The blank page I begin to fill with these words reminds me of the emptier streets, shops and restaurants in the Town of East Hampton, as we task ourselves with Christmas tree removal, thank you notes, sending sons and daughters back off to college with, we hope, warm, newly formed memories and greater appreciation for family, old friends and the beloved place we call home. (A man can dream).
Will Rowdy Hall remain sardine-packed as it has every night since opening with great anticipation and controversy a couple months ago?
Will Truth Training, with their wonderfully addictive cross-training classes, see sign-ups recede to the handful of loyalists?
Will Montauk be rewarded with monster surf like New Jersey got in late December, the most epic the Garden State has ever seen?
Things come into finer focus and with the opportunity for keener observation in January, when the freight train of holiday-ing settles into the rearview mirror. Our Village of Amagansett gets even smaller in January as we perhaps take more notice and dare I say delight in the tough love, have-your-shit-together experience that is Terry the Postal Clerk, the pickleball volleying patois of the Jamaican baristas at Jack’s Coffee, or that certain grumpy fellow manning the cash register at Amagansett Hardware juxtaposed by his unsettlingly joyful sidekick smiling at you from 20 yards down the main aisle, readying to pull his trigger on helpfulness.
In a world gone haywire, and with brains that naturally try to create the allusion of order from entropy, the consistency these mundane exchanges offer should be a soothing balm. They should also be an invitation for us to flex the very important muscle of fostering deeper connection to our fellow humans, which I’m sure scientists will soon reveal, if they haven’t already, has a host of health benefits that even Ozempic can’t challenge.
Despite my many years in California doing some serious woo-woo stuff like drum circles, men’s retreats, sacred geometrical crystal healing and sounds baths out the wazoo, I’m not talking about being a Space Invader, Burned Man and going in pelvis first for unwanted hugs. I’m simply suggesting there’s an element of possibility in a little more than a grumbled “hello” and “thank you.” People are interesting. Everyone is interesting, if you give them a chance … even the guy who is bearing down on your Prius in his massively macho, F-1250 dual exhaust, steroid-injected, truck-bed storage-boxed, bull bar-hooded, cargo-bed slide buttressed pick-up truck on Three Mile Harbor Road for no other reason than you’re going 5 miles over the speed limit in a later model luxury SUV. Never mind, he’s an asshole.
(Digression: why the hell are all pick-up drivers on Three Mile Harbor Road so angry at the Universe and why do they always have to ride up my ass like I just shot them the bird? Actually, I did reach my hand out the window once, flashing the international symbol for “you have a three-inch dick” to the Ram 1-zillion-50 trying to perform auto-anal, and the driver ended up tailing me all the way to a service station where he got out of his car and threatened to kill me, so perhaps this might be the one crowd of humans for which anything beyond a “hello” and “thank you” would be wishful thinking … but as I said, I digress.)
I think being present in our interactions, seeing the individual in front of us, and offering even the most remote extra but sincere interest in our fellow humanity could lead to magical things, or simply feeling slightly less disconnected from the world when the temperature drops below 35 degrees and Main Street looks and feels as deserted as Nicki Hayley’s African American voter coalition.
Case in point: a couple weeks ago, I closed on a closet-sized studio apartment on Gramercy Park in Manhattan. The evening of the closing, I strolled by a gorgeous building brimming with folks enjoying pre-Christmas cheer, including a few having cocktails on the patio. I leaned over the wrought iron gate, and said, “excuse me, may I ask … what is this place? It looks amazing.” Turns out I was asking one of the admission committee members about the Players Club, a social club founded in 1888 by the actor Edwin Booth, whose mission was to elevate the position of artists of all stripes by providing a venue for them to mingle with respected business and civic leaders. The admission committee member, Carrie, generously offered me a tour and 30 minutes later, I walked out the door with a membership application and a date to have drinks at the club two nights later. Three days later I was handed my trial membership card and put it to quick use that night, drinking beers and playing pool in the Grill with some wonderful members. Minutes into my second game, I startled to see an old friend from Sausalito, CA, a highly accomplished harmonica player named Joe Conte. Joe had flown to New York that day and was sitting in with a Jazz quartet in The Great Hall upstairs.
Turns out the saxophone player from the quartet was the guy who sold me his Amagansett home four years ago, and that all of the quartet members and their entourage had spent a lot of time there! Of course, the sax player could hardly look at me, as he knew he had made the mistake of his life selling the place (one month before Covid shut the world down), but I ended up making fast friends with several of his friends, as we shut the place down, strolling out arm in arm, hangovers readying to greet us like flower girls at Honolulu International Airport. All of this, because I reached over a gate and asked a question.
This is not to pat myself on the back but to remember that loneliness can be a factor in the winter months, especially in the Hamptons, so the best way to combat it is with a little bit of extra inquisitiveness, kindness, presence and effort to be a little bit more … human. One never knows what kind of magic awaits those who spark connection, who lean over the proverbial wrought iron gate. And a small world is a better, more peaceful world.
So, the next time you’re driving 31 miles per hour down Three Mile Harbor Road at four in the afternoon in your white, 2023 Range Rover Evoque listening to Kenny G, and you look in your rearview mirror and all you see is the grill of a Chevy Silverado staring at you like the jaws opening on Captain Quint, hit the brakes, wave at the driver behind you to pull over on the shoulder with you, and approach the driver with a friendly smile and say something like, “I just wanted to make sure you’re having a nice day,” or better, “Gee, I bet you make love like you drive … in a real hurry, huh?” Those conversation starters should really break the ice. Namaste.*
*The writer is not responsible for any mutilations or other bodily, psychic or automotive harm that may come as a result of his suggestions. Heckle pick-up drivers on Three Mile Harbor Road at your own risk.
