The Hamptons Thank You Note from Hell by Brandon Ayre

The Hamptons Thank You Note from Hell by Brandon Ayre

Dear Bob:

Or should I say Bub? Just wanted to say thanks a heap for letting us stay at your Bridgehampton place this past weekend. Wow! Quite the pad! You can’t buy that kind of joint with fish. I know we weren’t really supposed to go in and all, but rest assured we left it pretty much in the same condition, more or less. Still, I thought I’d better explain a few things:

Have you ever heard of hookersofthehamptons.com? Well, Billy found some credit card imprints and he invited these girls over. So that’s what the footprints on the ceiling are all about. One of them (Sandy) may have borrowed your wide screen TV, the one set into the wall in the master bedroom. I guess she ripped it out, actually. How she got it down the stairs beats me, but rest assured I can get you a replacement, no problemo. I got a buddy works at Best Buy in Hauppauge. You may have to settle for fewer colors but it’s all high quality stuff, believe me.

"Blaze" image by Flickr user Rick Wilson

“Blaze” image by Flickr user Rick Wilson

Now about the pool. Personally, I blame the guys who were working on it. Not that they were there all weekend. They’re going to tell you there’s no way a crack like that could have developed under normal circumstances. But it’s a foot wide! So if I were you I’d call your insurance company right away, and don’t let those bastards cheat you. We took care of the garden too.

You told me about the new marble counter tops, and to be careful, but hell man, what’s with all the black? Everything you do to it shows! The sinks are also way too high, and I did drop that box of cigars you were going to give me (the Cohibas, right?) down the little one next to the oven. And what kind of name is that for a refrigerator? Subzero? It ain’t that cold. We propped it open all weekend just to prove it. Don’t worry: we kept the beer on ice in the big sink. And the dog got out, that dehydrated Chihuahua, or whatever it was.

But back to the marble. I filled in most of the scars, but do you have any idea what kind of mess eight men make when they’re gutting 400 pounds of bluefish? (We had an incredible run with this captain out in Montauk, but that’s a whole other story.) Now I know you think blues are oily, but smoked they taste great and your basement (which you don’t use anyway) is just perfect for hanging fish. Anyway, Billy was on the floor, but that white tile broke too easily, so we dragged him over to the guest cottage.

That Benjamin Moore sure makes good paint, don’t he? We found some when we were taping up the windows. So I touched up the washer too. You can’t see a thing, trust me. Billy and Chantal (she came with Sandy) are still in the cottage, of course. I’m not that crazy. No way was I was going to let them stay in the big house.

Anyway, once we racked the fish, and got the fire going, we still had a mess of filets left, and where the hell were we supposed to put them? I mean the fridge didn’t work (not my fault!) yet we sure as hell wanted to leave you some kind of appreciation, and not just for the wine, but for the place and everything. (Don’t worry. We only drank the old Jewish stuff, the Rothschild something.) So thank god you got central air. We salted everything, then turned the AC way down, and taped up all the doors. Man, you’ll be smoking blues all summer!

That guy came by to take the plates off the Range Rover. He wasn’t all that friendly, tell you the truth. Personally, I think it was him dented the Tahoe. Ted was sleeping on some bubble wrap up on the second floor of the garage, and he did puke over the banister, but that wouldn’t take the paint off a hood, would it? Anyway, soon as I finish fixing up the tennis court, I’ll turn you on to this guy in Amagansett who does great—and I mean great–re-finishing.

Did you know your espresso machine can make pasta? We kind of figured that’s why you had the flour right next to it, but who’d-a-thunk it? I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.

Anyway, we may not have left the place pristine, yet at least we flushed the toilets. I still don’t know who’s got the keys to the Jaguar, but I wouldn’t worry about it—all four tires are as flat as a pancake, so you can’t get it out of the tennis court anyway. Your fridge is in the way.

Thanks a ton!
–Big Mike

Brandon Ayre headshotBrandon Ayre is a New Yorker who currently lives in and around Vermont. He’s been published here and there. At the moment he’s working on a novella about a morbidly shy Manhattanite who talks to water. (Yes, the water talks back.) He is married and has a cat named Huckleberry. He also writes songs. (Brandon, that is.) He tweets infrequently @brandonayre and has an eponymous website: www.brandonayre.com. Though bad things happen often, he is by nature hopeful.