Beer, Boobs & Tennis in the Hamptons
"Who's over 21 here that can buy us beers?" asked the multi-freckled, aqua-eyed Jessie on the patio of her father's eight-bedroom house in East Hampton.
Oddly enough, I was the one. How did it come to this? I asked myself. I am a single, 30-year-old woman working at a tennis club/camp in the Hamptons with a bunch of college kids and a few tennis-pro "lifers" who are in their late 20s, early 30s and some who are in their 40s. These are guys who never made it on the pro tour and are coasting on their knowledge of the game, charm and resentment for not making a top-20 world ranking on the tennis circuit. Instead, they are teaching extremely wealthy, privileged people a game that has a completely different meaning to them.
For the clients, this is an exclusive sport that they are required to learn so they can chat about it at cocktail parties and be a part of the old-money club. There are a few who are quite adept at playing tennis and truly enjoy it, but many do it for the social status and to hobnob with the other Hamptons elite. They often force their children to learn, whether they want to or not.
Adele is a 13-year-old with the biggest boobs I've ever seen on a child. She dresses provocatively and has gone so far as to wear a t-shirt that reads "Camp U Wanna Me." She makes it a point to stretch, arching her back in front of the male pros so they notice her. Her instructor is a 26-year-old Czech woman named Helena, a tall, blonde, big-boned female who is very fond of saying in her thick accent, "Let's rock and roll!" Having been one of the top college players in the country, she takes the game very seriously. Adele hates tennis. When Helena feeds her a ball, Adele misses it on purpose. She complains that the ball has been hit "too far away" from her and she can't reach it. When they play games, she loses early on purpose so she can sit down and scope out the male pros. She rolls the waistband of her shorts down so her Calvin Klein undies can be read.
Helena and the other instructors?who at Adele's age were training seriously, playing tournaments and are for the most part working-class people?cannot understand why Adele's parents would waste $500 a week sending Adele to tennis camp. My roommate Kate, a mature 21-year-old from New Zealand, is one of those instructors. She played on the Australian national team and traveled the world. She is another tall, big-boned girl at the camp. When I'm with Kate and Helena, I look like a Chihuahua hanging out with two Rottweilers. Kate is cool; another working-class kid who through her talent was able to attain some privileges.
A few weeks ago we attended Jessie's party in East Hampton. I hesitated because I knew everyone there would be a lot younger than me, but I hadn't really bonded with the staff yet and wanted to get to know them better. Besides, there would be free burgers. Helena was astounded at the wealth displayed at the houses she has seen in the Hamptons. She was describing the place she was staying at to Kate and me. "The owner of house flies to work on helicopter! There is swimming pool in middle of living room. Is crazy!"
Jessie's father happened to overhear Helena. He is a walking stereotype of a guy who owns a huge house in the Hamptons. A polo-shirt-wearing prepster wearing one of those belts with sailboats on it, he strolled around with his nose in the air.
"So? There are a lot of houses here like that," he said smugly, shrugging his shoulders.
"I have never seen anything like it," said Helena.
"Well, pretty soon you'll see it in the Czech Republic," he said matter-of-factly. "It just takes awhile after you drive the commies out."
Helena, Kate and I all looked off to the meticulously cut shrubbery and started humming quietly to the song blasting from Jessie's laptop until he walked away. Jessie is 18. I am probably closer in age to her parents, but closer to her lifestyle than to her parents'. For some reason, the tennis-pro lifer guys from the club hadn't arrived yet and they were the ones with the beer. That was when Jessie asked someone to go buy some and when I realized that out of 15 party guests, Helena, Kate and I were the only ones qualified to buy beer.
That was also when I realized that I was truly an anomaly in the Hamptons. Women my age come to the club wearing diamonds. Women my age drop their Ralph Lauren-clad kids off at camp during the day. Women my age are often the second or third wives of the men who are members. Since I speak English without an accent, am older than the other instructors and city savvy, I am often mistaken for a member of the club. When the members see me on the court, they treat me like a fellow Upper East Sider. Later, when the women members see me behind the desk, they are horrified. They try to hide it, but I definitely see fear in their eyes. Perhaps I'm a frightening apparition of what they could have been if they hadn't married wealthy men. Perhaps they fear for their daughters.
Adele's mother, Mrs. Klein, came in one day to pick her up and saw me answering phones behind the desk.
"What's this?" she asked. "You're a member and they put you to work?" She laughed as if she had made a joke.
"No," I sighed, "I work here."
Her smile stayed frozen for a moment, a flash of fear went through her eyes, and then she said, "Oh."
When she saw Adele, she gave her a big hug and went right past Helena to a male pro to thank him for his work in the camp. She purposefully bent over so the pro could see down her low-cut designer t and into her surgically enhanced size double-D breasts. The pro, who must've been about 20, was flustered and visually intimidated. Adele was also flirting with him. Noticing her Calvins weren't showing, she rolled her shorts down and started stretching. Eventually, Adele and her mother left and I couldn't help but think that Mrs. Klein had nothing to worry about as far as Adele was concerned. Nothing at all.