An elderly gentleman with a gray ponytail showed up today at the beach cottage we rented. Now, this is not a fancy cottage; our friend who stayed here last week called it, charitably, “the love shack.” It sported a FOR SALE sign on the gate, which is probably why our landlord was willing to negotiate with me for a price we could almost afford.
The gentleman in question, whom we later learned is Dr. Phil DiMaggio, parked his medical motor scooter outside the door, where my husband was grilling, and started to walk in the door.
“Excuse me,” my husband said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I talked to the owner, he told me I could come take a look at the house,” Dr. DiMaggio said.
“What did you say? He didn’t tell us that,” my husband said, speaking in a calm voice.
“He told me, and I’m going in,” said Dr. DiMaggio truculantly. He’s a nephew to the great Joe.
“Wait a minute,” my husband Sabin said. He looked inside where I was sitting at the table, eating cheeseburgers with our 6 year old. My husband thought fast, trying to stall. “At least take your shoes off. We just had the house cleaned.”
“Fuck you,” said the elderly man. “I’m not doing that. The owner said I could come in.” He walked in doors.
“Come on out,” Sabin said, still speaking quietly. He didn’t want to disturb our little one. “This is not okay.”
Dr. DiMaggio walked out. “I’m going in. The owner said I could.”
“This isn’t working,” Sabin said. “I’m going to ask you to leave. I’ll call and speak with the owner. We have a lease. Now is not the time for you to come in.”
“Fuck you, you want to throw down?” Dr. DiMaggio said. “Fuck you!”
“You don’t want to go there with me,” my husband said. “Get on your car and leave.”
“Fuck you! You want to throw down? I’m going to shoot you!” He was wearing baggy gray sweatpants and he reached into his pocket. Did he have a gun in there?
“Traci,” my husband called, “Call 911.”
“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me!” Dr. DiMaggio shouted. “I’m going to shoot you!” By this time, my 6-year-old and I were standing near the front door, shocked. Her blue eyes were large and terrified.
“Get in the back of the house!” I ordered her, as I tried to explain to 911 what was going on. “Get in the back!” But she was frozen like a sculpture, her mouth dropped open in a scared “O.”
“I’m coming in!” Dr. DiMaggio shouted. “I’m going to shoot you!” He grabbed for the door handle and I held it shut while talking on the phone to 911. Did he have a gun tucked somewhere in his scooter? I held onto the screen door.
“You are NOT coming in!” I said. I looked over my shoulder to my daughter. “Get back!”
Sabin, all this time, spoke in a low, calm, reasonable voice. “You need to leave right now,” he said. “You need to get on your scooter and drive away.”
“I’m going to shoot you!” DiMaggio threatened. “I’m going to shoot you!” He was shaking with rage, his fury and hostility at a 10 on a scale of 1 to 10. I kept holding the handle to our front door closed as he tried to yank it open.
He finally got on his motor scooter, #11 medical license, and, cursing and threatening the whole way, rode off.
We reached our landlord, who was horrified. “I don’t want that crazy man in the house!” he said. “I am going to call the Ocean Beach Police right now!”
Dr. DiMaggio had lied about having an invitation to view the cottage.
The police showed up within a few minutes, a polite young guy who asked if we wanted to sign off on a report. Of course we did. We all walked to the police station, where we had a serious chat with the the Chief.
“He’s harmless,” the Chief promised. “I’ve been in his house and searched it myself, every crevice. He doesn’t have a gun. He doesn’t have a permit. His wife has never seen a gun. We even had the Nassau County Police in there one time. No gun.”
If he’s so harmless, why are the police repeatedly searching his home for weapons?
But the Chief was adamant that Dr. Phil DiMaggio wouldn’t hurt us. “I’ve taken him myself to the hospital. They always release him within a few hours.”
If he’s so harmless, why is he being taken repeatedly for psychiatric consult?
Is it just that doctors protect doctors, and they are reluctant to face hard facts about Alzheimer’s, dementia, and changes in personality?
The Chief and another officer went to speak to Dr. and Mrs. DiMaggio. Afterwards, I spoke with the Chief again.
“He’s harmless. He just kept trying to change the subject. He told me the owner invited him, but I had spoken to the owner, and I knew that wasn’t true,” the Chief said. “His wife cried. But I said to her, “‘I don’t feel sorry for you anymore. You’re in denial. You don’t want to face the fact that your husband needs help.’ But he’s harmless.”
“What will it take for everyone to realize he needs help,” I asked, “for him to actually hurt someone?”
“No, no, he won’t do that,” the Chief promised. “But if you see anything at all at your place, the gate looks funny, anything, you call me. I’ll come right away.”
It is a terrible dilemma that a small community faces: when a member of long and respected standing loses his mind to the ravages of aging, when he becomes someone else, some person that none of them want to believe that he is. An angry, hostile person who invents excuses for threatening to shoot parents in front of their 6-year-old child.
