Must-Haves:
- Japanese toilet
- 4 beds
- 3 baths
- Heated pool
- Heated floors
- Garage
At last! I am going to get a beach house!
Steps I have taken to get to this moment of beach house ownership:
- Born
- Childhood
- College
- Married (George)
- George made $$$
- George and I bought lake house
- A raccoon wedged its beefy body through a hole that we didn’t know existed in the lake house chimney guard. He fell down the chimney into the house when we weren’t there and then spent a week drinking out of the toilet, jumping on the beds, and smearing soot on every surface. He was like a coin that dropped into the slot machine of our lake house, causing a riot of spinning fruits and ringing bells.
We had no idea we were winning like this. We had no camera installed. Our observant neighbor at the lake called us at our apartment in the city to tell us about our jackpot. He advised us to call the wildlife control people, so I did that. And then the wildlife control people went out to the house and after three long days they called me back and said, “The bad news is that you have a raccoon in your house, and the other bad news is we can’t get him out.”
“Look at that,” I said to George, who was sitting beside me in the kitchen in our apartment on West Twenty-Seventh Street, in what we fondly referred to as the discount caftan and incense district. “The wildlife control people can’t control the wildlife, just like us.”
I then called different wildlife control people I had searched up—who knew there were so many of them in that little lake town, like they were pizza joints—and these other wildlife control people must have been PhD-level animal behaviorists because they opened our front door and put bait outside it, and just like that, our raccoon—because we thought of him as ours now—walked out the front door and back into his life again. And then I hope he drank many raccoon beers with his raccoon friends and told them all about the time he fell down a hole into another world and went berserk there until a door opened and he walked out of it, a changed animal.
George and I were English majors in college, and we had met in a class on Charles Dickens, so we thought we were prepared—in a fictional, chimney-sweep-loving way—for cleaning up after a sooty raccoon. But our nonfiction raccoon had not only fallen down our lake house chimney, he had cut himself on a glass jar of organic peanut butter that he had smashed open, so in addition to chimney soot and peanut butter, raccoon blood was everywhere, and it was that last little detail that pushed the entire situation out of the realm of Victorian literature and into the territory of a horror film. Cleaning bloody paw prints from the ceiling was not at all like writing a five-paragraph essay about Oliver Twist and his dual role as a victim and thief.
After George and I cleaned, then hired a service to clean up extra after our cleaning, we came to the conclusion that it was time to sell the lake house. We hardly went there anymore because we were so busy; we couldn’t deal with the homeowner issues; and the younger of our two kids, our ten-year-old daughter, Clementine, having learned to swim in the YMCA pool, refused to swim in the lake whenever she saw “gunk” in it, which was always, because although Clementine can’t remember her times tables very well, she has the visual acuity of a bird of prey.
We sold our raccoon-haunted house, and then we did something only real winners could do, which was spend all our lake house money on a small plot of land in East Hampton. The plot of land was in what is arguably the most down-market part of East Hampton, the area that contains the dump and has the spottiest cell phone service. It’s known as “Springs,” or “The Springs,” depending on how you say it. People who have lived in the area for a long time tend to say “Springs,” whereas people who are new say “The Springs,” and the people who say “Springs” reportedly think that the people who say “The Springs” are insufferable. I will be referring to it as “The Springs,” though, because I am not trying to be anyone I am not here.
For a long time, then, we had this bit of land in The Springs with no dwelling on it, just a slightly dented black metal mailbox on a wooden post that George had gotten from a nearby garage sale. He plunked it at the edge of the land, on the spot where we dreamed of putting the driveway that would lead to our house. On the side of the mailbox he painted yellow and orange flames like the ones on the demolition derby cars he had loved as a kid, and then he painted our name in red-hot letters: MEANS.
Eventually, after searching, I found an architect who said she could make us a house on this land for cheap. The price she quoted us was so cheap, in fact, that it seemed unreal, like the price equivalent of a raccoon drinking beer with his raccoon friends. But maybe this is my problem, being a former English major: I like a good story. So I listened to this architect give me her pitch, and I thought, well, this could happen.
I was sitting on the couch in my sweatpants looking for pictures of heated swimming pools to put on my vision board when Darby let herself into our third-floor apartment to walk the dog.
“Hi, Darby,” I said, slightly tilting my laptop screen so she couldn’t see it.
“Looking at swimming pools again, Shelly?” she asked, as she picked up our twelve-pound, caramel-colored dog, Twix.
Darby was skinny, sarcastic, and all of twenty-three. She was wearing her cool-weather ensemble of a hoodie-over-a-hoodie. She hated coats and swore that hoodies were enough to get her through New York City’s five seasons: pre-winter, winter, second winter, slush, and summer.
“Your observational skills are scary,” I replied, as Twix looked at me balefully from the crook of her arm.
“Well, I’m not trying to be scary,” she replied, glancing at me over her shoulder as she put the leash on the dog. “But if you are scared, that’s fine.”
I asked myself, was I scared of Darby, a Fashion Institute of Technology student who walked dogs on the side? I answered myself: No.
