The Resort

by Bentley Little

  “Hello.”

  “I am The Reata’s activities coordinator, and I am here to inform you that you have been nominated to join our sporting league for the duration of your stay. Our elite squad is called the Roadrunners, and this is the group for which you have been selected.”

  Ralph looked doubtful.

  “I might add that we have guests who have been attempting to become Roadrunners since they first started making annual visits to The Reata many years ago. The fact that you have been invited to join your very first year is quite an honor.”

  First and last year, Gloria thought, but she could not help but be impressed by their inclusion in the resort’s most privileged group. Heaven knew Ralph wasn’t much of a sports enthusiast, but judging from the appearance of some of their fellow guests, a lot of them weren’t in peak physical condition, either.

  The man seemed to anticipate her follow-up question. “It might interest you to know that participation in our league and enlistment as a Roadrunner entitles you to certain privileges not afforded to other guests. You will, for example, be able to dine at the exclusive Starlight Pavilion.”

  “We didn’t know there was a Starlight Pavilion,” Ralph said for both of them, though that was not something to which she would have admitted.

  “That is because ordinary guests are not authorized to dine there and we don’t want to offend them by acknowledging the existence of a dining room from which they are excluded,” the activities coordinator said with a small smile. “As a Roadrunner, you will also have access to the Winner’s Circle Lounge, where free drinks, hors d’oeuvres and entertainment are provided to all players, members and family of the winning team. Granted, that means that the Roadrunners must win their tournaments in order for you to take advantage of this opportunity. But, confidentially, the Roadrunners always win.”

  Ralph cleared his throat. “I’m not . . . particularly athletic.”

  The activities coordinator spread his hands expansively. “You won’t even be required to play. That duty is assigned to the younger, more physically active members of the team. No, just being part of the Roadrunners will be quite enough. There’s strength in numbers, you know.”

  She could sense Ralph hesitating.

  “We accept your invitation,” Gloria said for him.

  “Splendid,” the man responded. He held out his hand and Ralph shook it. She didn’t like that. There was something official about it, as though they were cementing a deal or ratifying a contract. For some reason, she thought of the resort’s manager—

  Mr. Cabot.

  —and the image of his smiling face left her flustered. But the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced by a more familiar satisfaction at the realization that they were now part of The Reata’s privileged elite.

  “Are you busy right now?” the activities coordinator asked Ralph. “We could drop by the Winner’s Circle and take a peek. More than a few of your teammates are there already.”

  “May I come?” Gloria asked.

  “Of course!”

  “How’s that possible?” Ralph wondered suspiciously. “They’re already there? Did you have a game yesterday?”

  “Oh no,” the coordinator assured him. “This afternoon will be the first.”

  “Then these are people who just . . . live here full time?”

  “Oh, I see what you’re getting at.” The other man chuckled. “No, none of your current teammates have participated in tournaments before. Well, one has. But the rest are all new guests like yourself. But while the individuals may be different, team privileges still apply. They’re allowed to stay in the Winner’s Circle until the team loses.” The coordinator smiled. “Which it never does.”

  They were both dressed, a habit Gloria insisted upon for breakfast, but she had not had time to do her hair or makeup. Sensing that the activities coordinator would not be one to wait, she quickly walked over to the closet, withdrew her sunbonnet and put it on, grabbing the appropriate shade of lipstick from the bathroom counter and applying it in the mirror. “I’m ready,” she announced.

  “Very well then.”

  They followed the activities coordinator down the corridor, then up the sidewalk to a building she had not noticed before, a modern angular cement-and-glass edifice adjacent to the low Santa Fe-style structure that housed the Saguaro Room and the Grille. Aesthetically, the two complemented each other, but the new building was very much visible, and Gloria wondered how she had not seen it before. She had the unnerving feeling that it was invisible to a lot of other guests as well, that it had been constructed in such a way as to hide in plain sight, revealing itself only to people who were specifically looking for it.

  “Here we are. The Winner’s Circle.” The activities coordinator opened the glass door and held it for Gloria, who walked in followed by Ralph. The interior of the building was one big room, and despite the jutting angularity of its exterior, the room was basically circular, with a few offset window seats. At the far end was a full bar and in between various chairs and couches and futons. There was a large sunken area on the right side of the room in the shape of a crescent, and it was here that most of the people enjoying the lounge’s amenities had congregated, drinks in hand despite the early hour of the day.

  But that was not the most distinguishing feature of the lounge. No, that honor went to the pole in the center of the room and the six men and women chained to it. They were dressed in the formal attire of waiters and waitresses, but they were tethered to the pole like horses to a children’s pony ride, with long chains that fastened to metal belts around their waists. The pole itself, in contrast to the modern design and furnishings, was old and primitive, a single piece of weathered timber that reached all the way to the ceiling and at one time might have been the mast of a ship. Near the base of the pole, two squat, ugly brown men—illegal aliens, Gloria thought—were being secured to additional chains, and as she watched, carpet sweepers and feather dusters were put into their hands, and they were ordered to spot clean the lounge.

