The Loop

By Dylan Thos. Good

Revenge.  

Perversity.  

Drugs.  

...And the party hasn't even started yet!

 

The blue-collar workers of LeisureFace Timeshare Condominiums just found out their jobs are on the chopping block due to a corporate takeover.  Even worse, it's all being orchestrated by their greedy CEO, Cles Gubbins, who will be guaranteed a cushy retirement once the sale pans out.  

 

Seeing the upcoming company Christmas party as their last chance to get even, the soon-to-be-unemployed staff members jump into action to show they aren't going quietly!  

 

As they prepare to blow apart their scumbag CEO's perfect plan, the team comes together as friends. Can they give one another the courage to break their self-destructive patterns--their 'loops'--and finally achieve their dreams?   

 

To find out, come visit LeisureFace...where everyone knows everyone, and secrets don't stay hidden for long!

 

Scroll up now to buy this book and start reading today!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trash Raiders Media
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985450408

Book preview

ACT THE FIRST

[An Introduction to Friends and Enemies, Wherein We Delight in the Continuing Adventures of a Toilet Plunger and Discover Just Where to Stick It]

Now, it was that  other  season on the coast of Oregon. 

From July through October, no one could blame you for getting lost in the green. The smell of cedar, fir, and spruce twisted in and out around the branches. Kites were everywhere. Your shoes sank into the feathery beach sand, and each briny sea breeze had a smile for you. There never seemed to be a reason to doubt these wonders were your dearest friends.

Until that motherfucker November rolled around. 

Before you knew it, Mother Nature was back on the rag, and all that communing-with-nature shit became nothing more than a soggy, foggy, blustery memory. Sure, all the kids of Beaver Lake asked Santa Claus for bikes and video games every Christmas, but all they ever seemed to get was amoxicillin. It was either that or an airborne garden gnome up the ass. 

As his Firebird shifted into overdrive, Junior Berrick smiled and ripped his throat hoarse in an effort to appease the Tiki Gods. His mixtape of Hawaiian Christmas songs rattled the speakers, front and back, and soon nothing outside could compete. Not the busted, swinging tree branches, sideways sheets of rain, or flapping layers of rooftop tar paper. None of it could trump the marimba ring that took him away to his version of paradise.

Troughs zigzagged across Highway 101’s deepening puddles, and soon the turn signal was clicking. The resulting gold beacon reflected off a white and blue sign lit by two floodlights Junior had wired himself: LeisureFace – Executive Timeshare Condominiums. Underneath was the prized tagline—The 21st Century Look of Leaving It All Behind! Despite the fact that most people thought the new century started January 1, 2000, it wouldn’t actually arrive for another five weeks. Nevertheless, LeisureFace had already been flogging the slogan since the summer of ‘99.

The first person Junior laid eyes on each morning was Cles Gubbins. There he was, shuffling out to the mailbox to get the day’s B.L. Mirror, the puny local newspaper. Even on a good day, it was no bigger than a tabloid. Gubbins was a subscriber simply because there were periodic articles trumpeting how wonderful he and LeisureFace were for the local economy. 

In the cold reality of it all, Gubbins was a blue-ribbon shit stain of a human being. He was self-aggrandizing to the end, and arguably the Holy Grail when it came to stereotypically despicable CEOs. Racist, elitist, sexist, and probably a few other things that end in ‘ist,’ Androcles J. Gubbins—everyone immediately assumed the J stood for jerkoff—abused power from inside a pair of gray Haggar slacks and a pink Oxford shirt in ways not seen since the Roman Empire. 

One morning not long ago, Junior had witnessed Gubbins berate the Native American fellows tending to the rose gardens lining the entrance of the property ("you wagon burners don’t understand a damn thing!"), slyly escort a young Asian housekeeper into his office (who was quickly unemployed a few days later, probably because she didn’t swallow) and, whether it deserved it or not, kick his wife’s dog in the back. 

All before 10 am. 

