counting cars with steamed windows on a typical Saturday night for, let’s say, a buck apiece, by summer’s end, it could be Johnny’s or Sally’s or Timmy’s Drive In. 

MaryLou and I missed many an excellent movie steaming the windows of my 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport. Considering the one hundred or so cars with speakers hanging on the windows, the screaming kids, the often-prying eyes of the grown-ups, and the lights on for intermission, and people walking past the steamed windows and covering their children’s’ eyes deal — privacy was an issue.

The Drive-in was fun and had charm and was classic Americana — and it often got the job done, and on rare occasions, a movie was watched… mostly. But to really get the full young love experience, there was no shortage of other excellent options. Many of our lover’s lanes were beach parking lots and woodsy dead-end roads, and for young lovers in the know, the parking lot of Pickwick Beach was a great spot — it was big, tucked away, adequately dark, and not too popular, though, on occasion, there was another car or two rocking to the rhythm of young love. 

It had another feature that was a gift — a combination of nature and paving: If it had rained that day, the place collected massive puddles, and if you parked in the middle of one of those puddles, the breeze created what seemed like the ebb and flow of a tide. Very cool. It was like you were floating on water. A perfect illusion to enhance an already enchanting experience. And on certain occasions, further enhanced by this summer bringing with it a certain herbal stimulus that would help that illusion along quite nicely, thank you. 

One lovely summer night, Marylou and I had the place to ourselves. As I recall we were stuck on second base with little chance of getting to third—frustrating and often painful as it was, I felt quite lucky at love. She was the entire package: smart, sweet, beautiful, and quite patient with much of my late-teen guy angst and dumb shit. Wow, I loved her. And she loved me!

The back seat of my ‘64 Chevy Impala Super Sport had its limitations, but nonetheless, on that particular Saturday night, it was a blissful and passionate place. It didn’t rain that day, so we weren’t floating, but the night was warm and beautiful, the kisses were soft and sweet. On that night, in that place, life was perfect—right up to the moment a light shined on MaryLou’s face. 

I froze and she squinted. At first, I thought it was the police – the parking lot was, after all, private property.

It wasn’t the police. 

As I pulled myself away from my bliss, I saw a light shining through the back passenger window. Though blinded, at first, my eyes adjusted enough to see a man standing at the window. He was still as a statue — expressionless and wearing a Members Only jacket. Marylou saw him a second later. As she gasped, he turned off the light, stared for a moment, then calmly turned and walked away.

Marylou went into a full panic. I contained mine as I watched him disappear into the darkness.

We frantically adjusted ourselves and fumbled into the front bucket seats. He was gone, or, the darkness of the parking lot swallowed him up. But did he leave? Where was he? Marylou was unglued… petrified. I was not having such a great time myself. We sat frozen, but not for long, though time itself was not operating normally. It was likely within seconds that I started the car and ever so slowly turned toward the way out of there… inch by inch. I dared not turn on the headlights for fear of illuminating something we were afraid to see — maybe him standing in front of us. I finally did, and he wasn’t. He was nowhere to be seen. Not by my headlights, that is. Our hearts pounded. We drove toward the very wide opening. In a few seconds, we would be out of there. We assumed wrong. 

The gate was closed. 

And we instantly knew who closed it — and flipped down the u-shaped closure, securing the gate in place. Marylou’s panic found another gear. My fight or flight imperative shot into maximum engagement mode. The choice was almost instantly obvious: get a running start and crash through the gate. 

Wait…crash through the gate? This was a mint ‘64 Super Sport! Canary Yellow, Hard Top. And anyway, this fifteen-foot-wide, six-foot-high pipe and chain link gate seemed to mean business. Crash into it? Super Sport! Newly waxed! Unscrated! Low miles!

I was spending what might have been our last moments in this life weighing the options as my beautiful girlfriend was crying and pulling and hoping to shake me into reason — part of her being a magical babe was knowing what I was thinking. Here, I cannot attest to materialism or logic, but this was my next thought: as Super a Sport as the Chevy purported to be, it was only packing a 283 cubic inch V-8 engine, which I wasn’t sure was a match for that formidable Pickwick gate. Maybe this was pure rationalization, but either way, the idea did have merit. What if we hit the gate and it wasn’t impressed? Then what — a dented, but still closed gate and a steam spewing bashed-in front end of a not so Super a Sport — and two freaking out young lovers, whose biggest decision, minutes earlier, was how far from second base the night most likely wouldn’t take them? Rough stuff. 

