My conversation with Summer
SUMMER: Hey, man! What’s up?!
ME: (immediate wince from heat) Oh Jesus, man. This is a bit much.
SUMMER: What do you mean, MUCH? EVERYBODY LOVES ME!
ME: (Sigh) This again.
SUMMER: SUMMER BREAK!
SUMMER: SUMMER CAMP!
SUMMER: SUMMER FLINGS!
ME: I got news for you, budy.
SUMMER: What’s that, homeboy?
ME: You ain’t all that. Nor are you a bag of chips. And you are especially not Cape Cod Russet Potato Chips. [Ed. note: best chips ever.]
SUMMER: What the—?
ME: I mean sure, I love going to the beach and yeah, there’s nothing quite like a nice, full day in the sun to really set your mind at ease, really point it back in the right direction after you’ve been writing about dolls and shit for six months.
ME: But man that feeling passes quicklyyyyy… and then you’re just annoying as hell.
SUMMER: You’re being mean, dude! Go jump in a pool!
ME: See that’s just the thing. It’s not like I can just go jump in a pool. I live in the city.
SUMMER: So crank up the AC! Hang out in the house nekkid!
ME: Hmm. That’s not really my thing.
SUMMER: You’re a bummer, man. Why don’t you go to the Hamptons or something? Everyone loves the Hamptons!
ME: See, now that’s a problem.
SUMMER: The Hamptons is the greatest place in the world! Southampton! East Hampton! Amagansett! Montauk! They got monsters there, bro!
ME: Don’t I know it.
SUMMER: All of New York City’s richest and best people, all hanging out in one place and having fun! What could be better?
ME: Exactly. What could be better? Pretty much anything.
ME: We get the point. Now you need to get the point. The Hamptons is hell on earth. Literally—if Satan himself was to appear on this planet, I think it would be at some outdoor bar in Southampton, dressed in pink chinos with a polo shirt and a sweater around his neck, complaining about the slipping fee for his yacht.
SUMMER: Whoawhoawhoa. Aren’t you from freaking Martha’s Vineyard?
ME: Yes. But even for tourists, there’s a world of difference between them. And I grew up there. I, like, hate conspicuous displays of wealth or class privilege.
SUMMER: Says the guy who lives in Boerum Hill.
ME: Guilty as charged. But I didn’t take the easy way here, did I? I’m no lawyer or banker or something like that.
SUMMER: You want a medal or something?
ME: Shit no. It’d burn my skin today.
SUMMER: Man, you’re a dick.
ME: I get that all the time.
SUMMER: You wouldn’t be so pissed if you were in the Hamptons. Or Nantucket.
ME: That’s just low. Even for you.
SUMMER: You’re right, man. I’ll make it up to you. Go to the deli. I’ll call the guy and have him put a sixer of Pacifico on my tab. Bring it over to Bedouin Tent, have a falafel sandwich outside and read or write or something.
ME: Seriously? That sounds awesome. I can dig this.
SUMMER: No problem man! Hold on a second. (I hear him make call on another phone, explain situation.) It’s all set up! Sixer of your choice! Rock on dude.
ME: You know what? I think I do love summer. Rock on!
ME: (enters deli) Hey, I think Summer just called? The season? I can get a six pack?
COUNTER DUDE: What in the FUCK are you talking about? I think the heat’s getting to you.
(I just buy a six pack and head over to Bedouin Tent and start reading when I get a text message from Summer that says “ahahahaaha,” but it was only like 80 degrees that night, which was really nice of him, and truth be told I do kinda love summer, which I drunk-texted later. He didn’t respond.)
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