  At first Gloria was shocked, and for a brief moment she considered leaving the Winner’s Circle to protest this gross injustice and clear violation of human rights. But Ralph and the activities coordinator were standing there talking as if nothing was amiss. A smiling young woman with a Middle Eastern accent brought her a complimentary glass of orange juice on a tray, another young woman offered her slices of melon on individual plates of dainty china, and she found that she became used to the situation very quickly. The tethered waiters and waitresses maneuvered smoothly around the large circular room to the ends of their chains, deftly avoiding entangling themselves in a manner that was almost balletic as they served the needs of the seated guests, and Gloria soon realized that this was quite an ingenious way to maintain control of employees and ensure that they remained at their posts.

  No it wasn’t, she told herself. It would be much more practical to have the staff able to freely move about and perform their duties with ordinary flexibility rather than be tied up like animals.

  But that brief aberrant thought fled as a handsome, tuxedoed young man offered her a napkin then adroitly took up the slack in his chain as he headed toward the sunken section of the lounge.

  “I could get used to this,” Ralph said.

  “I thought you’d enjoy it,” the activities coordinator told him. He nodded at Ralph, gave Gloria a slight bow. “I have other errands I have to run, other work that needs to be done, so I’ll let you two mingle. I’ll be back later when it’s time to start talking tournament strategy. In the meantime”—he gestured expansively—“enjoy.”

  Gloria took Ralph’s arm, and the two of them walked further into the lounge, past a tanned, fit couple seated on a love seat talking intensely, down the steps into the sunken area where they were greeted by a large fierce-looking man who introduced himself as the Roadrunner’s captain. After the initial pleasantries, Ralph began talking shop with the man, who was apparently some sort of f
inancial consultant. Gloria politely extricated herself and looked for a place to sit down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a wellcoiffed older woman approaching, the deliberateness of obligation in the pace of her step.

  “Dana Peters,” the woman introduced herself archly. “President of the Springerville Historical Society.”

  Gloria thought it odd that the woman would announce her occupation along with her name, but she assumed that it was one of those big-fish-in-a-small-pond things, a badge of honor in the hickville she called home, and she merely glanced at Dana Peters dismissively. “Yes,” she said, and turned away, gratified to hear a little insulted grunt from the woman.

  She found a large comfortable chair and smiled as she sat down, a chained Asian man taking her empty orange juice glass.

  She had the feeling they were going to like it here.

  Sixteen

  His mother and father were gone for the morning, he had the suite to himself, and David lay on his parents’ bed, flipping through channels, trying to find a porno movie. Half of the stations they were supposed to get didn’t come in, and this morning only Hallmark and Lifetime and a bunch of religious channels seemed to be on this crappy satellite system.

  So much of the luxuries of resort life.

  He turned off the TV and tossed the remote control on the nightstand. Rolling over, he faced the window. From this angle, he could not see the ground, could see only the top of the next building down and, beyond that, the back of the Catalina Mountains. And the sky. A lot of sky.

  He wished they hadn’t come here. At home, he’d probably just be playing with his Xbox or listening to tunes and staring into space, but somehow that seemed preferable to being at The Reata. Sure this place was fancy, nicer than anyplace he’d ever stayed before. The pool was hella-cool, and he’d met some kids from California who were a lot more fun to hang with than the dick smacks from his neighborhood. But . . .

  But what?

  He didn’t know, exactly. There was only a formless antsiness in the pit of his stomach, a nagging sense that he should not be here.

  He turned his head sideways, one way and then the other, before rolling onto his back and hanging over the edge of the bed to look through the window upside down. No matter what he did, there was something wrong with the sky. He didn’t believe it at first, didn’t think such a thing could be possible, but the more he looked out the window the more convinced he became that the sky above The Reata was not as it should be. It was as if the ceaseless blue of the sky was painted, or a fake backdrop. The sky was air, constantly moving atmosphere, the life-giving band of gasses that encircled the earth and made it the solar system’s only inhabitable planet.

  But the sky above this section of desert was just wrong.

  David sat up.

  He was spending too much time alone.

  He got out of the bed and wandered around the room, checking the bathroom wastepaper basket for used condoms, looking through his dad’s briefcase for incriminating information. He wondered what his parents were doing. As usual, his mom just said, “We’re going out, don’t wait up,” as they left, and his dad chuckled as if that were the wittiest thing in the world and they hadn’t all heard it three thousand times before. They’d left their bathing suits behind so they weren’t at the pool, and neither of his parents were big on nature hikes, so that meant they were doing something here around the buildings of the resort—although he had no idea what that could be. They certainly weren’t able to afford another champagne brunch, but David thought it quite possible that, whatever they were doing, drinking was somehow involved.

  He opened the door of the suite and walked outside, thinking he might get some ice and chuck it at little kids if they happened to pass by or steal a room service breakfast if he saw it sitting outside someone’s door. Anything to relieve the boredom. Down the corridor to the left, he saw a maid’s cart piled high with towels, a canvas bag in the front filled with dirty linen, a bin on the side filled with trial-size shampoos, conditioners, bath gels and lotions. It was being pushed from behind, unoiled wheels squeaking loudly in the morning stillness, and stopped at the next door over.