Then the soul-crushing reality of the only remaining choice crashed into me like a 383 Hemi dual-carb super-duper-charged monster machine:

I had to get out of the car and open that gate.

And, I had to leave MaryLou in the car, alone, and once the idea was broached, the reality of the alone-in-the-car part of the plan wasn’t lost on her. I’m sure her vote was to do the crash plan. Fuck the Chevy. Though I don’t imagine she was thinking that word. I don’t recall her ever using that word. Ever.

Sitting there, idling and heart’s pounding, all things returned to the real question: where was the Maniac? Off on his merry way, looking for his next blissfully unaware about-to be-illuminated-couple, or was he hiding in the trees just waiting for this particular lover to get out of the car and give the gate a go? Quite a question about quite an unexpected development. Those hundred cars and the noisy kids on those springy horses and the overly lit concession must’ve looked pretty good to us right about then. 

Marylou didn’t know how to drive, beyond my letting her steer on the back roads. But desperate times called for her giving it a go — and the go was to get behind the wheel and watch me open the gate, and God forbid, if necessary, hit the gas and to the best of her ability miss me and knock the about-to-kill-me Members Only asshole into the next life. Quite a notion for an innocent, heavenly creature who, minutes earlier was so sweetly holding me at second base. (And lemme tell ‘ya. I’ve never, to this very day, had the wowza interruptus kicked in as quickly as when that flashlight beam hit my sweeties face at the speed of light.) 

Breathing even more heavily than we were, prior to this nightmarish spin on the evening, we sealed the deal. We squirmingly switched seats and I administered a final and abbreviated lesson on how to kill someone, and not the wrong one, with a Chevy.

Stepping out of the relative safety of that car was right up there with any of the brass balls maneuvers of my life —and there have been a few.

And for Marylou, wow — what a magical being she was. The last thing in her young life she wanted to see was me stepping out and leaving her alone, but it was mostly the me having to get out of the car part that scared her the most. Bless her heart. At least that’s what I believe. 

(Let me dispel the whole “Puppy Love” myth. Young love is very real love. Period.) 

What if our plan didn’t work? What if he did jump from the woods and attacked me, and she hit me and not him. It’s tough to imagine the next few “what ifs” – though every horrible possibility flooded my mind and stacked themselves in order or horribleness”

The headlights were on and shining on the gate. And thirty feet away, Lower Rocky Point Landing Road might as well have been as closed as that damn gate. Not a head or taillight to be seen. All there was, on the wrong side of that gate, was the expanse of the parking lot on the left and behind me, and the dark woods on the right — my right, the passenger side, the first time I ever got out of that side of my car side. The darkness of the parking lot was rough, but the ten feet away woods—that was a megawatt spine fryer. Adrenaline is quite a hormone. It can make a ninety-pound mom lift a car off the ground, and it can fuel a twenty-second maneuver of simply lifting a latch to unlock a gate. But first, one (me) had to get to the gate.

That was one of the longest ten-foot journeys I’ve ever made. And would soon come to discover, once the latch was lifted, this fifteen-foot gate had to be swung out in a very long arc, adding more electric tingle and, at least, another couple of shot glasses worth of that fight or flight potion. Naturally, I was hoping for the flight part of the equation — and a quick one. And remember, I was in love, and the object of that love was, body and soul, deep into the unfolding drama — and in the driver’s seat — the leading lady who was attached to the foot that was to nail the throttle. 

I stood at the gate. 

With eyes darting left and right… mostly right, I lifted the latch and pushed, but pushing alone wasn’t gonna do it. One needed to continually hold the latch up in the unlatched position in order to walk the gate open, and then, lower and settle the attached rod into a little hole in the ground. It made sense as that was a big fucking gate that couldn’t be allowed to just swing any way the wind decided. Under normal circumstances, the gate simply needed what the gate needed. Key phrase here is “normal circumstances.” 

That was quite a journey — the stroll I took with that gate. Once secured, I put as much lickedy-split into phase two: getting back to that car alive. Trying to imagine what Marylou was experiencing is quite a feat of the imagination — but she stood guard behind that wheel ready to enact the plan. A plan I was putting some serious faith in. 

And then, I was at the driver’s door. Marylou made it over the shifter and the console and into that passenger seat as if she’d done it a hundred times before. It took all of about one second to find ourselves screeching onto Lower Rocky Point Road. 

