THE OVERLOOK
By Tom Clavin
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[This past weekend, I had the pleasure of participating in the 21st annual “Authors Night” in East Hampton. It has to be one of the largest and most successful fundraisers in the U.S. with over a hundred authors, who range from Robert Caro to Maureen Dowd to Alec and Hilaria Baldwin to Christie Brinkley to Neil DeGrasse Tyson. To commemorate my having been to every “Authors Night” over the years, I’ve dusted off the following chronicle of one of the more memorable events.]
A tipoff should have been that everyone else wore a dinner jacket and I was the only one wearing sneakers. They were pretty nice sneakers, Keds-like, but still: Something wasn’t quite right.
The setting could not have been more right. We were standing on the back deck of a house that looked out at Georgica Pond in East Hampton. The Saturday evening sky was clear, and with the sun having set about 10 minutes earlier, the western horizon above the pond was painted with layers of pink and purple. The temperature was perfect and there was barely a breeze. Two swans drifted silently south on the water.
But something was off. Maybe a jacket would do the trick. I’d forgotten mine in the car. My partner, Leslie, found where the valets had parked it and retrieved the jacket, but even after I slipped my arms into it, we still felt oddly out of place.
Let me backtrack. I’ve enjoyed participating in the annual “Authors Night” benefit for the East Hampton Library every August since I was first asked to, in 2005. It’s not unusual that I am called “prolific,” and people may think I write books with regularity because of the money or I don’t know how to do anything else. Actually, both are true. But I’m kind of a needy and insecure guy, and I figure if I keep producing books, I’ll continue to be invited to do book-related benefits and appearances. (Certainly, my looks or personality won’t get me there.) Libraries have been especially welcoming.
Anyway, the cocktail reception under a tent in a farm field that began that particular late Saturday afternoon was especially enjoyable. As usual, the organizers were gracious, there were lots of book buyers but the activity never felt overwhelming, and it was fun to encounter new and familiar attendees who so obviously love books and, let’s face it, ensure that I can continue to make a living. Once again I was able to schmooze a bit with fellow authors Lynn Scherr, Nelson DeMille, Phil Keith, Robert Caro, and Edward Burns, who probably had the distinction that year of the longest line of people waiting to buy his book, Independent Ed.
As the party wound down, the plan was that we were to head to the home of “Jane Smith,” who was hosting the dinner at which Carl Safina, with his wonderful new book, Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel, and I would be the featured authors. I hadn’t previously secured directions, but during the reception Jane Smith had been nice enough to introduce herself and had told me how to get to her house. I checked with Carl that we would rendezvous there, and Leslie and I headed for our car.
I’d been instructed to follow Lily Pond Lane until it ended at Apaquogue Road and turn there. I was to look for white balloons festooned at the end of the driveway. At the end of Lily Pond I turned left. I did not see balloons white or otherwise, but I did find two teenagers in crisp white shirts and black pants who were obviously parking cars for arriving guests. I called out the window that we were here for the book party and they pointed to the second driveway and then a spot to pull into.
We hiked across a lushly landscaped yard toward the back deck and the water. There were 16 people chatting, drinking, and scooping up the passed appetizers. I didn’t see our host and apparently Carl Safina had not yet arrived. Even after I slipped my jacket on (nothing could be done about the sneakers), we were ignored by the rather formal gathering. This too was strange because I still had dangling from around my neck the badge that introduced me and that I was an “Authors Night” co-chair. Surely, such a lofty position entitled me to a handshake at least, but we seemed to be invisible to everyone except the catering staff. On the deck a table was elegantly set for dinner. I figured we would eat and leave and I would ask for a more accommodating gathering next year.
As dark took hold, a well-dressed woman emerged from the house and announced it was time for dinner. The guests looked for their name cards, and I wondered if as the honored author mine would be at the head of the table. However, the woman was counting heads and realized there were 18 people for 16 seats. She came up to us and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here for the ‘Authors Night’ dinner,” then added with what I hoped was impressive flair, “I’m your guest author, Tom Clavin.”
“You’re not my guest author,” she said, straining to be polite. “You’re at the wrong party.”
Dear readers, you might think this was embarrassing enough, but the true horror of our situation was about to be revealed. “That is something,” I mused, trying to excuse my gaffe and save some face, “that there would be two author parties on the same street.”
The hostess stared at me, and that is when I understood: This was not an author dinner at all but a gathering of friends, and it was being assumed that we had crashed the party. And we had.
We high-tailed it back across the lush lawn, the now-useless badge flapping around my head like an angry bird. The two valets were nowhere to be found. We managed to locate the keys, got in the car, and drove away. Only later did I wonder if the valets – who may have been joyriding in a guest’s Porsche – returned and reported a car had been stolen.
We literally stopped a motorist on the street – the poor man probably thought he was being carjacked – to ask where the Jane Smith residence was. He told us it was next to Spielberg’s house. “Have you been there before?’ he asked.
“Not this week,” I replied. And most likely, not ever. Unless we crash a party there the next “Authors Night.”
Tom Clavin is the bestselling author/co-author of 25 books, including Bandit Heaven, published by St. Martin’s Press. To purchase a copy, please go to your local bookstore or to Bookshop.org, Amazon.com, BN.com, or tomclavin.com.
OUCH