My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover

by Jen Lancaster

  I already love this place.

  We drive to Egypt Beach, passing the kind of mansions one only sees in the movies. They really exist? And what, exactly, does one do with a twenty-thousand-square-foot beach house? More important, how’d they get it in the first place? That’s what I want to know.

  We pass places I’ve somehow already heard of, like Further Lane, Lily Pond Road, and Montauk Highway. Right before we get to the beach, I see the Maidstone Club. Not sure how this name has become a part of my internal database, either. All I can figure is my subconscious watches Gossip Girl, too.

  The second we get to the beach, I throw off my shoes and make a mad dash for the shoreline. I navigate around the beach grass and past the fencing and over the pale sand, and there it is, just like I remembered it. I maintain there’s nothing more majestic than the Atlantic Ocean, particularly right now, as the sky’s a dozen violent shades of gray and purple with a pending storm.

  The beach is practically deserted at this time of day, which makes sense because the parking lot is tiny and permit only, plus each of the mansions out here is spaced a good tenth of a mile apart.

  I breathe in the salt air and revel at the feeling of soft, damp sand between my toes. And I’ve soaked the cuffs of my capris in the surf before I realize that Fletch isn’t with me. Where the hell did he go? I scan the beach to the east and west and don’t see him. I wait a few more minutes, and when he doesn’t appear, I trudge back up the incline to the car, where I find him smoking.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m smoking,” he replies.

  “Are you coming down to the water?”

  He shrugs. “I’m not finished smoking.”

  “Okay, so you’re here at the mouth of not only one of America’s most beautiful beaches, but also one of the most exclusive, and you’re all ‘Hey, look! Nature is one giant ashtray!’ Finish it up, don’t you dare leave the butt on the ground, and let’s go.”

  “Nah, I don’t really want to go down to the beach.”

  This exasperates me. “Why not? I’m sorry, did we not just travel nine hours? And now you don’t even want to take one look at the main attraction?”

  He stubs out his cigarette and places it in a beach trash can. “I want to see the water, but I’m wearing Allen Edmund loafers. I don’t want to get them sandy.”

  “I’m sorry, who are you, Simon Doonan? Giorgio Armani? Tell me, who wears Allen-fucking-Edmund loafers to the beach?”

  “People who want to look nice,” he quips.

  And . . . I’ve now reached my breaking point. The stress of getting ready for this trip and trying to culture up enough so I don’t feel foreign in my own skin and taking care of all the furry, ANGRY little patients in my house finally overwhelms me. Silently, I slip on my flip-flops and climb back into the car, pulling the door closed harder than necessary.

  Fletch pokes his head in. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “NOTHING,” I snap, eyes straight ahead.

  “Your ‘nothing’ is always something. What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on? What’s going on is that I’m all freaked out that I’m going to make an ass of myself in front of all the authors I admire most in the world or accidentally commit some kind of politically motivated hate crime at the dinner. And you’ve been no help whatsoever. You’ve been obstinate every step of the way. You argued with me about when we should leave and what we should rent and where we should stay and what you should wear, and it turns out I’ve totally made the right call on everything—”

  Gently, Fletch interrupts, “Jen, I’m not wearing a seersucker suit and straw boater to your event.”

  “Why not?” I protest.

  “Because I’m not the Great Gatsby.”

  “YOU WOULD HAVE LOOKED FANTASTIC! AND LITERARY!”

  “Yes, if we were going to Authors Night, 1924. ‘Gretchen, you need to stop trying to make “fetch” happen.’ ” Well, great, how am I supposed to stay mad at anyone who delivers a perfectly timed Mean Girls quote? “Would it make you happy if I look at the water with you?”

  “YES.”

  “Then I’ll go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I need to take my shoes off first.”

  Argh.

  We stroll back down to the beach and Fletch spends the whole time humoring me, which I appreciate. I stick my feet back in the water—bracing!—and Fletch hangs along the shoreline, admiring the architecture behind us.

  “I read that both Martha Stewart and Steven Spielberg have places out here. I wonder if one of those monster houses is theirs?” I muse. “How surreal would it be to just run into one of them out here?”

