| Issue #50, March 23, 2007 |
Hampton TurnKey
One Price Does it All – Beachfront Mansion, Benz, Trophy Wife &More
By Dan Rattiner
Have you heard about Hampton TurnKey? It’s a new company that is coming to the Hamptons to serve the needs of those who have never been here before but want to spend a month here and just “fit in” without having to do any of the work.
“TurnKey does all the work,” said Bill Martin, who is founding the service. “All you have to do is get in your three year old Mercedes-Benz R350 and drive out. Just turn the key.”
“What if you don’t have a Mercedes-Benz R350?” we asked.
“That’s the first thing we provide you with. And that’s the whole point. There are many cars to consider for use in the Hamptons. We have decided it for you. The car that says ‘Hamptons’ is the Mercedes-Benz R350.”
“Tell us about the service.”
“We don’t care who you are. You could be some poor slob from Tom’s River, New Jersey, whose idea of good music is The Boss.”
“The Boss?”
“Exactly. And that’s what I’m talking about. Hamptonites, such as you, don’t know about the Boss. You know about……”
“Billy Joel?”
“Right. So after you’ve spent this huge sum of money with us, the last thing you do, before you start coming out here for your month, is accept, with our compliments, a Billy Joel album.”
“So, what is this huge sum of money?”
“It’s $800,000. And for that you get, for the month, a fully furnished house in either the Estate Section of Southampton or in Georgica in East Hampton, a Benz, a boat, a staff, a wardrobe of clothes, a trophy wife and three kids, a membership in one of the exclusive clubs in the community, two friends who are your ‘houseguests’ for the month, a tennis pro, two big catered parties during your month for 300 people and a business that does more than one billion dollars a year.”
“I’m full of questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, the business.”
“The business is named after some geological outcropping. Matterhorn. Everest. Vesuvius. McKinley. Pike’s. We put three of them together. So it could be Matterhorn, Everest, McKinley Associates.”
“And this person is an Associate?”
“The CEO. We provide business cards, a headquarters address, a website, a statement of purpose.”
“And if people call the number?”
“We have a staff set up to answer the phone. When the call comes in, we transfer the call to your private secretary, who we also employ and who will say that you are not in and she will take a message.”
“Won’t people know this is a fake business?”
“No. If they look, they’ll find it exists. After that, who cares? I mean you’re out there on the first of the month, and then thirty days later, you’re gone. Perhaps to Palm Beach. We are setting up our service there, too.”
“What about the boat?”
“It’s a sport-fishing yacht, a Viking. The latest rage. 82 feet. Brand new. Comes with a captain, crew and chef. We actually have it out there, staffed and ready to go if you want to go for a ride.”
“Friends?”
“We can staff it with friends. Capacity is 20 people.”
“Can you have some of your own friends on the boat?”
“No. You have to have certain particular friends and we know who they are. Also, your friends might get drunk and break something.”
“Can someone paying this $800,000 decide which house they want for the summer?”
“Again, no. We do that for you, too. It takes all the guesswork out, so you can just enjoy the month. You know, it’s so easy to make a mistake with a house. Fifties Modern is out. There are split levels, colonials, Spanish stucco, Hawaiian, Dutch, Tyrolean houses, all built here in the Hamptons, by people with totally misguided design concepts. We know what you want.”
“What?”
“Twelve bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, a tennis court and a pool, less than five years old and a perfect reproduction of early twentieth century ‘cottage’ style architecture. A long gravel driveway, a border of hedgerows and a gate with a security code, plus a two-way phone system.”
“Doesn’t that cut down on the choices?”
“More than half the homes in the Hamptons fit this description. All the others are mistakes. Just leave everything to us.”
“Trophy wife. Three kids.”
“She’s beautiful and will accompany you everywhere. But we are not an X-rated organization. She gets her own bedroom. Her own bathroom and her own closet. Other than that, you are on your own as far as that goes. But she will have meals with you, make pleasant talk, and tell you how wonderful you are. As for the kids, it’s all taken care of. They come with nannies, baby sitters, au pairs, private tutors, tennis instructors, and a month at one of the camps in the area, all paid for.”
“The friends?”
“During the month you are in the Hamptons, you want to be seen with two friends who are very witty and well educated. They will be staying with you, sitting around the pool, having dinner with you and the wife and kids, going to the beach, talking about this and that. And this is one of these areas where you actually get a choice. We’re talking a choice of category. You can choose two friends, same sex as you, from a list of categories. The categories are: legal, you get a judge; entertainment, you get a movie producer; royalty, you get a mid-level royal from Europe; sports, a first class Argentinean polo player; writing, you get a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist; the arts, you get a celebrated painter. I think that’s it. Oh, academia, you get a professor of philosophy.”
“These are real people?”
“Some of them. The other ones are so good at impersonating who they should be that you will never know the difference. But as I said, you get to choose the category. But only among these choices. You cannot get somebody from another category. You cannot get a bowling alley owner, you cannot get a member of the mob, you cannot get a pool shark, you cannot get a stockbroker. These people are perfectly nice, but not suitable as friends for the likes of you.”
“I get it. You mentioned private clubs.”
“We are currently in contact with all the private clubs in the Hamptons — the Meadow Club, Maidstone, Devon, the National, Shinnecock, and so forth. We are in the middle of working things out.”
“But you can’t say which one it is yet.”
“No, and even if I could I wouldn’t. It’s a rule of all clubs that nobody is allowed to talk about the club to anybody outside the club. You can get thrown out of the club for that. But I can assure you that when the time comes, and the $800,000 smackers are paid, we will whisper in your ear the name of a famous club.”
“You didn’t mention a driver.”
“Oh, yes, of course. You get a driver. In fact, two drivers. One for your trophy wife and the kids, who, by the way, get a Range Rover. I forgot all about that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. When you first come on board, which we require to be two months in advance, we meet you, and in one visit learn about your politics, your opinions, your manners and your speech patterns. We will provide six weeks of personal training to make you acceptable to anybody in the Hamptons you might meet. We also take your measurements to provide you with your wardrobe — top of the line, of course. And we find out your favorite cuisine.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have a cook. Gourmet, of course. But what? Fusion? Italian? Japanese? Vegetarian?”
“I get it. What is your personal background, if I might ask?”
“Does it matter?”
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