On The Real Housewives of Illuminati

"Oh yeah, I'm a total conspiracy theory type."

June 11, 2020

Wilmington, North Carolina

I was 26 years old

Austin got a text from Kristen—Miss Kristen, I should be saying—demanding to see him, faux-furious he hadn’t already told her he was in town. I’d already been introduced to literally dozens of women living in his parents’ neighborhood during these first two weeks down in Wilmington but Austin insisted I’d love her, that she was his very favorite. He responded to Kristen saying that we’d definitely attend a girls-get-together that night. It was hosted by Miss Nicole, another fixture of the neighborhood who’d recently, poolside, told me a story about losing her virginity to one of Madonna’s pre-fame boyfriends. While Madonna herself pounded on the other side of the bedroom door.

It was during our walk over that we crossed paths with Kristen. And by “crossed paths,” I mean “were accosted by.” With a wine glass and pack of Marb Lights cradled in one hand, she was exactly what I’d imagined. Outrageous and fast talking and blond.

“If you break his heart, I’ll kick your fucking ass,” she says, hugging me.

We headed toward the backyard through the garage where we were immediately greeted by Nicole taking a quick puff off her one-hitter.

“Oh, just me smoking weed in my garage,” says Nicole, swatting away the smell and stashing the still-fuming piece inside a Tupperware.

Trulys and canned wine aplenty in the backyard. Austin turned down the initial offer of a drink so I did too. It was a funny kind of cognitive dissonance to be so rapidly reacquainted with booze and smoking and cursing after getting so accustomed to the dynamic of the Mays household. Which isn’t to say Austin’s family is uptight. Quite to the contrary, really. My own family can be far more prudish about most things. If anything, it’s just a vulgarity factor that’s never present among the Mayses that was very present in Nicole’s backyard. And, of course, Austin can go back and forth between the two so effortlessly, as he will when we move back to New York. But, I don’t know, I struggle with that whole redefinition process. Already so committed to molding myself into someone who says “oh my goodness” now, who tries his hardest to remember “yes, sir” and “no, ma’am.” And what fulfillment I’ve found in making those adjustments to myself. So to be met with the alternative of all that, to see the reality of adults at their most crass, right down the street no less—it was jarring.

A woman named April eventually sat down beside me. I loved her instantly. The kind of thing that makes me believe in past lives. She was cracking me up without even trying. Very breathy and self-effacing and silly in her delivery. She was telling me about how hard it is to be married. She’s outgoing and her husband isn’t. I told her my parents are the same way, though I can’t remember if I said that in an encouraging way or not. A lady named Faith was there too, sporting maybe the deepest tan I’ve ever seen on a white woman. And directly across from where Austin, April, and I were seated was a woman named Monica. I’d met her at the pool once before, at which point Austin told me about the legitimate fight they’d once had about that transphobic bill North Carolina passed a couple years prior. She is, of course, from New Jersey. And while she was perfectly enjoyable at the pool, the environment of that backyard—rightfully!— brought out a certain anxiety for her.

So, we’re all talking New York at some point which then became a conversation about the ongoing protests which then became a conversation about Black Lives Matter. A topic that, even among the most likeminded of people, was rife for something inevitability cringey to get said, let alone among this throng of wine-drunk southern women. I wanted to army crawl my way across the lawn. And the tension is only building as more people are chiming in on the topic, harmlessly for the time being but still. And then Tan Mom Faith says, “Alright, y’all, I have something a little controversial to say.” My asshole tightened.

“What do y’all think of the Illuminati?”

I laughed out loud. Half the women in attendance were familiar with it, the other having not a clue what it was. “Epstein” and “Netflix” started getting said out loud and though I obviously believe his “suicide” to be anything but, it was genuinely Lynchian to be in this perfectly manicured backyard in this perfectly manicured neighborhood, surrounded by women sipping from their Hydroflasks as the conversation veered to conspiracy theories. Making me realize just how fine that line is between self-care essential-oiled goopian aesthetics and, say, pizzagate. Not to pummel a metaphor but: they’re neighbors.

Putting my one-time skills of mediation and conversation steering to use, I explained what the Illuminati is all about. And while I tried to color “conspiracy theory” and “world-domination” with as much eye-rolling as possible, Faith pointed to herself after my explanation and said, giggling, “Oh yeah, I’m a total conspiracy theory type.” To which Nicole, stirring the pot as only a New York City-transplanted Jewess can, says, “Wait, so, Faith, let me get this straight—you think 9/11 was an inside job?”

Faith, emphatically, said yes. Monica, New Jersey’s finest, who’d arrived already scowling, would have none of that.

“Faith, how can you say that?” Monica spat, leaning forward in her seat while Faith pursed her lips, muttering how she simply wasn’t quick enough to explain her stance. “I had friends who died!”

