“Like what?” Rachel asked, leaning over Jamie’s back (and unconsciously digging her nails into Jamie’s shoulder).
The guy looked at them as if they’d just asked him something they totally should have known, like the details of human reproduction. “Nothing you don’t find in every share house,” he said, with a shrug. “They were all like, ‘You have fifty people sleeping in thirty beds, and twenty cars in the driveway,’ and all these other things they claimed were fire hazards. Also the house was in pretty bad shape—”
“Bad shape?” challenged the redhead buried inside the sleeping bag. Sitting upright, she turned toward Jamie defensively, as if all she needed to vindicate herself was Jamie’s approval. “These idiots thought they were such hot shit! They dragged a couch outside, threw all the chairs into the pool, and tore off the patio door! Plus, there were so many beer bottles lying everywhere, you would have thought it was a recycling plant!”
“Yeah, but what did us in was the basement,” a sullen brunette sitting next to her pointed out, in not much more than a whisper.
“The basement?” Rachel asked, horrified. (Jamie shook her shoulders free of Rachel’s hand.)
The chatty redhead elaborated. “Our house managers had the brilliant idea to stack mattresses down there back-to-back—you know, makeshift bedrooms? The cops flipped when they found like twenty people down there.”
“That’s when they started taking down our IDs,” the brunette added with a sigh. “They said if the owner doesn’t pay the fine and shut the house down, they’re going to take us all to court.”
“Wait, court?” Rachel gasped. “What could they take you to court for?”
Craig, who was standing off to the side with Mark, now sought to nip this kind of panic before it grew contagious. “Nothing will happen to any of you—it’s the owner’s neck on the line,” he said. “Owning share houses in New York State is illegal.”
“You keep saying that. But why?” Jamie asked, glancing in Craig and Mark’s direction (though making it obvious that her inquiry was addressed only to the former).
“You’re not allowed to have more than five unrelated people living under one roof, according to these brothel laws from like the 1900s.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous! How can you tell someone how many people they can have in their own house?” Rachel said. Though Jamie was puzzling over something else.
“I don’t get it. Everyone has shares in the Hamptons,” she said, scrutinizing the sea of frazzled faces. “What made them target their house of all places?”
“It was the cars,” the redhead answered gravely. And as the word reverberated throughout the sudden silence, something in Jamie’s stomach tightened. “The reason the cops came in the first place was because we had too many cars parked in the driveway. That’s when they found everything else.”
From across the room, Jamie could feel Mark’s eyes on her. She refused to look up and confirm it.
“That’s why we give you guys such a hard time about things,” Craig said, as if this fact could justify his gruff personality as well. “Noise, trash, not having more than one car per bedroom plus one extra in the driveway. Things have definitely calmed down since Josh Sagman’s day, but this town is still out to get us.”
“Who’s Josh Sagman?” Jamie asked, thinking it an innocent question (and directing it equally to Mark, whom her eyes engaged pacifistically).
Alarmed, Craig and Mark exchanged uncertain glances. When Craig finally opened his mouth, he reminded Jamie of a kid at a slumber party—at the part when they’d turn off the lights and gather around and someone would freak them out with a ghost story.
“You guys were probably still in college, but it started the summer of 2002,” Craig began.
“No, what about Rosebud Lane?” Mark cut in.
“Okay, fine, there was this one house they shut down in 2001. That wasn’t such a big deal—they tried to set an example and fined the owners twenty G’s. But the summer of 2002 was really when everything changed.”
“Oh wait, was this the ABC special?” Rachel interjected. “Because Dana once told me—”
“So this couple moves into East Quogue,” Craig continued, shushing her. “And they think they’re buying their dream house in this nice quiet neighborhood, when really they’re sandwiched in between like ten share houses.”
“Our house was right around there, but the worst ones by far were on Jeffrey Lane and Laura Court,” Mark added, at which Jamie looked up at him earnestly, any trace of her anger having given way to curiosity.
