The usual pariahs stand in the post office line: a polygamist woman in chambray dress, high hair; landscape company Latinos, muddy boots tracking dirtclods; AARP-aged me, wearing my T-shirt with GENTILE silkscreened in Pride flag colors. We are all locals living in this fancy resort town ZIP code.

A member of the area’s newest caste — timesharers, second-home buyers, flee-ers of flood, fire and hurricane — joins the line. “Is this the main post office?” he asks the lobby. “Post office on Main or main post office on Park Avenue,” Brent, the postal clerk, replies.

“Jesus!” the newcomer exclaims, hands jabbing the air.

“I’ve been called a lot of things,” Brent says, nodding sheepishly to us in line.

One thing I notice, we pariahs smile the same.