The Golden Dream (26 page)

It is important to remember that any newcomer to an established community is viewed with alarm and suspicion, and as a potential enemy—an enemy, that is, to real estate values. (Will the new family keep its lawn trimmed, its hedges clipped, its driveway weeded, its windows washed?) Whenever real estate changes hands in the suburbs, regardless of price, there is always fear among the immediate neighbors on the street that the new people “will let that beautiful place run down.” So as quickly as possible, the newcomer should let it be known that he intends to spend money on maintenance and repairs. One can advertise this fact before one even meets
one's neighbors by giving the house a fresh coat of paint, a new roof, or a new driveway. These external details should be seen to first, for they will be the first things noticed, and they will be appreciated.

But it is important—even more important, in fact—that whatever exterior changes are performed on a new house not be extreme ones. If the house, when it was bought, was in reasonably good repair, it is likely that the immediate neighbors have been pleased with its appearance; at least they have grown used to it, and will react negatively to any dramatic alteration in color, façade, or architectural detail. In the wealthy suburbs, the rule to remember is that familiarity breeds contentment. A new couple in Darien bought a large Colonial house that had always been painted white. They immediately painted it blue, to the great distress of their neighbors and, indeed, the entire town. In Rye, a newcomer created a great local fuss—about which he, of course, was oblivious—when he erected a flagpole on his front lawn and flew the American flag from it. No one in the neighborhood, it seemed, had ever put flagpoles on their lawns, and the arrival could not understand why his neighbors appeared to be snubbing him. Similar unintended gaffes have been made by newcomers who placed garden furniture on front lawns in neighborhoods where such items were traditionally placed only in backyards, or by others who innocently failed to realize an unwritten rule of the community: garage doors that could be seen from the street should remain closed at all times. In certain towns it is permissible to give houses names (Twin Oaks, High View Farm); in others, even monogrammed doormats are taboo. Sometimes, a newcomer can be criticized for something that is not his fault at all. Shortly after a large place in Greenwich changed hands, a magnificent elm that had been the centerpiece of the front lawn fell prey to Dutch elm disease and had to be taken down. The new neighbor was blamed for having “neglected” the tree even though he had, in fact, spent several thousands of dollars trying to save it.

A worthwhile corollary to the above reminders would be this one: If a newcomer to a community is lucky enough to find, in run-down condition, a house on a street of otherwise well-tended residences, and will buy it and renovate it attractively, his new neighbors will clasp him to their collective bosoms, regardless of his race, religion, or color, for he will have improved, in theory, property values for one and all.

The new home buyer in the exclusive suburb should, after tending to such primary matters as exterior decoration, concentrate on
interior window treatments. A new neighbor's windows are always the subject of scrutiny in the community, and needless to say, the windows that face the street are most important. The new arrival would do well to study the way windows of nearby houses are handled—whether draped, shuttered, or glass-curtained—and conform to the established community standard. Again, it is generally unwise to try to be too “different.” If, in most suburban communities, people tend to mingle with people who are most like themselves, the windows will signal that identity of taste. Because this is the sort of problem that never affects the urban dweller, whose windows may be a dozen stories above the eyes of passers-by, it is one often overlooked by the neophyte suburbanite.

Next comes interior décor, which, in the suburbs, is generally given less emphasis than such exterior matters as the well-polished door knocker and the well-weeded pachysandra plot. Again, interiors should not be too showy; colors should be muted, soft. The new arrivals, hoping one day to entertain their neighbors, should plan on greeting them with interiors that are soothing, familiar, and unsurprising. A good grand piano will speak more of taste and breeding than a crystal chandelier. Good Orientals on the floor will say more than a heavy silver tea service. An original Andrew Wyeth will add more cachet to a room than half a dozen Andy Warhol prints, just as, in the suburbs, a well-cut raincoat and a good strand of pearls is more important than minks and diamonds, and a small Mercedes outranks the biggest Cadillac or Rolls, and a bowl of daisies on the coffee table makes a far greater impression that a Steuben urn filled with long-stemmed roses.