Craig went on. “Anyway, the minute they discover this, they immediately get the police involved—complaining about the noise, and the garbage, and the nudity, and how people are drinking outside and peeing on their lawn and stuff. They started this huge campaign, but when the police came, the only thing they’d do was give out tickets. They weren’t all about shutting down share houses yet.”
When Craig paused to regroup, he noticed he’d captured the entire room’s attention, and thus continued more animatedly.
“Then out comes this ABC documentary that Barbara Kopple did on the Hamptons, and one of the characters is this guy Josh Sagman. Great guy, but they depict him as being the stereotypical party animal. They show scenes of him in hot tubs, drinking with packs of people on his porch, and having wild parties with huge speakers at the share house he owns—which just so happens to be right next door to that couple’s. So the couple sees it and recognizes him, and takes the tape to the police, and that’s when Southampton starts this huge crackdown.”
“Yeah, do you remember that night?” Mark exclaimed, shaking it off like a cramp. “All these police and fire marshals and town officials came to bust Josh’s house—ten times worse than what happened tonight,” he reassured the petrified onlookers.
“Did they arrest his ass?” the boy with the mop of hair asked.
“No, but they charged him with tons of safety violations and fined him like fifty grand,” Craig said, defending the severity of the story. “I think he settled because it was selective prosecution, that they only targeted him because he was on TV. But after that, the town shut down like ten other houses that year, and started all these crazy new fines.” He paused reminiscently, then added, “Thank God things have calmed down again since that show.”
But, as if she’d just been told of a local murder, Rachel hadn’t calmed down at all. “So what if that happens again?” she burst. “Like what if the police decide to crack down all over again? Would every share house in the Hamptons be doomed?”
With good reason, the death of his enterprise was a thought Mark didn’t want to entertain. “Well, we can only hope for the best,” he said.
Craig took a more affirmative stance. “This town would be nothing without the young people coming out every summer. Just think of all the revenue we bring in!” he huffed, the vehemence of such a large guy a largely scary thing. “If you ask me, by cracking down on the share houses, the town of Southampton is only hurting itself.”
“Yeah, but they’re never going to learn,” Mark said, his eyes grazing against Jamie’s as they lapped across the room. “All they’re doing is biting the hand that feeds them.”
Jamie peered around at the displaced shareholders, who might have been her own shareholders had she not listened to Mark—had he not been persistent when she tried to bite his hand. She flashed him an optimistic smile. “You never know—they might learn.”
Chapter Fifteen
Labeling, Allison taught her students, is one of the most fundamental survival mechanisms in nature.
Female songbirds label potential mates based upon the quality of their song. North American skunks wear a distinctive black-and-white-striped pelt as a warning label to predators. And dogs speak to one another’s olfactory senses, labeling their territory with strategically placed drops of urine.
Similarly, as Allison learned from the start, labeling in a share house was just as intrinsic a survival mech
anism.
There was the labeling of other shareholders (brought about by the proven effectiveness of nicknames, more so than actual ones, as a means to keep track of over fifty rotating roommates). Some with particular resonance:
The “Pale Riders” were three scrawny brunettes who spent a surprising amount of time out by the pool and somehow maintained a deathly white color.
“Turtle Girl” (and “Turtle Girl’s Clan”—for anyone associated) was the girl whose face bore an uncanny resemblance to that of said reptile (which comparison Brian had made, and everyone had nodded in instant recognition). Allison might have found this epithet particularly cruel, save for the fact every word out of Turtle Girl’s mouth was the snap of an angry tortoise.
“The Dud” was that guy who always seemed to be in the room (who actually wasn’t that bad looking, should he ever surpass the hurdle of speaking).
“Knees” was one of the two Midwesterners, inclined to dance on club benches by opening and closing the knees she kept bent to balance herself. And on the topic of body parts, it’s perhaps no great mystery where “Tush” derived from.