  “Actually, that’s not surreal, that’s more of an odd coincidence. Surreal would be if they were driving a birthday cake in the sky, and the whole thing started to melt.”

  I glower at him. “You realize I hate you a little bit today, right?”

  “What? You’re a writer and you’re trying to improve yourself; I’m doing you a favor by helping you use vocabulary words correctly. You should thank me.”

  “No, I should drown you. FYI, you’re being an enormous pill. Why can’t you act like you’re happy and thankful we’re here?” Frustrated, I kick a wad of sand toward the water.

  “I’m ecstatic to be here, actually. This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I already never want to leave.” He leans in and gives me a big hug, pasting an enormous smile on his face. “See? I’m hap-hap-happy. I’m only teasing you because I’m in a great mood.”

  Mollified, I hug him back. “Hey, honey, do you want to sit and watch the surf roll in for a while? The storm clouds are magnificent and our dinner reservations aren’t for a couple of hours.”

  “I can’t. I’m wearing my Hugo Boss jeans. I don’t want to get sand all over them.”

  I run my hand down my face and under my chin. “Honey? This? Right here? Is exactly why people think you’re gay.”

  At dinner, Fletch can’t decide on a wine, so I commandeer the list and ask a number of questions about particular grapes and geography. I finally choose a lovely Brunello di Montalcino, and when I taste it, it’s like cashmere on my tongue.

  The best part isn’t just the drinking. It’s when the sommelier compliments me, saying, “You have an extensive understanding of Italian wines.”

  Huh. When did that happen?

  This morning at breakfast, Fletch is thumbing through a magazine called Dan’s Hamptons. It’s more of newspaper, really, full of typical local ads for stuff like Rolexes and private jets and multimillion-dollar real estate listings. I feel like Brenda Walsh on her first day at West Beverly High—cowed and intimidated by how different everything is from Minnesota, yet just a tiny bit exhilarated.

  “Uh-oh, there’s a crime wave going on up here, according to the police blotter,” he ominously intones.

  “What? You’re kidding.” For the first time in my life, I’m in a place safe enough that I don’t feel like I have to lock the door before I even finish shutting it. I figure the worst thing that could happen up here would be a drive-by snubbing. But a crime wave? Really? I’m shocked.

  “Yeah,” he continues. “Apparently up in Montauk someone stole a couple of lobster pots. Also? A drunk guy hit a parked car and didn’t leave his insurance information, a kayak was stolen, and a woman went to a bakery to return a pie, but I guess she’d eaten part of it. They wouldn’t give her money back, so she threw the pie at the counter.”

  I snort. “Maybe the police should talk to the pie lady about the lobster pots. Sounds like she’s a real recidivist. See? HA! You and your vocabulary words can bite me, Fletcher!”

  Fletch closes the paper and looks thoughtful. “I wonder how many people were killed just now in Chicago while I read that article.”

  After breakfast, we spend the day on Georgica Beach, enjoying cloudless china blue skies. Fletch finally stopped being a pill at dinner last night, which is why he’s settled into the ch
air next to me and not, you know, drowned.

  One of us does not have the good sense to apply sunscreen to combat the blazing Hamptons sun. Surprisingly, it’s not me. Fletch sunburns himself into a state best described as “radioactive,” so after a few hours on the soft white sand, we grab our cooler full of cheese rinds and grape stems and head back to the inn. Before we get in the car, I’m pretty sure I see my literary idol, Jay McInerney, cooling down after a run on the beach. I don’t chase after him. . . . whether it’s out of a newfound respect for boundaries or because it’s hard to get a foothold in flip-flops, I’m not sure.

  As soon as we return to the room, we switch the television to FOX News while we get ready. Town meetings have gone on all week and a lot of these meetings have quickly headed south. Seems like after every break, Fox returns with new footage of old guys yelling at senators about nationalizing health care. If I weren’t such a fan of reality TV, I’d find these shout-y encounters uncomfortable no matter how I leaned politically.231

  Lots of broadcasters speculate whether the elderly are “plants” specifically sent to the town meetings to angry up the other constituents. “That old guy seems genuinely upset,” I say, gesturing toward the screen as Fletch emerges from the bathroom draped in a towel toga. “Is our side deliberately trying to mess stuff up?”