There he stood on the porch of his on-property Craftsman home, waving his hand, nose in the air, and raising his brow in that subtly superior way. It was enough to make any self-respecting member of the human race want to stomp Gubbins’ face until his lips caved in.

The only reason Junior hadn’t yet done it himself was because Gubbins had taken a chance on him, hiring a kid with no work experience whatsoever, all those years ago. Yep, it’s true. Horrible racial slurs, sexual harassment, and animal abuse, but that was the realization that made Junior sickest.

The broad, red snout of the Firebird swerved and sniffed out the same parking spot it had since before Junior graduated from Beaver Lake High School. At 18, he’d taken the thankless and lonely swing shift Maintenance position at LeisureFace for a back-breaking/bank-breaking $4.50 an hour. Nearly ten years on, he was now the manager. A bigger paycheck, which came in handy for taking care of his dad, a better shift, and commanding some respect were the rewards for hanging in there that long, but sometimes he still felt as lonely as when he watched the sun set during that first evening on the job.

Toothy Goodyear treads rolled to a stop as Junior hit the brakes and twisted off the ignition. He was thankful for winter’s impending arrival since it slowed the sap from dripping onto his windshield.

Steve, the night auditor, was heading home, and Junior gave him a quick wave as the ‘Bird’s door swung wide. Steve was a nice enough guy, but took his job a little too seriously. Not that there’s anything wrong with earning your pay, but Steve’s paycheck didn’t even come close to justifying the spiffy two-piece suit he always wore. The only people he ever got to show it off to were the occasional drunk or insomniac who stumbled into Reception as he was crunching his nightly numbers.

Now, like most mornings, that suit was rumpled and creased with boredom, and its only use was getting Steve across the parking lot on a tired charge to his car.

An oversized double garage aside the main guest building served as HQ for both Housekeeping and Maintenance. Junior zipped up his jacket and headed for the door as Steve’s headlights carved around the trees and buried in the murk.

Berta was there at the garage entrance, leaning against the doorframe and having a cigarette. Already. That couldn’t be a good sign. Junior’s spidey-sense tingled enough to tell him to tread lightly. As he got closer, he could smell the spout of wind-whipped smoke that blew out from between Berta’s olive-skinned cheeks.

I told your Secret Santa to bring you a windproof lighter this year. Junior thought his opening line was pretty charming for first thing in the morning, but Berta’s expression didn’t change much.

S’okay. For the winter, I’m thinking of moving up to a blowtorch I found on a military surplus website. There was a fun kick to Berta’s words. It's too bad it hid behind a sad irony that extended beyond her disappointment in holiday gift possibilities.

Junior repositioned his hat, suddenly feeling the prick of the humidity. He figured he had better step it up. You alright?

Berta nodded her head and sniffed. Yeah.

Junior knew it was bullshit. He had only just gotten to work, but was certain she’d already washed down at least six pills on her way to approximately 50 by the time her head hit the pillow that night. Five years on, and Berta’s health wasn’t any different. Not any worse, but not any better. Just a rerun that someone hit the pause button on.

She continued, I’m just waiting on Dorena and Casey. They won’t answer—

Just then, the walkie-talkie on her hip began to chatter. The voice was young and clear, unfettered by a slur of the usual static. "Casey to Berta."

This is Berta. Hey, I need someone to take a deionizer to 314—there’s butts a-plenty up there. You or your sister near HQ?

Up in a room on the second floor, Casey’s short, blonde ponytail was slugged over her sweaty shoulder. If there was a smoking room to take care of, she knew her sister would already be up there. Her enthusiastic thumb nearly cramped as it shoved in the walkie’s button.

Just finishing up here in 216. Blue eyes rolled over the room. The fast, young brain behind them tried to tally how fast she could check the room off her QC list. Can be down in a minute. She knew it would be at least three.

"I think there’s one right by it in the linen closet on the third floor," Berta chimed through the walkie-talkie’s rash of static.

Casey never heard this. She was too busy doing a little dance around 216’s kitchen, celebrating the fact that she was about to go on break. Her quick hand reached for the back pocket of her jeans, calmed by the bump of a cigarette lighter. Three minutes premature, a penciled X lodged itself onto the QC sheet.