Allison’s other favorites included “Movado Boy,” who was unfortunate enough to lose a Movado watch the very first weekend (yet the real misfortune was that he incessantly revisited the subject); “the Moaner,” the girl who emitted foolishly loud moans while hooking up (in a room with upward of five other witnesses); and “the Tenants” (the antisocial girls who lived on their own time clock, whom people only saw in passing, and for whom the house was little other than boarding).
While Allison wasn’t responsible for the creation of these catchphrases—that was mostly Brian—she often worried what others had taken to calling her.
Of course, in addition to the labeling of people, there was also the labeling of things.
Not just the labels that are instantly disregarded (like who sleeps where, or whose snacks/toiletries/cigarettes are whose, or which person’s towel is intended to save a lounge chair that will immediately be derobed). Although Allison imagined these were all prime instances of labeling as well.
She was thinking of the labeling of things, like canoodles.
What were canoodles? The long, noodle-like flotation devices were initially used in the pool, but it wasn’t long before they doubled as weapons in the season’s most massive cock-fight (where the guys hoisted the girls on their shoulders to battle). After giving rise to such a sexually charged activity, ca-noodles appeared the more fitting description for them.
Then there was the labeling of things, like vodka.
Or better yet, the mislabeling. For once, right before a pre-drink, Mark was caught pouring cheap no-name vodka into empty Ketel One bottles. And because the free top-shelf alcohol was an integral part of the share house package, this was quite a considerable offense. When people requested a refund, this never happened again.
And most ridiculously of all, there was the labeling of a certain slang-like saying as “the replacement game.”
Here’s how it worked. Make a broad statement (“Can everyone stop throwing themselves at me?”), then clarify it by using the phrase “And by ___, I mean ___.” (“And by everyone, I mean Dave.”) Fine, definitely the by-product of endless hours in the sun. But a few weeks into the summer, Allison noticed everyone doing it. (And by everyone, she meant only the cool people.)
However, more offensive than the labeling of people, more offensive than the labeling of things...was the labeling of people as if they were things. (Things belonging to other people.)
Now, up until this point, Allison had been far removed from the Hamptons’ meat-market scene (she and Brian having excused themselves since establishing their relationship title weeks ago). So really, it was only upon the arrival of Brian’s friend Zach that Allison learned of the territory labeling that is “calling dibs.”
It was the third weekend in July that Zach’s visit took place. And it was the moment he pulled up in his brand-new Mercedes convertible (and refused to park it—even momentarily—where dust could dull its shiny exterior) that Allison realized she didn’t like him.
After her initial alarm because, well, birds of a feather flocked together, a whole slew of realizations followed on Allison’s part, all pertaining to Brian. All pertaining to the fact that, despite having been thrilled to finally seal their status (“Are we together?” he’d proposed one night out of the blue. “Yeah...I think we’re together,” she’d agreed, without missing a beat), Allison barely knew him at all.
“This is Allison, my girlfriend,” Brian introduced after greeting his former fraternity brother with a cordial slap on the back.
Allison beamed—less at the prospect of meeting the Mercedes owner (who was anxiously glancing around as if a carjacker might jump out of the bushes) than at hearing the word girlfriend spoken aloud. This was—almost—enough to give Zach the benefit of the doubt.
But whether Zach would give her the benefit of the doubt was unclear. Tearing himself away from his vehicle, he unapologetically looked her up and down, though his eyes were masked by dark-tinted Ray-Bans.
While awaiting the verdict he was so blatantly formulating, Allison studied him as well. She could tell his short brown hair had been recently cut, given the perfect square his hairline formed on the back of his neck. And his toned, medium build was accentuated by a fitted navy polo shirt so crisp, it looked like his mother had ironed it. Apparently, clothes were on Zach’s mind as well.
“Theory?” he said, chomping loudly on mint-smelling gum.
“Excuse me?” Allison asked, expecting his first word to her to be something more like...hello.
