There were five of these?

When a party is this needlessly lavish - and when the host makes no introductions or takes no notice or fee - it is hard to believe one isn't crashing, in spirit if not fact.

I don't understand the farm's motivation for throwing this hog roast for hundreds of strangers. Farms saturate upstate New York. Prior to Amber explaining her obligation to attend this party during her lunch break - the owner bought literally thousands of dollars of flowers from her employer, either for the party or just on a lark - I had not heard of this particular one. I acknowledge that I do not go out of my way to know the names of those who tend my produce, but I do rub shoulders with those who might generously be called "farmer's market people," none of whom breathed a word about Heermance Farms.

When I arrive, cars fill an acre. Young men direct me to a spot to park on the lawn. I do not know the etiquette, since I was picturing a smaller affair in someone's backyard. This is closer to a county fair. I follow some chatty strangers toward the party proper, finding Amber on my way.

There was gambling with branded fake money!

We walk past a tent full of revelers and six-foot balloon sculptures of smiling suns, then by ten inflated balls into which children climb. Beside an open barn is a massive sign designating the fifth annual Heermance Hog Roast. I am personally offended that this event has existed as long as I have lived in Red Hook and no one thought to tell me.

In the open barn, people are butchering whole roasted pigs and offering us large scoops of the shredded meat. There are also roast loin in a chafing dish, fresh rolls, and barbecue sauce. I take a little of each and would have been more than satisfied with my lunch.

Just so much food...

It is only when I look around for something to drink that we see the other barn that we passed on our way toward the hogs of honor. Inside is fifteen feet of chafing dishes above sterno, in which there are the barbecue staples of chicken and corn, but also stuffed lobster tails, a variety of pasta, and calzones. The table opposite has nearly every non-alcoholic drink one could desire. Beyond these tables is a commercial freezer packed with ice cream confections, next to a table of freshly baked cookies, cakes, and brownies.

And an acrobat!

We pack our plates higher. I almost regret taking the pork now because there is so much else I would have liked to eat, but I am not so suddenly pampered as to waste a bite. We sit at a roughhewn wooden table beside some elderly strangers who seem, if anything, unimpressed by this spread. They talk about how much better this would have been in thrown by their son-in-law, whom I assume owns a controlling interest in Apple and Facebook. On the other end of the room is an Airstream trailer surrounded by an artificial tableau of animals and sparkling grass. Projected to our right is the version of Beauty and the Beast that is still in theaters. I would struggle to imagine a better party, particularly one to which I was not explicitly invited and which cost me no more than the surprise at finding it.

More people file in, fill their plates beyond rationality, eat richly, and wander away. When I go back to get another drink for the road, I notice there is a room I missed before, full of cheeses, nuts, and fruit. I cannot imagine eating anything more, but I stare so agog that there is a designated cheese room. The woman maintaining this spread seems embarrassed on my behalf.

Children in inflatable balls!

Amber leaves then, since she has a job to get back to and I only have an open day, occupied only by plans of hiking with Kristina when and if she becomes untangled from her own job. I am adrift, since I do not wish to return home until I am sure Kristina will be meeting me, nor do I want to go for a run before we hike. I decide, even bereft of company, that this is one of the better settings ever designed for waiting.

I secret desserts into a napkin, using more stealth and legerdemain than the enterprise strictly requires, slipping these into a pocket in my bag as my booty. I do not know why I feel the desire to pilfer cookies except there is so much and I cannot justify gorging myself on sweets at this hour, but I want them nevertheless.

Surely, if I am entitled to anything here as an anonymous stranger, I would be welcomed to these. My crime is, at worst, misdemeanor tackiness, a sort of social jaywalking.

Emboldened by my successful caper and apprised via text that Kristina is not yet ready, I boldly walk over and take both a soda and a flask of pricey water to tide me over. The woman staffing the table takes no notice as I put these in my bag and why should she? Is this not the approved protocol? No one told me. I'm not from around here. I was just holding these for a friend.

And a mirrored fence?

As I stroll to take in the entertainment options or just find an unoccupied patch of grass where I may write, I expect the hat to be passed, a solicitation for donation or a sales pitch which never comes. Had it, I imagine I would have kicked in a few bucks out of obligation. Not enough to cover all I have put in my bag, of course, but a token gesture to absolve a portion of my classlessness. I am uncomfortable with seeming generosity, particularly of this astounding capacity, so I opt to be jovially suspicious of this whole endeavor.