Casey didn’t need to hurry. The third floor’s linen closet hung wide open, just a hop from room 314. Behind its locked door, the deionizer sat on the kitchen island, its plug hanging off the edge as a rough cough barked through the room. Dorena shook her head, the curly, dark thickness swinging back and forth as she tried to right the wrong of her inhale.

Three knocks stabbed at the door. Jaunty, sloppy knocks that could only come from a tiny set of knuckles like her sister had. Just to be safe, Dorena slid up against the door and knocked twice in return. One more came from the other side. The bolt lock sprang back.

Where the fuck have you been? Beneath Dorena’s slightly bloodshot eyes, little ganja sprigs stuck to her lip and all over the front of her white apron. 

What?! came Casey’s high, defensive retort, raising a hand to brush off her sister’s greenery. The Morris sisters embodied the typical story of a sibling relationship. Love always won out, but on certain mornings like this one, you never were completely sure.

Gimme your lighter, Dorena commanded. I’m over here trying to blaze a bowl off an electric stovetop. Nearly killed myself.

The lighter flew through the air, with Dorena catching it so coolly.

The flat, unblemished alabaster of Casey’s forehead wrinkled, confused as she saw what her sister had tuned in on the entertainment center's TV: a bumpkin-sounding starfish jumped up and down with what looked like a piece of yellow cake wearing shorts and a tie. What. In. The. HELL?

Dorena, finally appeased by getting a good hit out of the pipe, circled around the kitchen. She held up a saucepan sporting a spiraled, copper-colored burn.

Ya know, I’m getting high on the job, and even I remember how to boil water. The pot bounced back up on the counter. A short-tempered aluminum clang rang out for a merciless second.

Alright, my turn, Casey demanded.

Bullshit, dumpling! Dorena contested in a hot blur, reaching again for her little sister’s lighter. I just got here! I already stopped for the deionizer—I know that’s why Berta’s sent ya up here!

Unfair anger started to circle Casey’s pouting face. Let me have it or else.

Dorena’s smoke blasted out with a cannonball of sibling defiance. Else what??

I’ll tell Petey, Casey’s soprano deepened and tolled as she thought, that you tried to abort him at eight months.

Where do you get this shit? Dorena’s cheeks raised and wrinkled, the smoke bracketing her foggy lips. It was six!

Eight!

Fucking seven—TOPS! Dorena conceded. Alright, I’ll tell mom you got your belly button pierced.

Right, like she’d even care. Casey wasn’t a very good liar, but there was just enough of a neglected crackling in her voice to make it believable. Well, at least to anyone but her big sister.

She’d shit a purple Twinkie! You remember? Dorena got closer, her sneakers slicking up static from the freshly vacuumed carpet. Huh? You remember what she was like when you pierced your own ears? We weren’t allowed to have thumbtacks in the house for five years after that!

Casey’s porcelain features burnt over black as she laid down her winning hand. I’ll tell mom that Paco moved back in.

You wouldn’t fuckin’ dare, Dorena hissed.

The blue eyes stared down the bigger, bolder, and bustier frame in front of them. Hands on hips and with no words, Casey held her gaze for as long as she could.

Inevitably, the possibility of how much her little sister could fuck up her holiday season quickly made its way to Dorena’s baking gray matter. The pipe sailed out of her hand. You little bitch.

Casey’s palm burned as she caught the blown glass pipe thrown her way, emitting a tiny Owww! as even more of the little green sprinkles popped out of its shallow bowl.

Dorena turned back at the doorway. Alright, but I’m coming back for it after I do 323.

Fine! Casey just wanted her sister out of the room so she could get a hit and calm down. Because of how close they’d always been, she hated fighting with her. She had to admit to herself, though, that the rare victories were pretty damn sweet.

And no readings! Dorena ordered. We don’t have time for that shit today. You can do it after we get home.

It’s my break, I can do what I want, the younger sister's assertive whine shot back as the front door opened and closed with a whuuush.