  The Latina maid who emerged from behind the cart with a clipboard was not Jennifer Lopez, but she was young and thin—two rarities in themselves—and there was something sexy about her, a dark doe-eyed sensuality at odds with the deliberately unflattering uniform the resort made her wear. She smiled at him—flirtatiously, David thought—and he smiled back. She looked away quickly, shyly, made a couple of marks on her clipboard and picked up a handful of clean linen from the cart.

  The moment she stepped into the adjacent suite he backed up. Their room was next, and his mind sped through a whole host of fantasy scenarios, none of them even remotely feasible. Then he wondered what would happen if the maid caught him masturbating. She was definitely hot, and he imagined that she’d be shocked at first, then . . . maybe . . . interested. She might close the door behind her . . .

  It was too much to hope for—but definitely worth a try. He switched the hanger on the doorknob from PRIVACY PLEASE to MAID SERVICE, then quickly closed the door and ran across the floor, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his shoes. He lay down on the bed, pulled down his pants and immediately started pulling on his penis, hoping to get it long and hard quickly so that she’d see him at his peak. He wanted her to walk in and see him fully erect, stroking himself, thinking she might . . . what? Suck it? Sit on it?

  Either.

  Or both.

  This was stupid, he told himself. This was crazy. But he didn’t stop. He tried to imagine what the maid would look like with her top off. Did she have big nipples?

  There was a knock at the door, then a pause. He quit stroking, afraid he would come too quickly. “Maid service!” the woman announced in a thick Spanish accent. He remained silent. There was another knock, then the rattle of a key in the lock. The door opened—

  —and an overweight, middle-aged lady bustled into the room. She took one look at him lying there, erection in hand, then apologized quickly, her face turning red, and hurried out the way she had come.

  David let go of himself, closing his eyes in embarrassment, grimacing as if in pain, and it was all he could do not to let out a raw cry of mortification. He had never felt so humiliated in his entire life. What the hell had he been thinking? What had come over him to make him do such a stupid, ridiculous thing? He tried to retrace the mental steps that had brought him to this point as he pulled up his pants, but the connections were lost, the reasoning no longer clear.

  Though ordinarily he would have had to finish, his erection was gone, and he pulled up his underwear and pants. He saw his face in the mirror, and that made him even more embarrassed. What kind of loser doofus was he?

  He wanted to get out of the room, needed to get out of the room, but he was afraid to open the door for fear that the fat maid would be outside. Or even the sexy maid. He imagined the older woman telling her young coworker about what she’d seen and the both of them laughing at him. He could not bear to face either, and now for the rest of the trip he would have to avoid all contact with the cleaning staff.

  But someone still needed to come in here and make the bed. If they didn’t, his parents would complain to the front desk and then maybe his mom would find out what happened.

  This whole thing was just one big spiral of disgrace and mortification.

  He had to find something to do. He peeked out the peep-hole of the door, looking for any sign of the maids or their carts and was gratified to see that the visible section of hallway was clear. Gathering his courage, he opened the door. The maid’s cart was still parked in front of the next room over, and he quickly sped outside in the opposite direction, closing the door behind him and leaving the MAID SERVICE sign on the knob.

  He hurried up the sidewalk, away from his building, away from any rooms where the maids might be working.

  Curtis and Owen were supposed to be in Tucson until at least m
idafternoon—lucky fuckers—so he was on his own until then. Unless he could scare up that Brenda girl. She seemed to have the hots for Owen, but who’s to say she wasn’t bored and waiting around, too. Maybe the two of them could get together, have a little fun.

  No, he couldn’t screw a friend that way.

  Besides, he shouldn’t press his luck. His batting average with babes this morning wasn’t exactly going to put him in the all-star league.

  He ended up wandering the grounds of the resort and eventually found himself out by the driving range. He had never been to this part of The Reata before. It was behind the squat building housing the gym and exercise pool, and consisted of a long sloping lawn at least the length of a football field covered by netting supported by tall telephone poles. He saw several men lined up under a long shaded roof at the near end, hitting golf balls onto the preternaturally green grass. A high chain-link fence surrounded the area, the sign posted by the gate stating: NO ONE UNDER 18 ADMITTED.

  To David, that was an invitation.

  The gate was unmanned, its simple lock accessed by the key card for his room, and he walked inside unimpeded. Glancing toward the covered area where the golfers were teeing off, he saw that one of the men was his father. That was weird. His dad didn’t golf. He couldn’t afford it. But David sensed almost immediately that this was no ordinary game of golf, no typical practice session. Like the sky above the resort, there was something off here, something not quite right, and while he’d been planning to walk up to his father and find out what he was doing, David held off, stayed back, observing the scene. Wary of being caught by a security guard or spotted by one of the golfers, he kept to the side, moving along the edge of the fence until he was partially hidden from their view by a spiky, cactusy bush.

  He examined the scene more carefully. At the far end of the driving range was a series of wooden poles arranged in a straight row across.

  Tied to them were women.

  One of them was his mom.