A further tip for the potential suburban hostess: Do not attempt to impress your new neighbors by serving so-called gourmet food. The rich are not accustomed to—and do not eat, nor do they serve—elaborate meals. Except at restaurants, where they can be adventuresome, the rich prefer not to be startled by what they see on their plates. Anything other than the familiar roast lamb or beef with parsleyed potatoes and buttered peas, or that smacks of a hostess who has taken lessons at Cordon Bleu, tends to make them feel awkward and embarrassed. Not long ago, when an aspiring young hostess, recently arrived in Bryn Mawr, attempted to dazzle her neighbors with an elegant French menu, one guest exclaimed: “Oh, you're such a fabulous cook! I wouldn't
dare
ask you to dinner at my house.” The woman said it with a laugh, but the trouble was she meant it. Remember that what the establishment of any affluent
suburb fears the most is change—which will inevitably be for the worse. To woo the members of the establishment, therefore, do not present them with anything that is new or bold or daunting. The most unwelcome person in the suburbs is the revolutionary.

Here are five other valuable pointers for serious suburban social climbers, or for those who at least would hope one day to penetrate suburban society's stern barricades:

1. It is helpful, when a family is moving to a new suburb, if they are parents of young children. Childless couples are often just as disadvantaged in the suburbs as unmarried women and divorcees. Children, on the other hand, make friends easily with other children, and through children, mothers inevitably meet other mothers and, eventually, fathers meet fathers. It is furthermore much easier to glide into suburban society—though here it is all a question of fate—if one's children are predominantly male. At all the junior dances and parties in the suburbs, boys are much more in demand than girls, right down to the preadolescent dancing classes. One young Westchester County mother, whose eight-year-old daughter was eager to join the Barclay Classes, was told flatly: “We can take in your daughter only if you enroll her two brothers as well.” Other communities have a strict one-for-one quota: no girl accepted unless a matching boy, who is usually reluctant, can be offered up.

2. If there is a private day school in the community, enroll your children of both sexes in it. This is expensive and, of course, ironic, since many families move to the suburbs in quest of better
public
education. Still, though many communities deny it, it is usually quite apparent that the invitation lists to all the best children's dances and parties, at the best homes, are made up from the enrollment lists of the private schools.

3. It used to be that joining a church—particularly the Episcopalian church—was a good way to meet people and make friends in the suburbs. Alas, this is no longer true, and the churches have generally lost their social potency. Over coffee and cake in the church social room after the Sunday service, the newcomer today will meet only other newcomers looking just as out of place as he. Good works, on the other hand, still provide an avenue to social status for the ambitious. As a rule, the names of a community's social leaders will decorate the board of its local hospital or, if there is one, its art museum. Hospitals are more in demand than art museums, and so the new arrival who volunteers for, and toils dutifully at, the hospital thrift shop will find doors opening for her.
Any local charity that involves children is usually fashionable also. Obviously, if there is a local
children's
hospital, working for that can be the most socially rewarding of all.

4. If you get asked, by all means join the fashionable country club, but how you go about getting asked to join can be an arduous process. In fact, you really can't go about getting asked. You have to wait quietly in the wings and hope that it will happen. But there are a few subtle ways whereby you can let it be known that you will be a good club member. You can let it be inferred that, if invited, you will use the club frequently—for entertaining, for large parties, for tennis, and for golf. Clubs, after all, are not run as charities and have taxes and wages and other bills to pay. Nowadays, clubs have little interest in taking in the young couple, however attractive they might be, who will drop into the club once or twice a year, have a quick drink at the bar, and then go home. Let it be understood—without quite
saying
so, of course, which would give the game away—that you will be a big spender at the club. Sample hint (if you have a teen-age daughter): “I hear that the Smiths gave the most beautiful party the other night for their daughter at the club, and that everything was absolutely perfect—the food, the wine, the orchestra, everything.…”