Casey’s arm swept everything to the right side of the coffee table as her tiny hand pulled the big, silk-wrapped stack of tarot cards from her pocket. They had been with her longer than any of her friends, and for almost as long as her family. When she and Dorena’s parents had gone through a divorce over ten years ago, she clipped a mail order coupon from the back of a magazine in hope of finding some light in those dark days. From the moment she opened that plain, brown-paper package, Casey began to memorize the meaning of each card. Drinking in all the symbols, the patterns, and the insight. Years later, that hopeful curiosity had turned into a thirst, a persistent need to second-guess the turns and potholes of one’s own life path.

The blue and white backing on each card danced and skidded as she shuffled and shuffled.

One tumbled out face-up and upside-down from the pack. A seated man clung to four shields emblazoned with stars. Four of Pentacles reversed. Financial instability. Delay. Loss. Lots of things that make you sigh. Just like the short, irritated one Casey did just then.

Yeah, you gonna tell me something I don’t know?

Back into the deck it went.

Back at Maintenance, all the walkie-talkies chirped "Front desk to Ernesto in quadraphonic sound. Junior unplugged the loudest one from the charger dock simply so he could turn it down. The voice at the end belonged to Stacey-Lynn down at Reception—her clear, friendly tone was just as plump and full of life as she was. Front desk to Maintenance."

Junior slid in the button. Yeah, this is Junior.

"Hey there, Junior, do you see Ernesto anywhere?"

No, he’s probably hitting some of the landscaping on the ‘A’ building by now. What ya need?

"Oh okay, could you tell him to swing by if you see him? We have two more dead VCRs here at the front desk, and Gubbins needs at least one of them fixed for the holiday party."

I’ll send him down to grab ‘em when I see him, Junior offered, clipping the walkie to his belt loop.

"Thank yoooou much!"

The band went silent as the raindrops began to whip harder against the windows. Just then, the gusts bolted in, spilling Ernesto’s tall, lithe form into the corridor. Tools on the pegboard rattled in the forked breezes until the door was closed again. Dots of white rain floated on the top of Ernesto’s afro, and the black branches of his fingers held up a couple of slick, tapering oak handles. They were just like the ones bolted to the gas barbecues on each guest room patio.

You see this? Ernesto’s voice cracked, at least an octave higher than usual. His boss was trying his damnedest not to laugh. This is the fourth pair of handles I’ve found in the past hour, man!

Where are you finding them?

On the ground! These folks put their damn Thanksgiving turkeys in the barbecues for ten hours until the lids melt and the handles drop off!

Junior’s smile broke through. He couldn’t keep it away any longer. That’s right, you didn’t start till January. Yeah, we keep the part number on file.

They do this every year?? Ernesto was probably up two full octaves by now.

Every year.

'A'ole pilikia, my brother. Ernesto’s voice was back down to its normal register as he shook his head in vague disgust. I’m on it.

Stacey-Lynn’s looking for you.

Yeah? Ernesto stopped dead. What she want?

Two more VCRs waiting for you at the front desk.

Shiiiit, the young Black fellow slurred, almost to himself, as he started to shuffle off. We need to go back to laserdiscs or somethin’.

Junior caught a reflection of himself in the window. He looked tired and his eyes were stained with worry. His still-hadn’t-been-cut hair hung limply from out underneath his Hawaii cap, slathering around the collar of his branded LeisureFace jacket. Unfortunately, his best friend noticed, as well.

Junebug, man. You okay? Ernesto’s pitch wavered with concern.

Yeah. Junior steeled himself. The truth was getting harder to dish out these days. The humidity was getting to him again, and Junior shoved a few fingers under his cap to give his scalp a scratch. Dad was up in the middle of the night. He thinks the raccoons are rearranging the patio furniture.

Ernesto smiled. Hey, that’s a step up!

Junior scrunched up his face. You serious?

Word! Last time I was there, he talked to me for 20 minutes about Shakira bein’ the one who would start World War III. Ernesto continued, his eyes locking onto a toilet plunger across the way. Your pops is off the wall. For reals. I gotta pay him a visit again soon.

