My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover if Not Being a Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or a Culture-Up Manifesto (28 page)

“It’s so boring here; I don’t want to stay! I want to go back to the city!”

I whisper to Fletch, “Do you think they might be willing to adopt us?”

“I have a stronger back and I’m much more efficient with a shovel. If they’re taking anyone, they’re taking me,” he responds.

Eventually, the family clears out and we go back to our reading. I’m engrossed in my novel when I hear a voice next to me. “Excuse me, but is that the new Kindle DX?”

I glance up to the twentysomething kid standing beside me. “Yes. This one just came out a few weeks ago. You see how much bigger the screen is? It’s more like reading a hardcover book than a paperback. Care to take a look?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” I say, handing it over. I’d be willing to bet my, well, I guess my Kindle that he’s not going to take off with it.

I show the kid all the features and demonstrate how to purchase a book, and then I show him where all my stuff’s archived. He scans my library of titles. “Hey, Henry Miller and Margaret Atwood? You have good taste.”

Sheepishly, I admit, “I’m hoping they balance out the Lauren Conrad.”

He laughs and says, “Yeah, I saw that.” Then he tells Fletch and me about how he’d talked to some girl at a party last night and she got all officious, saying she’d never once seen a reality television show. He sums up the encounter saying, “I figure she was lying or incredibly pretentious; in either case, no, thanks. I mean, come on,
The Hills
?
Everyone
watches reality television.”

Oh, random beach guy, don’t I know it.

I’m standing in the breakfast room of the inn, freaking the hell out. I’m having a huge crisis of confidence right now. Fletch, for lack of knowing what else to do, has taken me down here to fill up on freshly baked cookies before our car service arrives. (They have homemade key limeade but it doesn’t pair well with white chocolate chip macadamia cookies, so I stick with wine.)

Hearing me panic and pace, the manager steps out of his office to offer assistance. Considering the level of service we’ve received here—beach chairs, umbrellas, coolers, six kinds of freshly baked cookies, et cetera, I’m sure he’d shoot me with a tranquilizing dart should I request one.
²³⁷

“Can I do anything for you?” he asks.

“Do you know how to stop a panic attack?” I reply, while Fletch stands behind me mouthing
“drama queen”
and making drinky-drinky gestures.

“I’ve yet to figure that out,” the manager admits. “If you find a way, please share. Seriously, though, what’s happening?”

I explain about Authors Night and how I wheedled my way into coming and how even though I did everything I could to prepare, I still feel like I’ve shown up for the first day of seventh grade n-a-k-e-d.

“Are you an author?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Have you sold books?”

“Yeah, kind of a whole bunch.”

“Then you belong there.” The manager leans in conspiratorially to me. “Listen, years ago I used to be a TV writer. I wrote soap operas. Once back in the eighties, I was nominated for an Emmy, and I felt so unworthy.”

Fletch has stopped mocking me and started listening. “What did you do?”

“I went to the awards ceremony, and when they called my name as the winner, I tamped down any feelings I had of insecurity, I walked on that stage in front of Susan Lucci and everybody, and I said
thank you
. And it was one of the best moments of my life.”

I exhale, suddenly feeling much better. “That’s a really good story.”

The manager shrugs. “I was a really good writer. Now it looks like your car is here, so you go walk in there like you own the joint. Remember, own it!”

We get in the car and arrive at Authors Night a few minutes before it starts. The event’s being held in an enormous white tent, right behind the East Hampton library. Something like a hundred authors are participating, signing donated books, with all the proceeds going directly to the library. Patrons get to mingle and drink cocktails and meet any writer who catches their interest.

There are four quadrants of tables under the tent, and I make almost an entire lap around the space, looking for my spot. There are tons of names I recognize on the placards in front of the seats, and I cross my fingers that I’ll be allowed to sit where I can watch them.

I come across one grouping of tables, and I practically swoon when I see who’s stationed there—first up, Alec Baldwin, then Candace Bushnell, Jay McInerney, Barbara Walters, and then a couple down from them, the one who excites me most of all, Bethenny Frankel. On the other side of the table, I see spots for the Countess from
Real Housewives New York
and a bunch of
New York Times
bestsellers and my friend Stephanie Klein and . . . me? Wait, I’m with
them
?

Oh, my God, I’m at the “big table.” I’m rock star adjacent! For the first time in my life, it’s like I’m finally sitting with the adults at Thanksgiving! I can turn around and touch Bethenny or Barbara, because they’re both
right behind me
. Suddenly I’m very, very grateful to the manager for helping me feel like I’m not one huge party crasher.

“Stephanie,” I hiss behind the back of the author seated between us. “Do you see who we’re sitting with? Do you see? Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”

Stephanie’s from New York and so doesn’t go into superridiculous tourist mode when she encounters famous people. Actually, she’s so cool and at ease with the situation, when she suggests I talk to some of my idols before it gets busy, I actually do.