We made it. She and I and our lift a car off the ground brain chemicals and sheer will to survive and protect each other, saved us from what might have been just some creepy freaky crazy guy who got his thrills by doing weird shit, or maybe the couple who “had so much to live for, murdered” you read about in Newsday.

We made it. What a rush it was. 

MaryLou and I were now the number three (that I knew of) recipients of The Maniac’s mania. Yes. there he was, sheer minutes earlier, up close and in costume, wielding light.

My memory of the remainder of that night with Marylou is not lit up too brightly. Possibly hypnotism, the kind that has been used on those claiming to be have been abducted by aliens, would fill in that blank.

I’m pretty sure there was no further hanky-panky that night, but I prefer not to swear to it. Young and eager love can find a way. I’d like to think we found a more populated Lover’s Lane and gave the bases another shot. After all, the astoundingly brave MaryLou had heart. Maybe she could shake it off for a few and get back to business. After all, she rose to the dizzying height of being ready, willing, and able to knock the Members Only asshole into the next world with a three-thousand-pound hunk of combustive fueled steel. And she didn’t even have a permit. 

It never, not for one minute, occurred to me to report this to the police. Why? Couldn’t tell ‘ya. Marylou might have wanted to, I don’t recall. Maybe all the questions of “what were you two doing in a dark and private parking lot,” closed that door. The hypnotist could surely help with that. But the events of that night were not to go unchecked. By night’s end, a plan was hatched. 

Me and the newly minted Marylou, the Marylou who was ready to kill a maniac to save her boyfriend, sat in silence in front of her house absorbing the experience, as I probably did my best to tell her it was just a creepy guy doing a creepy thing. (In the back of my mind I was hoping this Incident wouldn’t crimp further bliss in the never-to-feel-quite-the-same Chevrolet.)

And here I will insert a spoiler: I don’t recall exploring the wonders of our young love while floating on one of those illusory Pickwick puddles, ever again. And it took some time before I drove past that gate without letting loose a drop or two of fight or flight. 

Once the traumatized MaryLou was safe and sound at home, it was still not too late to find the boys. We gathered for a late-night meeting. I took a survey of how up to speed my five or six pals were on the Maniac Guy and his exploits. All of them were… give or take and more or less.

I then went into quite a piece of performance art reenacting the events of The Pickwick Parking Lot Incident. All were sufficiently enthralled. And so, being young and stupid and eager, we decided on the what’s and how’s of how to take care of business.

It was to be a sting operation, back before anyone in our crowd knew what one of those was. And so, on that late summer night, with the lingering taste of the heroic MaryLou’s kisses still on my lips and in my mind and heart, a daring and astonishingly stupid plan was born. 

The next night we used a different car and chose the closest beach, which was The Tides. The same beach the lady in the mirror spent her day before her brain got rewired. The same beach whose molecules of water and residual sand that rubbed off on the asshole who tried her bathing suit on for size a couple of weeks earlier. The bikini that, I’m guessing, never saw another day at the beach. 

It took a lottery to choose which guy would portray the guy, and which guy would portray the girl. We enjoyed this casting session. Then we had to pick a car. In the movies, it’s called the “Picture Car.” It’s important to note here that we were enjoying the shit out of this. Maybe me more than anyone. And let me tell you—Marylou’s superhero creds rocketed that night. Maybe she was at home that evening, or maybe hanging with her girlfriends, hopefully detailing my very sexy bravery. Maybe. 

But this was a guy thing, right down to picking the right guy to play the girl. The leading man and “lady” were assured no actual making out would be necessary, but there would need to be some back-seat positioning… enough to fake out asshole into lighting the light. And then BANG!!! We’d be on him. Nothing violent. We were nice guys. Just restraint and a lot of harsh language, followed by a ride to the slammer. Simple. What could go wrong?

So, with pre-production complete: location, picture car, and casting in place, the Citizen’s Arrest, as we chose to see the operation, was to be executed by all but the “lovers” springing from the woods. They would join-in moments later, but the initial apprehension was just a matter of subtraction: the young lovers minus the capturers, which equaled, I’m stretching to recall, but I would say were a posse of about five or six. We felt there was sufficient safety in those numbers, especially establishing that the actors, once their performance was completed, would adopt new roles as co-captors, so we were a posse of about seven or eight. Easy. 

A production note, here: there would be no wardrobe of the feminine persuasion. That could have killed the whole deal. Plus, it wouldn’t be necessary. By the time Members Only flipped the switch on that flashlight, he would be in the custody of seven or eight of the dumbest fucks to ever hatch a plan. 