It is a world to which I do not belong and to which I cannot honestly say I aspire. I crave to be the unnoticed recipient of someone's largesse, not doing much harm by my presence, maybe incidentally increasing the concentration of joy in the vicinity, which is surely something like an actual contribution. I cannot imagine I have anything Heermance could want or need.

After having made the circuit a few times, I decide that I am the wrong age to be unescorted, smiling warmly at other people's children as they tumble headfirst down hills while marginally protected by an inflatable ball. I peek into the barn for more to covertly drop into my bag (how does one go about absconding with a lobster using only the tools available?) when I see Jess.

Jess is Amber's coworker who works the opposite shift on the weekends. They used to work together all day, tending the gardens of the absent rich, until Amber badly sprained her ankle due to a client's negligence, an injury that has kept her in the store since. Jess is younger than Amber, much younger than me, but young in an ageless way, the sort of youth that doesn't insist upon itself. I know her in limited contexts: Amber's stories, passing as we get ice cream. I do not actually know her beyond a smiling face.

We chat a little while as she introduces me to her fiancé Eric, though I have only ever heard him called Fish before, and her parents. Then, noticing that I am not floating away, she excuses herself from her parents and becomes my friend for the duration.

This is the first time I have spent time with her. I do not know that I could contrive a reason to socialize with her outside the connection of Amber, but she has what one might term a good energy. Even if I had just met her here and now, I would like her and want the best for her. I tell Amber later that it is like palling around with sunshine. Eric, too, after some initial uncertainty, warms up to me.

Jess talks of needing people with whom to play Cards Against Humanity, since her current other players are her father and his girlfriend. I tell her that Daniel had Cards Against Humanity as a crucial part of his going away party, rather than everyone talking freely, and that Amber and I were just puzzling out the exact rules of the strip version of the game. (Amber's idea was that everyone ought to start naked and each black card entitled you to put a garment back on, which seems to be defeating the purpose of a strip game.)

Jess in an inflatable ball!

After Eric and Jess have exhausted rolling her around in one of the balls, I suggest that this is a Gatsby affair. Heermance - whom Jess has only spoken to over the phone and never met in person - may be throwing these annuals digs to meet some lost love who never happens by. It makes as much sense as Jess's more likely estimation that Heermance happens to be unapproachably wealthy and this fest, which must have cost as much as a wedding in the Hudson Valley, is not meant to advertise his brand. Eric suggests maybe the produce is all donated, that every bit of this is a tax write-off. I like this explanation the best.

"God bless the rich," I say and, somewhere, a Republican achieves an erection for the first time this millennium.

I do not, to my knowledge, encounter this Heermance, but I hear he is a spy and the cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm.

I assume those with branded Heermance hats and aprons have nothing to do with the man himself. Or is Heermance a woman and the voice Jess hears on the phone is one of Heermance's emissaries acting in her stead? We can't know.

There is a shortage of perfect days. Often, those who deserve them most get a surfeit. Warmer moths allow them through the sieve of time more readily, because we are the great-grandchildren of subtropical primates. This is not necessarily a perfect day - I could do with additional companions so the burden of the loveliness wouldn't rest solely on my unworthy shoulders. However, this is close. Most of the elements are there: sunshine, rich food someone else paid for, grass underfoot, festivities in which I can participate or ignore at my leisure, occasional good music.

When the end is drawing close, I slip back into the buffet barn to pilfer my dinner, if possible. Whatever I steal is sure to be better than what I fix for myself at home. I envision the architecture, plates held against one another to protect the morsels within. When I get there, trying to seem the least amount of shifty, one of the workers apologizes for having run out of take-out containers and hands me several yard-long pieces of aluminum foil. I giddily abscond with a stuffed lobster tail, calzone, barbecue chicken, roasted cauliflower, and vegetarian meatloaf. It is clear I could take even more - the well-heeled people around me are making torso sized masses of foil-covered food - but I don't care to seem too greedy in case out host is observing us from a hidden room, Howard Hughes-like. I need only enough for tonight.

I stop by Amber's work because she is running chores after and will not otherwise have an opportunity for dinner. She regards me with amused suspicion, but is grateful for my secondhand kindness. I tell her that Jess is my new best friend and that this must be awkward for her, at which point she kisses me and tells me to go home.

Soon in Xenology: Adventures. Suicide. Trash picking.

last watched: Garfunkel and Oates: Trying to Be Special
reading: Norse Mythology
listening: Temple of the Dog

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