It was immediately apparent that Monica misunderstood “inside job” to mean “never actually happened.” And things only further devolved from there. Monica spotted Austin’s ‘Oprah’ tattoo on his arm and used that as an opportunity to say how disappointed she was “that Obama and Oprah haven’t posted a thing about Black Lives Matter.” Austin proceeded to pull up Oprah’s Instagram on his phone and show her how the last, like, seven posts of hers each had to do with George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, BLM, et al. She reacted to that by turning her entire head away from us. Literally refusing to look in our direction. At which point I started craning my own head around, searching for Andy Cohen posted up in the yard.

And all this happened before Monica and Kristen got into a legitimate fight directly beside us. Sadly, I couldn’t catch a word of what they were feuding about, my processing disorder too acute for me to feign an ongoing conversation with April and eavesdrop on this off-off-off Broadway production of War Paint at the same time. Nevertheless, it was intense enough for Monica to promptly announce that she was leaving, with great fanfare, making her exit as slooooow as possible, clearly desperate for people to either offer pitiful goodbyes or do the whole “no, stay” thing. No such luck. She eventually left—though not for long. A couple minutes later, she stalks back into the backyard and yells, “Kristen, where are my children?!”

Cursing under her breath, Kristen yanks me and Austin by the shoulders and tells us to come with her. All the collective kids of the women in Nicole’s backyard had been hanging out in Kristen’s house. Supervised or not, who knows. So, we three walk in that direction with Monica arms crossed and ten paces ahead of us. We’d barely crossed the threshold into Kristen’s house when Monica’s kids came bounding toward her. Of course.

We headed back home after Kristen’s instead of returning to Nicole’s backyard. Thankfully. On the walk back, we both agreed how happy we were his mom hadn’t joined us there. She’d been invited and she gets along perfectly with all those ladies but it just would have felt so wrong—for me, at least—to have those two worlds collide. We were both so happy to see her, sitting on the couch with Austin’s dad, both of them so eager for us to tell them all about our night. So tickled by it all. And I was too. But at the same time totally aware that it was one of those nights that could have so easily depressed me. That had I paid just a little closer attention to things, I would have walked away so grossed out by the spectacle of it all. Finding it all so grotesque that grown adults continue to behave in such a way. But, instead, I laughed. Maybe there’s something to be said about that.

January 13, 2021

Brooklyn, New York

I’m 27 years old

I’m not so naive as to think every person I’d encounter in North Carolina, in Wilmington, in Austin’s parents’ neighborhood would be genteel and God-fearing. It’s just that I’d modeled myself into that exact individual. By the time we were at that Girls Night Out, we were two weeks into what would end up being three months spent living at his parents home and I was just so conscious of being as polite and likeable as possible. Constantly checking the proverbial mirror to make sure my Brash Catholic Northerner roots weren’t showing. Not that they’d care: his deeply kind and warm parents just wanting me to be, I’m sure, comfortably and honestly myself. But try getting me to believe that.

Cause a night like the one in Miss Nicole’s backyard is, objectively, my idea of heaven. Surrounded by women of a certain age at various degrees of sauced being inadvertently hilarious in just my favorite kind of way. And I really did have fun, I shouldn’t forget that. If anything, it was just this annoying reminder that I can be multiple things at once. That I can be a thoughtful guest who loads the dishwasher every night and a 26-year-old who occasionally lets himself act 26 years old. The fact that my own mother had two children and a mortgage by that age: a topic for another day.

As Little Edie Bouvier once said, “They didn’t know that they were dealing with a staunch character and, I’ll tell you, if there’s anything worse than a staunch woman. S-T-A-U-N-C-H. There’s nothing worse, I’m telling you. They don’t weaken. No matter what.” I’m just too fond of extremes, is what it is. Making some decision for myself, years ago, to really commit to one thing or the other. A way of injecting some order into the days when I was making $54-a-week walking dogs. A barely necessary survival mechanism, in hindsight. And yet, still, I’m s-t-a-u-n-c-h.

But as for Nicole’s story about losing her virginity to Madonna’s circa early-’80s boyfriend. It was—without exaggerating too much—a holy experience. The kind of story I truly believe I was predestined to hear. While tanning, no less. Nicole literally reapplying Bain de Soleil to her hewn-from-marble legs as she imitates Madonna screaming from the hallway, “I know you’re in there with that little bitch!” I have no reason to believe she was lying. Not even bending the truth a little. Having a mutual lover in common with Madonna not an altogether difficult task, I’d imagine. Though I’ll admit, that even at my most swept-away by Nicole’s reminiscing, I take maybe too much pride in the fact that I remembered to only ever exclaim, “Oh my goodness.”