5. The strain of living without acceptance is much more trying in the suburbs than in the city. An urban family can enjoy a full social life during years of struggling for recognition by the city's upper crust, and have friends on many levels who are completely unaware that any struggle is going on. In the suburbs, the striver is more easily recognized; it is easier for him to show his hand. Once spotted in the suburbs, he is doomed. Therefore, in the suburbs, the most important watchword is Patience. Be patient; don't try to storm suburbia's walls too quickly; be polite and willing, but never eager. As Molly Harrison of Cincinnati puts it: “We're not
against
new people, really. But we like to watch them at a distance for a little while, and kind of get used to having them here. Once we're used to them, we feel relaxed with them. If they turn out to be nice, and attractive, we'll take them in—eventually, if not right away. We don't like to be
pushed
into taking them in, that's the only thing. Once we take them in, they'll find us very friendly and they'll have a wonderful time. But the pushy party-giver turns us off.”

The suburban social climber, in other words, should never show his climbing tools. And like any alpinist, he should study the terrain carefully before taking his next step.

19

Swinging

It is odd that men and women should flock to the suburbs to escape loneliness, when the suburbs can be such lonely places. There are ways, of course, of slaking loneliness other than by needlepoint, television, and sitting by the pool. One can take up gardening or tennis or interior decorating, or do volunteer work. Or one can, if one has gained a bit of entrée, swing.

The phrase “the swinging suburbs” came into use perhaps twenty years ago, and through carefully guarded underground sources, the word got out: the suburbs do indeed swing, or at least there is an element there that does. There are many people who insist that because groups who swing are small, and consist of people who know and trust each other well—and because suburban houses and estates offer a gift of privacy not always attainable in city apartment buildings—the suburbs are actually sexier than cities. “You mean they have orgies in Scarsdale?” one woman asked. Well, yes, some people do, and orgies have actually achieved a certain degree of social acceptability. At least, it is no longer fashionable to frown on them.

In Shawnee Mission, the select suburb of Kansas City, the home of a wealthy young citizen and his wife is shielded from the street by an avenue of trees. Inside the house is an impressive collection of fine furniture and Oriental rugs. For parties, the lights are kept rather dim, and the stereo is played rather low. In the corner of the large living room, in a porcelain dish, sits what appears to be a bar of honey-colored bath soap. It is Turkish hashish, and it cost two
thousand dollars. Guests—perhaps ten couples—sit in a rough circle on the floor while, with some ceremony, the host chips small, thin, oily-looking flakes off the hashish bar, using a penknife, and carefully tamps them into a little pipe. He then lights the pipe, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs for as long as he can. Then the pipe is passed to a guest, who also inhales deeply. The pipe continues slowly around the room.

The conversation is muted, there is some knowing laughter. The quality of the hashish is commented upon; it is considered very good. The rhythm of a rock group continues softly in the background. It is Saturday night, the best time, with the week's work and worries out of the way, and nothing but a lazy Sunday morning to look forward to. These are all such old and such good friends and neighbors, except for one couple, who are newcomers. They were warned, before being initiated into the group tonight, that this evening's entertainment would be somewhat special, for somewhat sophisticated, even worldly, tastes. The newcomers, for whom this is decidedly a new experience, are a bit apprehensive, but they have agreed to go along with whatever the evening turns out to be. They have been told that, should they not care for the experience in the end, this will not be held against them. But it is also understood that no mention is to be made of this particular evening to anyone outside the little circle. For the most part, the newcomers are happy to be here, because assembled in the room are some of the leaders of Kansas City society's younger set—couples who shop in New York, ski in Gstaad, have discovered the nude beaches in Sardinia and Acapulco, and are otherwise committed to dispelling the impression that Kansas City, Missouri, is a provincial, one-horse town. After all, didn't Kansas City give the world its very first suburban shopping center, Country Club Plaza, as long ago as 1920? The little pipe circles the room a second time, is refilled, and begins a third circle. The music—more protracted now, a song that never ends—lingers on from the twin speakers. “Isn't this nice?” someone asks.