Paradise Squandered

By Alex Stefansson

Paradise Squandered is the story of Andrew Banks, a recent graduate of Puget Sound Prep and quite possibly the most directionless member of his graduating class. Andrew returns home from a long-promised graduation trip to Hawaii and re-enters a bland, suburban landscape of privilege and indifference, feeling alone and empty.

Talented but uninspired, Andrew knows he wants to pursue his art, but he has no idea how. He resigns himself to going through the motions of his own life, until he overhears the disturbing truth of his father's death. He instantly decides he has to leave his childhood home forever, and a darkly hilarious odyssey ensues.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Stefansson
• Release date: Sep 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476249261

Alex Stefansson

Alex Stefansson was born in 1984 in Seattle, Washington. He grew up in the suburbs and later attended Western Washington University in Bellingham, Washington, where he accumulated a large amount of debt and also met his wife. He enjoys witnessing wardrobe malfunctions, eating hot dogs, and spending quality time with his wife, two young sons, and neurotic cat.

Book preview

Paradise Squandered

A novel by

Alex Stefansson

Third Smashwords Edition, July 2013

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Paradise Squandered

Copyright 2012 by Alex Stefansson

Cover design by Sarah Richards

Thank you for downloading this digital copy of my debut novel. Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

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Many thanks to Allison Leak who helped me edit and revise this story. Many thanks to my wife, Brittany, for believing in me and encouraging my artistic endeavors, and for helping me cope with living in this modern society of discontent.

What you have just purchased is my attempt at selling out. Thank you for supporting me in this endeavor. Thanks a lot. Your purchase may help save me from being absorbed into the mindless machinery of misguided self-preservation.

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Paradise Squandered

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Table of Contents

Chapter One – Heat Rashes and Porno 'Staches

Chapter Two – White Lady

Chapter Three – Home

Chapter Four – Comatose

Chapter Five – Losers and Lovers

Chapter Six – Vaporized

Chapter Seven – Termination

Chapter Eight – Blue

Chapter Nine – Fresh Air

Chapter Ten – Moving On

Chapter Eleven – Paper-Thin Walls

Chapter Twelve – In Search of Soma

Chapter Thirteen – Broken Glass

Chapter Fourteen – Artistic Posturing

Chapter Fifteen – Empire of the Owl

Chapter Sixteen – The Best Laid Plans

Chapter Seventeen – Happy Birthday

Chapter Eighteen – Way Out

Chapter One: Heat Rashes and Porno 'Staches

My sweaty, naked back breaks free from the grip of the lounge chair I've been sitting in for only a few minutes. Steam rises off puddles on patios and walkways as the late afternoon sun cooks away the remaining moisture from a mandatory mid-day downpour. An earthy aroma hangs in the hot, heavy air.

I turn in my seat to pick a pint glass up off the table beside me, but my attention is mostly focused on a brunette in a bikini lounging on a blanket across the lawn. It's not what you think, though. I'm not just checking her out. I mean, I am. Don't get me wrong, I love women. I really do. But right now, I’m preoccupied with observing this whole ridiculous social interaction unfolding in front of me. In front of everyone.

She can't be much older than me. I'd be surprised if she were over twenty. And yet there she is, reclining on her back on a beach blanket, propped up on her forearms, her elbows pointing to either side. She’s smiling and laughing while some asshole in khakis and a loud Hawaiian shirt chats her up. He's standing there by her side in these little brown boat shoes.

He's short. Not exactly the most imposing figure, yet just being in his general vicinity is making me uncomfortable, and a little bit itchy. He has this smug grin on his face, I can tell from here, way over on the other side of the lawn, even though he's not even looking at me at the moment. It's right under this horribly offensive mustache plastered right under his big, awkward nose that's probably red not just from the sun. He looks like an eighties porn star I saw once on an old VHS tape while spending the night at this kid's house in the sixth grade. I don't remember the kid's name. His family was poor.

As he looks up from her to take another swig of beer, he looks over at me, catching me looking at her. At them. Instinctively, I avert my eyes. I lift my own beverage to my lips and try not to grimace as I suck down another sip of this poorly mixed, but pleasantly potent, Mai Tai. I swallow hard and stare out at the deep blue ocean waters beyond the well-manicured hedge that runs in front of the seawall that separates the Mokihana Condominium Complex's well-kept lawn from the rocky coastline.

You want her, don't you? David questions from the khaki-colored chaise lounge just to my left, grinning and gesturing towards her with his glass.

I'm looking back at him, trying to think of a clever way to feign indifference towards her. Towards her body. I pause for a second before responding, Do you think he's her grandfather?

Pfff, he scoffs, tilting his head back in amusement, not quite laughing but still grinning at no one in particular. He looks back at her and pauses for a moment before turning serious. He turns back to me. No, he says flatly. No, I don't.