In addition to pools, I had tabs open for refrigerators that spit ice cubes out the door, fireplaces that turned on with the push of a button, and toilets that flushed themselves and then sprayed your bottom clean. I was delirious with excitement about my new beach house and all its new accoutrements.
“You don’t have to feel guilty about getting a beach house, you know,” Darby said.
“I don’t feel guilty about getting a beach house,” I snapped. “Besides, it’s going to be the cheapest beach house imaginable. It’s going to be made out of shipping containers. It’s going to look like a big metal box!”
“That’s how I know you feel guilty,” she said, smirking. “Otherwise you’d be telling me how nice it is.” She walked out the door with Twix.
I stopped my pool perusal and remembered how, when I was nine and my older sister, Bella, was fifteen, my family went on a vacation. My father drove us nine hours from our home in Minneapolis to the Black Hills. I had been alarmed by this trip, which was done with so much resentment, and was so joyless, and took so long. It seemed pointless, although I knew the point, which was to “get away” and “take a break” and “relax” from our regular lives as an unremarkable, white, Midwestern family where everyone worked hard, money didn’t come easily, and you couldn’t buy things from the dollar store because that was something only poor people did. We were not poor people, we were practical people, my father reminded us, cracking open his sixth beer in half as many hours behind the steering wheel of our compact car.
We’d stayed in a cheap motel overnight. As soon as we checked in, it started pouring, and then continued raining all the next day. My sister and I were bored and whining. My father decided we would leave our vacation early. The gutters on our house would be backed up after all this rain, and he would need to clean them, he groused.
My father drove us back home in the storm, grim and hungover, and then we never took another family vacation, let alone another vacation to the Black Hills, which was fine. Especially because vacationing to the Black Hills, as I now know, is a morally complicated activity.
I looked up from the computer to see Darby and Twix come back inside. Darby wiped the sidewalk crud off Twix’s feet with a baby wipe from the box of wipes by the door. Then she nodded at me and left.
I employ Darby through a company called Canine Companions. They require their employees to take photos of the dogs as they are walking them. These photos are then included in an email that gets sent when the walk is over. The email tells me exactly how long the walk was and if my dog did #1, #2, or both.
The post-dog-walk email came. In her 30:07-minute walk up and down West Twenty-Seventh Street, Twix had made zero numbers.
Darby walks Twix Monday through Friday mornings so I can get some work done. I have a job that, as far as the wider working world is concerned, is not real: taking care of two children. The wider working world’s opinion of my job used to bother me, but it doesn’t anymore. I don’t care what the world thinks, I tell myself.
Darby walks Twix in the morning, and then I walk Twix the other two times a day, or sometimes George, or our son, Jack, who’s sixteen, walks her. Clementine, at ten, is too young to walk the dog alone on our block, which is on Twenty-Seventh between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. We’re right down the block from the Fashion Institute of Technology, where Darby, who dreams of having her own accessories line one day, is taking a class called “Manipulating Leather 2.”
George and I found our two-bedroom apartment on this block for a good price. We bought it when I was pregnant with Jack. And then after Clementine was born, when other people might have prioritized moving to a bigger apartment, we decided to spend our money on a raccoon Airbnb.
Still, we have managed to make our apartment work for four people. Both kids are in one bedroom, which we turned into two bedrooms with the help of an illegal wall that will have to come down if we ever try to sell the apartment. We constructed it without running it past our co-op board.
Our apartment is in Chelsea, but our stretch of West Twenty-Seventh Street is not the Chelsea of charming, pedigreed town houses. Our block is filled with ground- and second-floor businesses. If you want to learn martial arts, take an improv comedy class, or buy a ten-dollar caftan, come to my block. Our building is next to a store called IBS Enterprise, which sells everything from luggage to snow globes, and which George and I refer to as “Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”
If Irritable Bowel Syndrome wasn’t enough Manhattan shopping fabulousness for one neighborhood, there is also what you might generously call a “pop-up” on the Sixth Avenue end of our block. It’s basically a weekly rummage sale anchored by a couple of legitimate antique sellers, as well as a crabby guy in a dashiki who sells incense with names like “Sensual Nights” and “Dragon’s Blood.” I bought Dragon’s Blood once because Clementine begged me—and who doesn’t want to know what dragon’s blood smells like?—so we found out: burned cinnamon toast. We have learned to hold our breath as we walk through the clouds emanating from the incense guy’s table, because if he hears you making any negative comments, he will yell at you using, as Clementine calls them, “potty words.”
Twix takes her walks in this landscape. She is not a big fan of her walks, but she goes on them dutifully, like they’re her job, like they’re a vacation to the Black Hills she is being taken on because she is a small child in a family that does not understand vacations, and she has no choice.
While she is out for her morning walk, I usually eat because it is easier to eat treats when you don’t have a dog around. Twix’s walks with Darby are a half-hour long. That gives me more than enough time to eat some chocolate, which I eat from a bag of chocolate chips I keep in the pantry. I dig out the chips in handfuls and eat them like a squirrel.
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