The first person I regularly interacted with who had the L.I. accent was my former boss, Donna, in New Haven, Connecticut. She’d take the Port Jefferson ferry across the Sound to see family.
Years later, my boss from Times Square invited me out to his estate in Brightwaters for holidays during the pandemic. His delightful wife, Linda, treated me like their own son, and frankly, I wish my real ma talked that way.
Moral of the story is: even though I’ve attracted the attention of deep state shadow actors (one sexy, all others goons) and unscrupulous detectives in the Nassau County Police Department, there are mostly fine people on this spooky, Long Island. And I fixate on their signature accent.
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