There was a respect in Ernesto’s voice that was most appreciated. Definitely, Junior agreed. He’d like that. A glance to the dusty wall clock above the pegboard jolted him into action. Damn, I gotta check cee-oh-two levels before Gubbins does.

Ernesto was quick to empathize. Dude, we gotta find that motherfucker a hobby. His words growled out softly with a hard-earned resentment he was barely able to contain.

Being the only one who knew of Ernesto’s past, Junior had to be the firm voice of reason. Easy, brother, you don’t need any more court appearances.

Hey, a dark, defensive cadence rang back, I don’t talk about that shit anymore. You know I was just protecting my moms.  Ernesto’s intrinsic and very warranted fear of law enforcement could clearly be heard in his coda. Fourteen months out of twenty-four years isn’t a fair yardstick to be measured by, man.

Yeah, I know that, Junior leveled, but a lot of folks aren’t gonna see it that way if you get yourself in that kind of situation again.

Which is why I’m stuck with jobs like this for the rest of my life, Ernesto lamented. No offense.

None taken. Junior remembered he was running low on pH drops down at the pool’s maintenance room. In his haste, he rattled some vials on the supply rack until he could find a few to stuff into his jeans. You down for some A-building deep cleans after I pick up the QC sheets from Berta?

Yeah. Ernesto’s brows raised as he nodded his head good-naturedly, and for that Junior was thankful. Racism is a sticky subject, and talking about his unfair criminal record made Ernesto’s black skin turn even blacker.

You got the truck? Junior sighed.

Yeah. Hold up, hold up. Ernesto snatched the toilet plunger he'd been eyeing. Junior pulled his hat brim farther down and the figures of both spry, young men sped back out into the downpour.

Down under the front entrance awning, Ernesto pumped the soft brakes of the work truck to a stop. Dirty rain sloshed around the grooves of the LeisureFace long-bed as the rotors squeaked out a quick chirp.

Junior saw Dorena coming, and despite the hairbreadth of time he had to get to the pool and at least begin to look busy, he just sat there...looking around the passenger side wiper blade and through the speckled windshield. Looking. Surveying the confident pout that rose and fell through the smashed curls of her damp hair. Junior was getting worse and worse about tearing his eyes away from her. He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone anymore.

Nigga, you don’t have time for pussy now, Ernesto’s voice honked. Go, man. Go!

Junior fumbled with the chrome handle and shouldered open the door. The raindrops smacked off his eyes and nose as he ran off into the main lobby.

Sitting behind the wheel as his broad smile shone through the late-November murk, Ernesto could only shake his head. A randy giggle spurted out into the cab. Don’t mean I don’t have time for pussy, though.

He swung back the driver’s door and popped up the plunger from the truck bed. Dorena was busy rummaging through her pockets, and Ernesto knew exactly why.

Shit, girl, I bet you just had a cigarette. I’m gonna tell your mama on you.

Dorena tilted her head to the side, bubbling up a defiant smirk. My mama saw yo’ mama at bingo last night.

That’s ‘cause yo’ mama’s a bingo ho!

Hey! Dorena smoothly wiped her grin off as her pointer finger struck out at Ernesto. Don’t be callin’ my mama no hos, muh-fucker. She bent down and whipped a handful of wood bark at him.

Ernesto retreated, mock-screaming like a girl as he made his way past Reception, which is where Stacey-Lynn’s poofy, dishwater blonde hair and chubby, blusher-scrubbed cheeks sunk a bit each minute she struggled with the call rattling into her ear.

No! Her voice echoed around the sofas, cups, and coffee stirrers. She looked around to see if anyone had heard her, self-consciously dropping her volume. I don’t want to talk about this now. I can’t. Stacey-Lynn’s husband, Fitz, was berating her for already being asleep, legs closed, when he came home last night at about 2:45 AM, reeking of Jack ‘n’ Coke and sporting a semi-lump to the left side of his zipper.