Sometimes even an overnight stay in the Pines is worth it, especially if u don’t realize it’s going to be your last of the season . . . at this time of year, u go out for the dinner and the fire declared an unsentimental Der Fuhrer . . . i met him and the Curmudgeon at Penn Station Saturday morning and we spent most of the ride to Sayville arguing about Bush’s Iraq policy . . . if u knew anything about the history of the Middle East, u would understand that it’s necessary to take Saddam out now replied Der Fuhrer when i insisted that the difficulty of effectively dealing with terrorism, midterm elections and personal vengeance were behind the White House’s warmongering . . . the Curmudgeon tried to referee, but our discussion grew so heated that a young family seated across from us looked as if they thought the raised voices would frighten their three-month old.
Traveling in threes can be a liability at this time of year . . . there weren’t enough vans at the train stations and there wasn’t enough time to walk to the ferry so it looked as if we would be spending a couple of hours at Fritschman’s Bakery drinking free coffee and scarfing down day-old crumb cake . . . fortunately, a gypsy cab pulled up just in time and we made the 11:30 boat . . . the Prince and the Ingenue had arrived the night before and already done the dinner shopping but they certainly didn’t roll out the welcome mat when we showed up at the house . . . both were hunched over their laptops, working, on one of the last glorious days of the season . . . the Prince didn’t even look up when i entered the room complained the Curmudgeon at poolside, the only fly-free environment . . . we were soon joined by Testa Grande and learned he had gotten the same reception.
But relations grew more cordial over the tuna pasta salad that Der Fuhrer prepared for his de rigeur sit-down lunch and by cocktail hour everybody was having a good time . . . enforced gaiety, perhaps, since our options were severely limited with tea over for the season . . . everyone ate from separate bowls of popcorn . . . u would think that some of us had six packs to defend against the evils of melted butter while others added another drenching . . . the Ingenue joined the Curmudgeon and me for a game of Scrabble while the Prince cooked a couple of chickens on a bed of leeks . . . an Elton John sing-along with a fake log burning in the fireplace contributed to our harmonious evening until somebody raised the subject of Iraq . . . the house quickly broke into two evenly divided factions with the Prince and the Ingenue parroting Der Fuhrer’s shrill condemnations of appeasement . . . politics don’t make for strange bedfellows in the Pines, they make for separate houses.
Things calmed down or should i say sobered up after dinner and a clean-up that ended by 10 p.m., the earliest hour we ever sit down during the high season . . . rousing people from their naps wasn’t easy, but the Ingenue and i managed to get the Prince and the Curmudgeon to play a preliminary round of Celebrity . . . note to self: if i ever have a boyfriend 15 years my junior, stay away from group activities that emphasize our age difference . . . how could u not know who that is? demanded the Prince incredulously of the Ingenue more than once in reference to the latter’s ignorance of almost anybody from the world of politics or show business who died before 1970 . . . when Testa Grande and Der Fuhrer joined us for the second round, i was relieved to be on the old folks team . . . we won, handily, no thanks to the Curmudgeon who stumped everyone with Rene Levesque, some Quebecois separatist . . . and then, in the odd couple development of the weekend, the stir crazy Prince asked the Curmudgeon if he wanted to go with him to the Sip ‘n Twirl after the Ingenue and Der Fuhrer both begged off.
The place turned into the Pavilion at 2 a.m. when the barechested boys took over the dance floor and the d.j. stopped playing Cher reported Curmudgeon over pancakes, bacon and cantaloupe Sunday morning . . . late September weekends also entail responsibility for those returning to the house next season so after breakfast i busied myself with activities that would absolve me of any guilt if bad weather disinclined me from showing up closing weekend . . . but once the Curmudgeon helped me store the kayak and the heavy terra cotta pots in the laundry room, there really wasn’t much else that could be done with two more weeks still left . . . the Ditz’s weekend already had dirtied the stove and the refrigerator, both of which probably had been cleaned prematurely . . . i went back to reading a terrific article in Vanity Fair about stewardesses before they became flight attendants--the kind u read aloud in part to anyone who will listen--while the Curmudgeon, in yet another of his masochistic intellectual pursuits, studied German by the pool . . . meanwhile, Der Fuhrer napped underneath a book about World War II . . . no doubt he thought its weight gave him patronizing rights.
Much to my surprise, the ocean temperature remained swimmable so i stroked and kicked my way to the Meatrack where the scene was very last call . . . even the Curmudgeon put in an appearance . . . his haplessness was immediately evident . . . want to see the Pig Pit? i asked . . . tactfully, he allowed me to cut his tour short while i hooked up with some muscular fellow of indeterminate ethnicity who squirted all too quickly.
When i re-encounteed the Curmudgeon, who had gotten lost, i pushed him in the direction of a guy i had road tested earlier in the summer . . . even at the time, i had thought they would be a perfect match: not only was Big Daddy a hairy top, he owned a house in the suburbs! . . . i had high hopes when i left them both near the entrance of the Pig Pit where i also found a tiny purple daisy . . . giddy over the prospect of introducing the Curmudgeon to the pleasures of the Meatrack and my own early success, i plucked it and put it behind my ear . . . half an hour later, Big Daddy approached me on an open dune where i stood surveying the prolonged mating dance of two beautiful young men with too many options . . . that purple flower is the perfect touch with your turquoise bathing suit he teased . . . i just wanted to see the kind of reaction i would get, but it hasn’t been pretty . . . chit chat in the Meatrack is no less out of character for me than wearing a flower behind my ear but we stood in the warm sun talking easily about the sociology of anonymous sex until i learned that my matchmaking attempt had come to naught.
I prefer El Mirage to the Meatrack announced the Curmudgeon when i got back to the house . . . there are more people to choose from and u don’t have to walk around as much . . . Der Fuhrer, the Prince and the Ingenue already had departed, leaving an unceremonial goodbye note . . . we did the same thing to Testa Grande and caught the 4:50 boat not knowing then it was the last time we would be crossing the Great South Bay in 2002.
For it seems that the season will end with a whimper . . . or rather the whimpering of everyone who doesn’t want to take responsibility for closing the house . . . and who can blame us in this cool, wet weather? . . . things sure have changed since the Muller Cottage where everybody showed up closing weekend to clean and eat a final meal using everything that remained in the cupboard and refrigerator . . . but that was before we became the House of Six MEs . . . am i really up for another season of this even with a few new MEs? . . . ask me again on a sunny day in April . . . u know what my answer will be.
