Author's Note - This is a complete novella in six chapters. It's based on a true story I heard years ago from the young man involved. I have placed it in a more contemporary setting. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks.
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Chapter One
It's one of those lazy summer days in the Hamptons, one of those mornings-after-an-F.-Scott-Fitzgerald-party where everyone in the mansion to my right will still be asleep at noon and those who wake any earlier will wish they had gone to the ER last night and had their stomachs pumped. Meanwhile a John Cheever story unfolds on the beach of the mansion to my left where naked women are walking out of the surf and sprawling on custom made, non-sustainable teak chaises arranged neatly on the sand above the high tide line by Latina servants who are now conspicuous by their absence, forbidden to see the bare flesh of their employers' bodies giggling freely in the late morning sun.
I, however, am allowed to see their naked bodies. They are, in fact, counting on it, massaging sunscreen on nipples, breasts and buttocks in full view of two young gentlemen next door, not to see if rigid bananas form in our trunks but to send a message about wealth, money, power and status. And the greatest of these is status. It's a message which says "we're so stinking rich we'll expose our tanned, enhanced-breasted, tummy-tucked, bottom-lifted, botox-browed, liposuctioned, face-lifted, enhanced-lipped, breast-lifted, Brazil-waxed bodies and we don't care who sees it in this neighborhood." A secondary message might be "we're so rich we have no tan lines." Whatever the message, the women pretend to ignore us and we pretend to ignore them.
"No one over thirty should be allowed to sunbathe nude," says Derek on the chaise next to mine. "God."
Not knowing what to say and writing furiously, I say nothing.
"You do see them, don't you?"
"Yes, of course," I say, not looking up.
"They're the Baldwins, heirs to the whiskey fortune. Not one of them is less than forty. It's gross."
"The one in the red bikini is very attractive," I say.
"That would be Skippy's mother, THE Mrs. Baldwin, the one who married the whiskey magnate. The others are her older sisters. None of them are actually named Baldwin, but everyone calls them the Baldwin sisters," Derek says without looking, his eyes closed behind a pair of Gucci sunglasses which cost more than my entire wardrobe. "She's thirty-eight... but still... I mean, my God, can you believe that?"
Derek hasn't turned his head or made any movement to indicate he was actually looking at the naked, middle-aged female menagerie. He could be stealing peeks, but I doubt he's making that kind of effort. Derek isn't like that. Besides, I'm busy writing and not paying attention to what his eyes are doing. He probably took one look and has kept his eyes tightly closed since. Or perhaps he's jaded from having seen it so many times. Lying flat on his his back and facing straight up is probably the best thing for old Derek, but I am propped up on my chaise scribbling furiously in this journal and feeling definite pressure in my trunks at the sight of Skippy's mother.
"Who is Skippy, anyway?" I ask, pretending to have forgotten.
"Damn you, Martin, do you ever stop working? Put that shit away. Who goes to summer school anyway? The whole point of college is to have the summer off to party. It's bad enough they ruin the rest of the year with it."
"All play and no work make a dull boy completely gay," I say in an awkward attempt to create a rhyme.
"There's no place in the Hampton's for your middle class humor. Put that shit down and enjoy yourself. Mix a drink. Splash a little vodka in that orange juice. Get drunk."
"You're not getting drunk," I counter.
"I have to sober up first," he says through a wry smile.
"I have papers due," I say, "and midterms coming up."
"Whatever."
It's true, of course, but at this moment studying is a pretense to cover the fact that I want to write, need to write, must write. The oddities of Hamptons culture demand to be recorded as they happen. A video camera would be too obvious and in poor taste, for sure, not that I'd trust it to handle the job properly. Words are better and if not better certainly more fun.
"I introduced you to Skippy last night. Don't you remember?" Derek says.
I remember. Last night we attended the wild F. Scott Fitzgerald party at the mansion to our right. Derek had introduced me to dozens of people, not one of whom I remember now except Skippy. I recall a boatload of prep school names like Clifford, Nobby, Biff, Chasworth, Denholm, Alton and Littleford. All were used as first names and all sounded like nicknames, surnames or the names of English villages. At the moment I can't match any name to a face. Except hers.
"No," I lie, not wanting Derek to know I met her. Skippy.
"You really should remember these people if you're going to become a lawyer, Martin. They'll be great connections in the future. Monied connections. Big money."
I say nothing. Derek sighs a condescending sigh.
"Skippy is the wallflower who lives next door," he says. "She's eighteen, flat-chested and thin as a rail. I thought she'd grow breasts, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen. No real surprise there: her mom's melons are fake. All you need to know about Skippy is that she lacks any redeeming social qualities for a girl her age. Wants to become a latter day Jacques Cousteau and study the oceans, for God's sake. Probably anorexic and lesbian. There she is now."
Once again I glance at Derek in amazement. All along I've been writing in a cryptic shorthand only I understand, but I swear to you he hadn't lifted or turned his head to look, still flat on his back on the chaise. If he did open his eyes he'd see blue skies and white fluffy clouds racing by on the sea breeze above. How does he do that?
"Don't look, Martin," he hisses, as if they could hear us a hundred feet away. "Never let them see you look."
I turn my head in time to see Skippy walk the last few paces of lawn before trotting down the steps of their seawall to join her mother and aunts, spreading a beach towel on a chaise of her own. Derek sees my movement and scolds. Again I glance at his eyes under Gucci sunglasses and find them closed. Is he watching me? Did he hear my head turn? Or does he have some sixth sense about Hampton neophytes like myself? And why is he suddenly telling me not to look?
Skippy, I should note, wears a modest two piece suit, bucking the buck nekkid trend of the older women of her family. Is it because she's not allowed to bathe nude? Is she too young? Is it modesty? Or does she still have the self respect of a normal person? I wonder what Derek knows. For purposes of entertainment, I really, really want to know his opinion on the matter, but bite my tongue.
"I remember her," I say, not wanting to get caught in a lie. "From last night. We spoke."
"But not her name, apparently," Derek replies. "Will you please stop looking at them?"
"I'm not looking at them," I reply, "I'm looking at you. How could they possibly know the difference? They're two hundred feet away."
"They know," Derek says. "Believe me. And it's a hundred feet."
"Aren't you being a bit paranoid?" I say.
"The Hamptons run on paranoia. The whole world does out here."
"That's ridiculous," I say. "Are you really worried what they might be thinking when I look over at you like this? While we talk?"
"They know you're checking them out, Martin."
"And they're checking us out, too—all four of them have looked at us. Multiple times. They looked at us when they first walked out of the surf."
"That's because you looked, Martin."
"No it isn't. They just looked at us again when they greeted Skippy. Besides, I keep turning back to my work here. It's not like it's anyone's business."
"You're embarrassing me, man."
"What do you want me to do? Eyes front and center out over the ocean? Rigid sunbathing in one position with eyes closed? Bury my face in a book and keep it there?"
"It'd be start, thank you."
"Fine," I say, looking back to this very page, writing furiously to catch up.
Derek sighs beneath sunglasses.