  He runs the white terry cloth over his hair. “Are you asking me if this is part of the vast right-wing conspiracy? I doubt it. The emotion seems pretty authentic.”

  I sigh, eyes never leaving the screen. “I hope so. I hate to think people would deliberately gum up the works; it’s disrespectful.”

  Fletch shrugs and continues to get ready. But as a nod to our world-view, he dresses in a gray athletic T-shirt with a silk screen of Ronald Reagan with the words “Old-School Conservative” on it. When he wears this shirt at home, he gets a ton of dirty looks, but up here, I imagine the crowd’s a little more equally mixed. Seriously, all this plaid is like catnip for Republicans.

  Once we’re both showered and groomed, we head out to the rental car. And I don’t even need to ask Fletch to put the top down; he’s finally fully into the swing of this weekend. We drive from East Hampton down the length of the Montauk Highway to the lighthouse. The topography isn’t as rocky and dramatic as parts of New England, but it overcompensates with all the giant bushes of blooming flowers. Plus, there’s not a speck of garbage anywhere. In an effort to humor me, Fletch stops at every hilly, scenic lookout, too.232

  The salt air’s made us ravenous, so we pull into a little roadside crab shack about halfway between Montauk and East Hampton for a late lunch. We feast on the tempura-battered puffer fish appetizer. According to Wikipedia233 puffer fish, also known as blowfish or fugu, is the second-most poisonous vertebrate in the world. The fish’s skin and internal organs are totally toxic, and improper preparation can cause death by suffocation because the neurotoxins can paralyze the diaphragm.

  What Wikipedia fails to mention is exactly how delectable puffer fish tastes with the restaurant’s homemade tartar sauce—any risk incurred is totally worth it.

  We follow up with enormous plates of creamy lobster salad, resplendent with chunks of meat as big as my thumb. Everything’s beyond fresh—the bed of lush green lettuce appears to have been picked this morning, probably right after they hauled in the lobster pots. The salad’s so huge I only make my way through about a third of it. I feel like I’ve officially satisfied any lobster craving I might have for the year with this meal.

  There’s nothing gourmet or exotic about my salad. There are no bacon lardons or Hawaiian gindai or yuzu jelly; there’s just mayo and celery and salt and pepper, served with a plastic package of saltines. But despite the simplicity of the presentation and preparation, it’s perfect.

  After we went to Moto, we saw Anthony Bourdain feature it on No Reservations. He was just as impressed with Chef Cantu’s food as we were. Yet in the next segment, he was writhing in ecstasy at some grotty old smoked fish served in a paper bag (and eaten in a car) out by the Ship and Sanitary Canal on Chicago’s south side. I figured if Bourdain could appreciate the essence of whatever he was having, despite the circumstances of where it was served or the simplicity of ingredients, then who was I to feel any differently?

  That’s why we ended up here, sitting right next to the highway, at a rickety outdoor picnic table, drinking from a paper cup. Yet I couldn’t be more enthralled with the whole meal if it had come with linen napkins, a tuxedo-clad maître d’, and rows of silverware lining each side of my Wedgwood plate.

  When we finally push our bloated bellies away from the table, we’re presented with a three-figure check for our casual lunch. Thus I learn my most important lesson to date—when ordering lobster, always ask market price first.

  After we finish exploring the farthermost tip of the island, we return to East Hampton to stroll through the picturesque downtown. I’d like to get a paperback to satisfy my tub-based reading needs, and Fletch wants some footwear. We run his errand first, which prompts my teasing him in the “You know how I know you’re gay? You bought deck shoes at Coach!” variety for a solid twenty minutes.

  About halfway down the main drag, we run across the most adorable independent bookseller. The shop is all wooden and warm with big display windows, and it looks like the kind of place where I’d get lost for hours. I’m delighted to see how crowded the store is, too. The staff rushes around with a sense of urgency, moving shelves here and there, making room for all the shoppers, and the whole scene feels chaotically comfortable. I finally select a book234 and head to the cashier.

