My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [119]
“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 chair 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