My heart sinks. I try to smile, to laugh it off. I try not to care. I try to think about something else, something other than this girl I had never even seen before I sat down in this chair. But then my subconscious takes her top off.

I shift anxiously in my chair. I take another sip of my drink and look up into the palm trees that seem to have been arranged in a refreshingly haphazard fashion in this otherwise almost unsettlingly well-kept courtyard. Thankfully, mercifully, the alcohol in my system seems to be suppressing any of my body's usual, embarrassing biological responses. I take a quick glance down just to be sure and think, maybe I should just go jump into the ocean, off that seawall. Those rocks aren't that jagged.

Palm fronds rustle and gently sway, casting moving shadows onto the lawn that creep ever closer to me as the sun sinks over the Pacific. I'm not thinking about her. Not anymore. I don't care about her. I keep telling myself this over and over again. Then the image of the man with the mustache pops into my mind. He's naked with her. On top of her. Sweat glistens on his ruddy forehead. A sparkling bead runs down his face, collecting, forming a drop on an out of place mustache hair until it drops, falling onto her naked chest. She moans as she writhes, arching her back. A chill runs down my spine. A lump grows in my throat.

What is she thinking? I ask myself. What is going on in her head? How can she respond like that? To a guy like that? That can't be genuine. She can't actually be interested in him. Why do women always fall for assholes?

Hey, ease up, man, says David. He's probably just giving her some financial advice. I'm sure he doesn't want to touch her boobies or anything.

I take another sip of my drink, still staring at the treetops. I can feel David's eyes on me, and his stupid grin. I feel all sorts of eyes on me, like everyone is looking at me. I'm trying hard not to squirm in my seat; I don't want to look as uncomfortable and anxious as I feel. I tell myself no one is looking at me and close my eyes for a moment, take a few deep breaths.

Just relax, David tells me, probably still grinning at me. Drink your booze and stop over-analyzing everything so much. Enjoy your vacation, man.

I take another sip, another deep breath. Calm, I tell myself. Relax. Enjoy your vacation. Your goddamn graduation present. Thanks, Aunt Beth. Thanks, Uncle Robert.

See, man? Strictly business. Look, David says.

Reluctantly, I take my eyes off the trees.

The man with the mustache is handing the girl what looks like a business card. Who carries around their business cards at the beach? I wonder to myself. Then I remember who I'm here with; I remember where I am. My uncle probably knows that guy. They've probably been golfing together.

The brunette sits up on her blanket and reaches for the card. He bends down to hand it to her, crouching ungracefully. He leans in to whisper something in her ear. And I swear he kisses her on the cheek. I can't see her face, but I just know she is smiling.

God, what did you say to her, you bastard? I wonder at the guy. What lies did you tell?

I can hear her laughter. She's leaning her head back, arching her back, causing her chest to rise, as if it needs to be brought to his attention. Her right foot rubs down her left calf as she crosses her smooth, sun-kissed legs. As he begins to stand back up, he wavers but catches himself, beer bottle in hand, using it as a crutch for a moment before he gets to his feet. Then he struts off towards the condos.

Please don't be staying near my room, I hope to myself.

He ambles maybe ten whole feet before turning back to do the whole call me thing, his pinky and thumb extended, his hand next to his face. I can actually see him mouth the words, call me.

Jesus Christ, I mutter under my breath. I look down at the drink in my hand, sighing, trying to comprehend the awkward, heartwrenching spectacle I've just witnessed firsthand. I take another sip. And then I start staring at her again. I can't help myself. She's alone now, lying face down on her blanket. She reaches back to unhook her bikini top.

I groan; this is just too much for me. I start staring up into the trees again.

Fucking porno-mustached prick, I mumble, hopefully incoherently.

You're the only person I know that could be miserable in this situation, David tells me.

I drink more. My face feels hot. I don't know if I'm feeling more angry or pathetic. I attempt to find a distraction in the sounds of nature. The chirping of birds. The crashing of waves on the rocky shore. I try to concentrate on the rustling of foliage, the silent passing of fluffy white clouds drifting by. But these sounds do little to mask the chipper voices of those nearby. To mask the fact that everyone here is probably having a better time than I am, and that everyone else seems to know what they're doing here.

Shadows of palm fronds begin creeping up my legs, creating a cooling sensation, reminding me that I'm probably getting sunburned. People in the swimming pool laugh and splash. Men dressed like assholes drink beer and laugh at each other's lies. Women in skimpy clothes strut and lounge around, all tan and plastic, reminding me of my own loneliness, which reminds me that I have not yet finished my beverage.

I guzzle the remains of my Mai Tai. Once again, I peel my back off the sweaty lounge chair. I swing my legs, which are now imprinted with the pattern of the chair, over the side and plant my feet firmly on the lawn, wiggle my toes, feeling sand and sweat between them. I set my empty glass on a side table and pause for a moment, closing my eyes, feeling a bit ill. I'm hunched over, waiting for the booze to settle in my stomach. I breathe deep, open my eyes and look over at my sunbathing relatives.