  “I’m sorry,” a harried young girl behind the counter tells me. “The registers are closed for the next fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh . . . okay,” I say, before realizing it’s kind of weird to have a packed store that isn’t taking advantage of the captive customers. “Wait, is something going on?”

  “Yes!” the girl gushes. “Howard Dean’s going to be here in five minutes to discuss his book on health-care reform!”

  I can feel my eyes bulge out of my head, and I turn to look at Fletch, standing in the middle of the Howard Dean crowd, thumbing through a gun magazine, his Ronald Reagan shirt drawing icy glares from all of those around him. He might as well have been erecting a cross in a public classroom or taking a leak on the Roe versus Wade case brief.

  “Drop the magazine, we have to go!” I hiss.

  “What, why?” he asks.

  “Because we’re accidentally committing a hate crime!” I swat the magazine out of his hands and drag him out of the store by the wrist. “Move, move, move!” I hustle him out onto the sidewalk like I’m Jack Bauer, and I’m trying to keep his dumb ass from getting exploded. Once out, I pull him across the street and duck into the expensive candy store.

  Fletch is confused but fairly pliant. “You really need a chocolate fix that badly?”

  I peer on the happenings across the street through a window almost obscured by cartoon lollipops and stacks of multicolored sweets. I don’t see anything, so I turn back to talk to him. “No, Howard Dean’s about to give a talk about his book on health-care reform in there.”

  Fletch laughs so heartily that his head tilts back. “Ha! What are the odds? Why’d we have to leave? I bet that’d be fun.”

  “Yeah, and that’s exactly why I yanked you out of there. I didn’t want to be disrespectful at someone else’s book signing. Terrible karma. Plus, even if you kept your mouth shut, with everything happening in the news, no one was going to believe you were there at that specific moment in that exact shirt because I can’t take my Kindle in the tub.”235

  He picks up a paint bucket full of candy and looks at it quizzically. “Eh, I’m sure no one noticed.”

  “And I’m sure I saw pitchforks, lighted torches, and angry villagers. We had to go; it was the right thing to do.”

  What I fail to mention is, I was afraid my dinner host was in the crowd, and I don’t want to get kicked out of Authors Night befo
re it even happens.

  “Hey, look around,” Fletch instructs.

  “What am I looking for?” I glance up from my Kindle.236

  “Tell me what you don’t see.”

  “Um, I don’t know. Monkeys? An office park? Martha Stewart flying a melting cake? What are you getting at?” What I do see is a mass expanse of shoreline ringed by mansions. Today we’re camped on Main Beach, specifically because I wanted to be near a snack bar and none of the other East Hampton beaches have them. I mean, yes, I appreciate miles of stunning vistas and loads of privacy, but is any of it really worth it if I can’t enjoy the scenery with a Diet Coke and an ice-cream sandwich?

  “No one’s on the phone. And no one has tattoos. Remember when we went to Oak Street Beach last year? It was like Miami Ink meets an iPhone commercial. But here? Everyone seems to be talking to the people they’re with. It’s like, families are actually being families together. Only a couple of people are attached to their electronic devices, and the few who aren’t chatting are reading. It’s almost”—he raises one eyebrow at me—“surreal.”

  There’s an extended family camped out in front of us, maybe fifteen of them in all, with at least two sets of parents, a ton of children, and possibly a nanny sprinkled in. The whole time we’ve been here, they’ve been engaged in a group project. Two of the dads and most of the kids have been working on digging a crater in the beach. They’re trying to dig deep enough to hit water. They even brought real shovels, the kind I used to threaten hipsters with at my old house.

  “This place is like taking a trip back to 1950,” I say.

  “It is,” he agrees. “I like it.”

  We watch Project Hole until the family hits water about seven feet down. There’s a mass amount of celebrating, but once everyone’s congratulated one another, they all work together to fill in the crater. Then women collect some of the children and start hauling their gear back to their cars.