I’m sure the plan was to restrain him and bring him in (as they say), but, honestly, I don’t remember getting that far into the script. I also have no memory of informing the originator of the role of the Girl, that being Marylou, of our plan. She’d seen enough of Act One and Two of the original production the night before. 

So, all the pieces were in play. Now, as evening approached, we set the stage. Luckily the weather was on our side. 

The two “young lovers” parked the car in such a way that access to the passenger side window would kind of present itself to a guy with a flashlight, and close enough to a woodsy spot for the posse to hide, ready to pounce. The pouncing would be improvised… played by ear. I recall some rope for proper restraint was factored in. We wanted actual handcuffs, but this was a low budget production, plus such sophisticated props and where and how to acquire them were out of our league. 

Somewhere around dusk, the posse arrived at the location, parked their vehicle in the vicinity, and took their position in the woods. And there we sat. As darkness fell, the “sting” vehicle arrived, decoys at the ready. Into the back seat they climbed. And there, they laid low and waited… and waited. A car or two may have cruised the area, but I believe “the young couple” had the place to themselves — for a really long time. 

Alas, for the sake of a kick-ass 3rd Act, I wish I could recount the following scenario: 

As the posse laid in wait, Members Only approached the car. He stood quietly and after moments, turned on his flashlight and pointed it into the back seat. Then, we pounced. He did not put up a fight as we were a formidable force. It was a matter of complete and utter surrender. And there, in the faint light of The Tides Beach parking lot, Members Only sat on the ground, hands tied behind his back, leaning against the rear passenger tire as the actors slash decoys, and the posse stood in victory, preparing to bring the perpetrator, now under Citizens Arrest, to the cops, and ultimately to justice, being identified as the Man In The Bikini by The Lady In The Mirror, who picked him out of a line up at the police station in Hauppauge. And Mrs. Sullivan and me and Marylou providing the additional nails. And full credit going to The Tides Beach Posse, whose daring plan, and its swift and courageous execution, led to the capture and ultimate closing of The Case of The Members Only Maniac.

I would love to attest to that daring Third Act, and the brave and selfless posse — But, I can’t. 

Members Only Man never showed. After a couple of grueling and boring hours of the bad guy not making his entrance, we packed up our tent and closed the show, though, to our credit, we did commit to keeping the posse deputized and leaving the case of The Members Only Maniac open. 

We went about the business of shaking it off — there were other summer adventures to be had.

The summer of 1968 moved along without further incident. Maybe The Member’s Only Maniac learned more stealth, maybe he moved on, maybe he just changed jackets. Bottom line is that he seemed to vanish. What little buzz there was about The Bikini Incident, seemed to be him hitting, to the best of our knowledge, his crazed and depraved apex. The Stick In The Glass Door Incident was apparently a one-time deal. And the Peeking in Windows reports stopped, as did The Guy in The Members Only ensemble walking in the dark sightings. And considering how word spread in our piece of paradise, it seems like The Pickwick Beach Closed Gate Incident was a one-time event. Likely not spoken of in decades — till now. 

The Members Only Maniac seemed to vanish. To become a piece of folklore, like the parked-in-the-woods-lovers who heard scraping on the top of their car while in the throes of passion, and the scraping continued, and finally, the guy got out of the car and discovered a body hanging upside down from a tree, his head gone, and his very dead blood-dripping fingernails scraping the roof of the car as the wind blew him to and fro. 

I will end this story with a summation: In the summer of 1968, a crazy guy climbed in a woman’s window, wearing her bikini. And someone tried to get into Mrs. Sullivan’s house but was foiled by a stick of wood. And there was a guy in a Members Only jacket, khaki shorts, socks and sneakers looking in windows and prowling The Tides. And that flashlight on Marylou’s beautiful face and closing the gate on us at Pickwick Beach by Mr. Members Only was all too real. And the Tides Beach Citizens Arrest caper and its band of numb-nuts escaped what could have been a sting that didn’t go well. End of story. 

Almost. 

Sometime later, towards summer’s end, a story circulated about a young couple sleeping on a beach somewhere on the Eastern North Shore, who were murdered. When I heard that story, I couldn’t help but wonder if a man in a Members Only jacket and short pants had been seen in the area. Maybe yes, maybe no, maybe it didn’t even happen. True or not, upon hearing that story, I felt a drop of adrenaline light up somewhere deep and familiar.