My Grandmother is asleep in the chair next to mine in a very Grandma-ish bathing suit, a copy of Conde Nast lying open, face down on top of her chest. Next to her, my Uncle Robert is sitting, staring at a Kauai'i golf guidebook through a pair of very large, dark-tinted Ray-Ban sunglasses. Aviators. Stylish. The top three buttons of his Hawaiian shirt are undone, allowing him to get just tan enough so everyone in the office, all the other lawyers and secretaries, all of his clients, will know he just got back from vacation without him ever having had to reveal his gut to the world. Because no one will ever figure out that he is overweight if he doesn't ever take his shirt off all the way.

His shirt is one of those fancy designer ones where the floral pattern lines up perfectly over the seams. This way he doesn't look like a stupid tourist. Thank God for my aunt's fashion sense. All those magazine subscriptions he has bought for her have really paid off for him in a big way. And he's wearing a hat that looks like something Gilligan might have worn if he'd gotten off the island and then immediately won the lottery. Thank Christ for syndicated television, I think, shaking my head, feeling irritated by my own inane train of thought. It's killed my motivation, but it's opened my mind to a whole new dimension of automatic, cynical simile.

I push my sunglasses up the bridge of my sweaty nose. My head is spinning a little. I feel like I should drink some water. I'm sweaty and sunburned and dehydrated, and I'm starting to feel incredibly drunk, but I don't want to walk to my room. I don't want to attract any more attention to myself. So I lower the back of the lounge chair all the way and lie down, face down. The weight of my body pressing on my booze-filled stomach makes me feel even more nauseous, but I don't want to move. I feel like even gravity hates me right now. In fact, I'm sure of it.

Nature is one vengeful mother, I think to myself, cringing internally at my own trite sentiment while slapping at a mosquito as it sucks vital fluids from my lower back. My aim is way off, though, and I feel terribly embarrassed and start to worry that people around me probably think I just slapped my own ass for reasons only they can assume.

David laughs.

I mumble a stream of angry nonsense into the uncomfortable lounge chair, hoping that the mosquito that just humiliated me in front of everyone is greatly harmed by the alcohol circulating through my bloodstream.

Sun continues to beat down on my backside as sweat pours out of my pores, making me feel desiccated, like one of the ubiquitous, flattened, dried-out frogs I keep accidentally stepping on all over this island. My foot starts to itch, and I crane my neck, attempting to look at it from my awkward, uncomfortable vantage point, squinting, preemptively wincing, half-expecting to see some sort of hideous lesions, or sores, or warts, but all I see are a few blurry clumps of sand stuck to my toes.

An irritating buzzing sound interrupts the buzzing inside my head, reminding me that my phone is on the table beside me. I begrudgingly reach for it knowing already that I'm not going to answer it, no matter who it is. I just don't feel like talking to anyone.

I grab the phone off of the table, just to silence the noise. My vision is hazy, and the afternoon sun obscures the screen, but something compels me to at least try to see who it is. I flip open my phone and cup my hand around the screen to block the sunlight. My eyes manage to make out a text message from my mother: Meet Syd. Hes excited 2 meet u. Ps did u mail the form yet? There's a picture attached. A closeup of a man from the shoulders up. I'm assuming it's Syd. He's staring at me from the screen, tan, his gray hair combed neatly. He's smiling with what I interpret to be a lustful expression on his face. He looks like he could be in a Viagra commercial.

Shit, I mutter quietly, dreading the prospect of returning home only to have to immediately meet yet another of my mother's potential suitors. Not good.

Huh? David questions.

Meet Syd, I tell him and then toss him the phone.

My aim is terrible, but he leans out, catches it seemingly without effort and looks down at the screen.

Heh, he chuckles, grinning once again. She found a new one? he asks, already knowing the answer as well as I do.

Looks like it.

Looks like he's excited to meet you.

"Yeah, it definitely looks like he's excited about something, I say, trying not to slur. My face feels somewhat numb and tingly despite the hot Hawaiian weather. I can't wait to meet him."

I bet, he says, still looking at the screen. He pauses for a moment, then asks, What form is she talking about?

I sigh. You know, that questionnaire from school. The one for the newsletter with all the questions about how well Puget Sound Prep prepared us for 'the real world,' I explain and then begin to rant about high school injustices until even I'm not listening to myself any more. You must've gotten one, right?

What? Oh. He shrugs. I dunno, man. I did my time there. I'm done with all that stuff. He pauses for a moment. A contemplative look crosses his face. What does she care about all that? It's not like you were class president or anything. He laughs.

"Yeah, I know. I've argued with her about it already. And I don't give a shit about the newsletter, you know? But she's been freaking out about me and my life since I told her I wasn't going to