We’re sitting in traffic on highway 27. Highway 27 is the biggest trending topic during summer in the Hamptons. At any given time during August it’s like being stuck on the Hollywood freeway at rush hour. Everyone has a “special” short cut and every short cut actually takes the same time as sitting in traffic, only twice the fuel. I hate traffic but not like a normal person hates traffic. I feel like I could turn into the Hunk and start smashing the cavalcade of Range Rovers, BMW’s and Mercedes that sit between me and a mojito on my back porch. I see valuable minutes of my life being squandered away and my mortality soaking into the pavement. It’s Labor Day and with it the pending doom of the summer bubble popping like the middle class housing market but not before one last push in Gomorah. This year is especially tense and resembles that New Year’s scene in Godfather II when Havana crumbles beneath the feet of privilege revelers. All stops are being pulled this weekend in a flurry of big top lawn parties, beach bongo circles, member/guest golf club shindigs and o-zone killing BBQ bonfires. As the weekend progresses I’m treated to the following uniquely Hampton’s repartee:
1. Our House guest returning from a date: “Damn, I thought we were going to a full moon drumming circle but I think it was a cover for an Al-Anon orgy recruiting mixer.”
2. Random lady sitting on a beach chair at Woodford Vineyard Friday session: “My daughter’s swim coach is going back to Nigeria and become a activist and she’s just learning to breath on both sides. What a waste!”
3. A man impatiently checking out at the Whole Foods pop-up store talking to his wife: “I just saw Alex Baldwin buy these figs. Lets get on the road and beat the “people who are staying through lunch” traffic.
It’s Sunday I we’re sitting in traffic again. It’s like the life guard has yelled “Everyone out of the pool!” Signs of the summer window closing are everywhere. The once bounding corn stalks are shriveled and brown and there’s no line at the bagel shop. Pumpkins are emerging from their balmy beds. My wife and I sip double vanilla lattes and lament on the summer’s high points as the kids sit like zombies in the back watching a cartoon where the female characters look like porn stars. It’s time to get back to the city.