The Galetti Guest House

We sit together miserably, my sister and I, on the sofa of our NYC apartment. Though close in proximity we make sure to stay at least a foot apart, not daring to chance brushing up against each other, even for a split second. The sweltering heat, still villainous at 10 PM, permeates every nook and cranny of the apartment. I dip my washcloth into a large bowl of ice and water beside me, and place it on the nape of my neck, for the umpteenth time. Our apartment development, known as Stuyvesant Town, is a massive complex stretching from East 14th St and Avenue C to East 22 and First Avenue. Built in the 1940’s for returning World War II vets, it was never wired for air conditioning. And so here we are, forty years later, slowly dying of the heat. I silently curse the Stuy Town founding fathers for their lack of insight.

It is the Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend, a weekend wherein hordes of city dwellers depart for greener pastures. A weekend where dreams of crystal blue swimming pools, sandy beaches, boating on lakes and serene woodlands, runneth over.

Yet here we sit in our stifling city apartment with no holiday plans in sight, whatsoever. It is the very first summer we opted out of a summer share house. Angry, frustrated, defeated, my sister and I spend the good part of the evening casting blame. Each accusing the other of being lax in securing a weekend accommodation in the Hamptons, the playground of the young and carefree. Being sisters, we can say cruel things to each other knowing there will always be forgiveness. But for our third roommate, and best friend Janet who has not yet arrived home from work, and who often takes the brunt of our quarrels to heart, forgetting is not as easy. I have little doubt Janet will still be sore from this morning’s unpleasant scene between the three of us, which transpired on the corner of 1st Avenue and 14th Street. Shamefully, after my sister and I finished attacking each other, we started in on Janet. Why couldn’t she have found time to make a plan for our Memorial Day weekend?

After fruitlessly going round and round again with no resolution, we angrily, leave each other, departing to our work offices, in three different directions.

Later that evening, Sheila and I ponder what mood Janet will arrive home in, then suddenly hear the sound of a key turning. She enters smiling broadly. I breathe a sigh of relief – all is forgiven. Holding up a newspaper with an ad circled boldly in red marker she blurts out in excitement, “Well roomies, I come bearing good news. This weekend, Westhampton calls! I have taken charge and just booked us for the weekend in the Galetti guest house!”

The ride to Westhampton takes less than three hours from the city and the three of us are in high spirits. We have done it! or rather Janet has, finding a last minute place in the Hamptons, on the busiest weekend of the year. We discuss numerous options for night life and anticipate who we might see. We blast the car radio in celebration of what is certain to be an epic weekend.

Pulling into the driveway, a touch of disappointment looms. The Galetti Guest House looks like any other suburban dwelling. Just a regular house in a regular neighborhood. Approaching the front door, a yellow post-it note, is stuck haphazardly, instructing, “come in and make yourself at home, your bedroom is top of the stairs on the right. See you for breakfast!” Entering the stark living room, we are greeted by dead silence. A church organ, prominently positioned in the corner, just begging to be played, beckons. Janet not missing a beat drops her overnight bag and races to the bench. Pounding on the keys dramatically, she sings the chorus of Kool and the Gang’s “Celebrate Good Times, COME ON!!” in abandon as Sheila and I join in. We dance around the small living room madly, jubilant we had made it out of the city or more likely, just taking advantage of having the house to ourselves.

Heading upstairs we enter the bedroom where the three of us will sleep. Strewn about the floor are hundreds of unopened, insulin pen needles suggesting a diabetic in residence. Atop the nightstand is a large 8 x 10 portrait of a woman, with shocking red hair and alabaster skin, sporting a graduation cap and gown. Mrs. Galetti? Though oddly, her age appears to be around seventy, rather than the typical twenty-one years of a senior in college. A late graduate perhaps? Her vacant, saucer eyes haunt and appear to follow our every move. I turn down the picture quickly and put the unpleasant scene out of my head. It is Memorial Day weekend and we have made it to the Hamptons! So what if the guest house is a bit offbeat? We are only here to sleep.

We awake to the smell of bacon and the aromatic brew of coffee. Peals of female laughter ring out from the downstairs kitchen. A male voice is singing in abandon, in what sounds like Italian Opera. Making our way to the dining room we spot a middle aged gentleman, spatula in hand, standing at the stove, tending to the skillet. No doubt, Mr. Galetti. He is clad in boxer shorts and a tight, white tee shirt. A red bandanna is tied around his head which is crowned in tight curls. He greets us warmly, “Welcome to the Galetti Guest house! One egg or two? ” Three, twenty- something girls, seated at the table, shriek and laugh, hanging on his every word.

I glance at Janet and Sheila. They return my gaze, eyes widened in disbelief. In Janet’s, I detect something akin to an expression of guilt, perhaps in finding our weekend accommodation.

After breakfast, we decide to spend a low key day at the guest house. Tonight will be our big night out and we need to rest up. The Galetti Guest House boasts a salt water swimming pool and it is a scorching day. Making our way out to the backyard deck an above ground pool materializes. A rickety, three rung ladder leans aside its torn tarp. Stepping upon the ladder which sways under my weight, I glance down at the pool water below. Dead leaves and debris float aimlessly atop. A pool unfit for man or beast. I glance at Janet who refuses to meet my eyes. The kitchen curtains sway and I swear I see Mr. Galetti staring out at us from the window.

We opt to go to the beach instead.

Our last evening of that forever memorable Memorial Day weekend, Janet, Sheila and I, enjoy a fantastic night at St. John’s East night Club, dancing our cares and the Galetti Guest house far, far away.

Early the next morning, as the sun is slowly rising, we drive home in silence, bound for New York City. No words uttered, no blame or harsh accusations cast. A mute understanding is shared among the three of us. We cruise along Dune Road, Sheila at the wheel of our rental car as we take in the majestic homes situated along the Atlantic Ocean, in Southampton town. As retribution, we will stop for dinner at our favorite place, the Lobster Inn, as we did so many weekends before in summers past, when we were smart enough to go in on a summer share. Lesson learned in spades…

Motoring along windows cracked, the sea breeze works its magic; the mood is slowly lifting. We howl in laughter as we recall the vision of Mr. Galetti frying bacon in nothing but his underwear and the decrepit above ground swimming pool. We all agree this will be one for the books and a Memorial Day not soon forgotten. At the Galetti Guest House.

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