“Your shirt. Theory?” he expounded before giving a quick glance to the Mercedes.
“Oh. I don’t think so,” she answered, of the tank top she’d purchased years ago at someplace like Macy’s. Instantly self-conscious, she pushed the hair she wished she’d blown-dry back behind her ear.
“Looks like it. I dated a girl who worked there,” he said. He turned to Brian before adding “Jackie” and flashing a grin so scandalous, Allison believed whatever story was tied to the name was one she was better off not knowing. Afterward, his face held a residual smile, broadcasting a row of perfectly straight white teeth (albeit a bit too big for his face, like someone had replaced his real ones with tooth-colored Chiclets). Then, as if Allison had simply vanished into the background, Zach began to talk to Brian about people she didn’t know, in contexts she didn’t understand.
As she stood there feeling both uncomfortable and extraneous, she reflected for a moment how, despite his numerous flaws, Josh had always been considerate enough to include her in all conversations. She was relieved to hear the front door slam and to see Aaron and Steve trudging down the steps.
“Hey,” she said, approaching them perhaps more enthusiastically than she ever had before. Unfazed, they halted and exchanged polite conversation the way she’d known they would. They were the first two people she’d met at the pre-drink back in May, and whether they recognized it or not, she felt they all shared something of a bond because of it.
While Aaron ran off to bring around his car, Steve stood waiting beside her, probably because he could tell she wanted him to. And as they spoke, Allison recalled exactly how much she liked him. A short, broad-shouldered, yet un-athletic-seeming guy with a noble face, Steve always looked a little too run-down and a lot too tired (he was a banker, after all), and—on account of the BlackBerry he clutched like an atom bomb—like he was often afraid of his own shadow. But there was also a reserved maturity to him, and his manners reminded Allison of an Old World gentleman—the kind of guy who would hold doors open on dates or help an old lady cross the street; who’d really listen and never repeat whatever you told him. The kind of guy you could never imagine breaking a girl’s heart for fun.
In the house there was an unofficial rivalry between the state-school frat guys like Brian and crew and the Ivy League investment bankers like Steve and his friends.
The state-school guys were older and louder and larger in both size and number, but also resentful of the bankers, who were five years their junior and making double their salaries. As a result, the bankers were quieter and more vigilant, most often scene spectators rather than orchestrators.
This rivalry was something Allison suspected was a factor in Brian’s pulling her over as soon as Zach drove off in search of a less threatening parking option.
“What were you talking about with him?” he demanded.
At this, Allison was startled. “Who? Steve?”
“Sure, Steve,” Brian repeated, as if to humor her with his name. “You know, I just introduced you to one of my best friends as my girlfriend”—he paused conspicuously to heighten the label—“and then you wander away to talk to, like, the coolest guy in the house. Nice.”
“Sorry,” Allison said, caught off-guard by the foreignness of his jealousy. “It looked like you guys were catching up.”
Shrugging it off with an insincere “whatever,” Brian seemed to dismiss the matter entirely. But it remained on Allison’s mind all afternoon.
On Zach’s mind, however, was something far more transparent. And the moment they walked through the door (actually, even while ascending the front steps), he got right down to business.
“So, do you have any hot friends?” he asked Allison, opting again to acknowledge her existence.
“Definitely,” she answered—the way you always answer when a guy asks you that, if only out of loyalty. Though whether the housemates were hot or not didn’t matter as much as their romantic status, and Zach was soon brought up to speed on an outsider’s boundaries.
He first took an interest in Jamie. Fighting the urge to intercept, Allison watched as he bombarded her with the bland sequence of preliminary questions most people asked—you know, where you’re from, what you do, at which of the twenty or so popular universities you squandered away your parents’ money. But as Jamie answered, the wheels in Zach’s mind appeared still hard at work—as if he was running her qualifications through his head and deliberating whether or not she was worthy of his attention. Apparently she was, because the profound interrogation continued.
How the Other Half Hamptons Page 19