I turn around and introduce myself to Bethenny, and she couldn’t be nicer or less intimidating. She’s stunning in person, and taller than you’d think. Plus, she’s wearing a madras dress, yet I do not take this opportunity to explain that her fabric choice makes us besties. Score one for self-control!

Stephanie gets some shots of us together, and Bethenny and I discuss, for lack of a better or less pretentious term, our
craft
. Bethenny worked with a coauthor on her
Naturally Thin
book and tells me she wrote the first draft and then went over the final draft, but her coauthor did everything in between. “Don’t you find that part so hard?” she asks me. “Does anyone work with you to write the middle of your books?”

“No,” I giggle, giddy to be having a real conversation where—at least in the writing world—I’m kind of a peer. “I, um, write memoirs. I’m sort of obligated to write the whole thing myself since it’s all about my life.” We talk for another minute or so, and I’m psyched to discover the charm and humor she displayed on the show is genuine; her “reality” is actually real.

Then I meet Countess de Lesseps, and we converse briefly and at no point do I say anything idiotic. I don’t try to touch her hair or remark on the smoothness of her hands or ask if she’ll pretty please tell Jill Zarin I love her or anything. We’re just two authors saying hello; it’s awesome.

Once the event begins, I talk to authors who’d normally intimidate me, but between pep talks from Stephanie and the inn manager, I finally recognize that I have common ground with them.

As patrons drift by my table, we make pleasant small talk about all kinds of stuff, like writing and dining and wine and cheese. I chat with a woman about the show I attended at the Steppenwolf Theatre earlier this month and I have fun doing it. But our conversation isn’t pretentious—it’s just stuff I happen to enjoy now.

All too soon, the event comes to an end and I make it through with barely a faux pas, especially if you don’t count Fletch going around taking pictures of celebrities’ butts. (“But Baldwin wasn’t wearing a belt!” he explains later when we review the shots on my computer. “And Barbara Walters had visible panty lines. Aren’t you glad to know she’s not into thongs?”)

Right before we leave for the second part of the evening—the dreaded dinner—I talk to my icons. First, I see Candace Bushnell and thank her for inadvertently starting me on this project. She says she remembers me, but even if she doesn’t, I still feel like I’ve come full circle from last spring when I didn’t know my Baudelaire from a bowling ball.

I tell her, “Remember when you said your husband was with the American Ballet Theatre and everyone wants to sleep with him? Well, that’s mine over there”—I gesture to Fletch, who’s wandering around the periphery of the party looking for more wine—“the one who works for the phone company and no one wants to sleep with.” But despite not being dressed in seersucker, he looks very handsome, and Candace chuckles.

Then I meet Jay McInerney, which is the biggest deal of all for me. I’ve been reading him for twenty years and
Bright Lights, Big City
was the inspiration for the tongue-in-cheek title of my second book. I worship him as an author, and I’ve been in awe of his talent since my twenties. Which is why I assumed I’d end up blurting all the stupid thoughts at the forefront of my mind, like
“Hey, do you ever want to punch people when they tell you how much they loved
Less Than Zero
²³⁸
and
American Psycho
²³⁹
and do you think Michael J. Fox totally ruined your movie
²⁴⁰
and does anyone ever get up your ass about writing
Bright Lights
in the second person because, really, pretentious much? And how cool is it that being on
Gossip Girl
totally introduced you to an entirely new generation?”

Instead, I steel my nerves, quiet my Shame Rattle, introduce myself, and say, “I’m honestly thrilled to meet you because I’ve been a fan since the eighties. Here’s the thing—I’ve been working on a project and one of the phases of it is to read classic literature. I have to say in a hundred years, everyone’s still going to know who you are. The way you write is every bit as important and poignant as the classics I’ve been covering. Think about
The Great Gatsby
—that book’s still alive because Fitzgerald was able to take the Jazz Age, a very specific moment in time, and freeze it forever. And that’s exactly what you did with
Bright Lights, Big City
. You captured what it was like to be in New York during a key moment of the eighties so no one will ever forget it. When people talk about the classics years from now, you’re going to be part of that conversation.”

He seems a bit surprised at my monologue and he’s quiet for a second before responding thoughtfully. “Thank you, that’s . . . a really great compliment and I’m quite flattered. Thank you.”

He seems so genuine in his appreciation that I wonder if he didn’t hear about
Gossip Girl
and
Less Than Zero
more than once tonight.

We pull up to a hulking home directly on the water. Some earlier Google-stalking tells me that the host has her own strip of private beach and this causes new waves of terror to flash through me. Although the evening has cooled, I’m sweating through my wrap. Despite the success of the event, the Sword of Dumb Ass is back and feels like it’s dangling right over my head again.

We pass through giant boxwood hedges, traverse the crushed-shell circular drive, and arrive at the front door. Fletch squeezes my hand for luck before I ring the bell.

The door opens and my trial by fire begins.