A few years back I went out to the Hamptons. The store I worked for at the time opened a pop up in East Hampton and was embarrassingly understaffed. I was put up with two other girls in this glorious old white house with big windows and natural light that illuminated the dust especially well. I don’t remember the other girls’ names, but they stayed out there all summer, shaping their metropolitan lifestyle to the slow ease of being out East - swimming in Gardiner’s Bay, hanging their linens to dry, and painting to pass the time. Maybe it was naivety or necessity brought on by the lack of central air in the old house, but they slept with the windows open, allowing the breeze to push and pull the long white curtains in and out like indecisive ghosts. I took advantage of the outdoor shower in the garden every morning, letting the heat roll off my body into each cool August morning. Deer grazed in the yard at dawn and dusk, apathetic to the murmurs and amber glow from our big white mansion. We all shared a taxi to work each morning, 30 minutes away.
My first day there I went for a walk. The neighborhood was right on the bay; the shore lined with mansions, all obscured by tall hedges and wrought iron gates. On my walk to watch the sunset I saw the funniest looking dog I’d ever seen; a stout shaggy creature with mop-like fur covering his eyes and a pink tongue that hung from his mouth like a ribbon. Immediately I bent down, and wrapped my arms around the dog with a disregard for danger only an immortal 21 year old can possess. It was then I first noticed the owner; a ridiculously handsome older man with a mop of curly hair and a smile that easily cost 5x my rent.
Alfred.
We exchanged names and walked together to the bay, where we shared a bench and talked for hours. He was a doctor; he had been married and divorced two times over, partied in Elton John’s castle, and took a patient’s call right in front of me. Over twice my age, he spoke to me as if I knew the future.
He asked me if I had any vices.
I told him I didn’t.
He said I needed a vice, it adds character.
But I was only 21, after all. I hadn’t had time to find a vice. I was barely of age to drink or smoke, was fresh out of church and my first relationship. I didn’t know how to buy cigarettes, and I was scared to find out. My go-to drink was a whiskey sour because I knew it would taste good and didn’t beg too many questions beyond “well?” - to which I’d cooly respond “sure.” I had just broken up with my first boyfriend and was terrified of the tornado of nails which is the New York dating scene. Alfred told me he could take care of me. I could visit on the weekends and stay in his bayside mansion - work on music and go to the beach.
He said that I was angelic - something more than a few men have called me throughout the years.
More aptly, since I grew tits.
That’s subsided in recent years, thankfully. The bright side of aging.
I wonder if I would possess the same appealing luster to Alfred now - 5 years older, with more vices than I’d care to admit, my wide-eyed je ne sais quoi not so prevalent on my face. Would my self awareness and my humanity entice him? Would he find my blatant vulnerability as advertised online, sexy?
About a week ago I decided to abandon my hedonist tendencies for at least a month in an attempt to find some form of clarity. For health.
What am I getting out of this? A prettier liver, a normal sleep schedule, and so much fucking ennui - that can only be pulled off me with long walks or writing (for your displeasure). This puritanical act of brazen self care might not last forever, but there’s a comfort in saying “no” out of autonomy, and not fear.
I think of Alfred from time to time. Every so often, my phone lit up with his name - along with a photo of the dog and the bay. Years went by, the dog died, and I lost my shiny luster. But then again, so did he.
On a whim one day, I Googled him.
The first search result (of many) was his name in a New York Post headline - read something like “Ex-wife of Dr. Alfred {redacted for my own sake] Squats In Multi-million Dollar Upper East Side Apartment - In Protest of The Divorce.”
What a way to really know someone.
Those few days in that big old house by the bay live in my head, a time I use as a barometer for my own growth. In between the ghostly curtains and painting and hanging our clothes to dry in the garden I find myself at 21 years old.
I was searching, I was “angelic.”
I was a car crash waiting to happen.