The Pleasure Grift

An indulgent short story about the clever deception of pleasure.

Mama does what mamas do.  Loves.  Encourages.  Says things like, “Who dreams near-fetched dreams?”

Meet One Story, who Mama calls Uno, a long winding blacktop of a story with a far fetched, if not awkward, dream to become a cliché and travel with The Greatest Cliché on Earth.  Town folk dismiss the dream as the ignorant exuberance of a misfit.  Family questions why Mama allows her pride and joy to dream a dream so high, so lofty, that at times it’s barely visible through the haze of reality.  They cite “simple”, “flawless”, “unforgettable”.  Well known nonnegotiable industry standards that are AWOL in Uno.  Two out of three draw scornful looks from industry magnets and earn cliché hopefuls speedy escorts back to their beige, bland landscape.  Simple, but flawed? “Get goin’!”  Flawless, yet forgettable? “Scram.  Hit the bricks.”  Pockmarked with wordiness and complex punctuation, Uno toils midnight oil late, isolated in a hushed effort to simplify, to clean and gut the superfluous.  One fleeting distraction, an extra blink of the eye… SNAP! goes the string and the dream fades into the wild blue yonder.

When cliché money makers and tree shakers make front page news, Uno, envious, of the green variety, slinks away whining.  Not whiny like leg weary sunburned toddlers, who scream and tantrum, after navigating the zoo’s asphalt maze on the hottest day of the year.  The whine is akin to a teenage girl, in tone and cadence, complaining to friends to confirm that she is unloved, possibly abused, definitely neglected, because her parents were forcing… kidnapping her to go camping, CAMPING!

Mama always finds Uno, the worker ant, tightening its game, because The Greatest Cliché on Earth only arrives every six or nine blue moons or so.  As the fog of excitement encroaches, Uno focuses on the substance of Hocus Pocus because this time is the time the rabbit must appear.  No do-overs.  Now or never.  Teaser posters and lobby cards have whet palates.  Handbills litter the town.  Banners and billboard splash color, bright primary colors, across the monotony.  The Three Ring Finale is an “Elixir of Joy” with gobs and gobs of bliss wedged and crammed inside.  Gobs!  Yes, it’s true.  No, not too good to be true, or so they say.

Parched arid souls migrate and crowd the roadside, wide and deep, and push and elbow until WHOA! spilling into the road when the convoy appears.  Trucks part the mob as they swarm, jump, and scream.  Horns blow.  Sirens flash.  Toddlers sit on shoulders.  Flimsy signs tout a favorite cliché.  The vehicles split into smaller convoys, and split again and again, snaking through the town like a river feeding its tributaries.  Voluminous tents, tall and slick, stretched PING tight, pop up with speed and precision.  Flags dot peaks.  Bright lights cascade.  The atmosphere goads folks to pay for a Sneak Peek.  Imaginations romp and frolic as ‘peekers’ exit with wide grins and tight lips.  Mums the word!  Someone shouts, “I can’t wait!”  The crowd roars in approval.

Opening Day.  Blue skies.  Clean thin breezes.  Balloon bouquets sway.  Big bands trumpet.  Bells ring.  Buzzers buzz.  The strongman flexes.  Balls smash into milk-can pyramids.  WINNER! WINNER!  Town folk consume Umami on sticks or stuffed in cones.  Street vendors crisscross streets and zigzag through alleys until the town is bloated with toothy smiles, full body hugs, and hearty handshakes.  The electric buzz, now thick and gooey, paces in its cage, smolders just beneath the surface KABOOM! A three day prescription of Pleasure, mixed with Happiness and Cheer, spews into the air.  No refills.  It glitters aimlessly until it descends like pixie dust.  Town folk draw long deep breaths and hold.  Savor and relish.  Shoulders relax.  Faces soften.  The dog days of getting by, of clawing to… barely… get by… forgotten.

Opening Day is for runny nose, open mic night amateurs.  Grand productions inside those PING tight tents leads Uno to hike to a local dive, a way out of the way spot, where cash is trash.  Tickets are king!  A place where winners win, cheaters cheat, thieves thieve, and chumps get chumped.  Away from Mama, a polite and civil Uno can, if necessary, recalibrate the moral compass and commit wrongdoings of varying degrees when tickets get slippery, wet green moss slippery, and enter contracts slathered with gray moral zones.  So not to get caught with the bag, purple velvet and pregnant with tickets, Uno sits high and out of sight in dark places and absorbs.  Studies.  Eyes pinwheel.  Show after show, icons keep the pedal down and empty their tank.  Spilled Milk, Sliced Bread, and Hall of Fame Chicken with It tastes like chicken… FLAWLESS!  Spring and Fall (forward and back) and the Peas with their pods.  UNFORGETTABLE!  The Fat Lady and Cloud Nine receive standing ovations.  Down cancelled (in the dumps again).  Up-&-comer clichés instill hope SHAZAAM!  The farfetched dream doesn’t seem so farfetched.

Charity, complete with top hat and cane, sidles up when Pleasure, near expiration, is ripe and plump and hangs low.  The message: Generosity.  The tagline: A Bountiful Harvest.  Help Thy Neighbor sweeps the community, “Sure, we’ll make room for ya, big fella” or “There’s plenty sweetie, get a plate.”  Friendships flourish.  Pleasure peaks.  Bellies laden with rich and succulent Pleasure loosen belts, unbutton pants, and settle in for a nap.  Visions of the good life, easy like cake, swirl in their heads.  Lazy thoughts become rhythmic breathing and deep snores.

Indulgence, stage left, salivates ready to answer the call and slither into town.  Tiny and thin, it darts between shadows stalking its prized prey.  It creeps close, latches on, pricks the skin, and injects wisps of Greed.  A microscopic prick is all that’s needed for the infection to thrive.  That’s it.  Quick and easy.  Nip and tuck.  Indulgence clocks out.  Greed takes a number, finds a molded plastic seat, and waits.  Pleasure will dwindle and when heads swivel searching, “Where’d it go?” Greed circles the perimeter.  Wisps of Greed seep through cracked window panes.  The benevolent flame flickers, fights until POOF! it dies.  Town folk soon negotiate what was once nonnegotiable.  Compromise steadfast morals, eliminate boundaries, dampen the conscious, to join the no holds bar mêlée for one more inhale, one last breath spiked with Pleasure.  Greed smiles, tosses the number away, and makes room for Selfishness.

The quintessential bamboozler, Selfishness takes its place camouflaged on the horizon and zeroes in on that thing it does so well.  Wool, thick and heavy, blinds.  Mirrors distort and conceal truth.  Trap doors frustrate.  Honorable folks once kind and generous, become selfish and aggressive, even dangerous, and trample relationships to elevate their interest up the line.  Selfishness begets distrust.  Friendships dissolve.  Tempers flare.  Fingers point.  Lips accuse.  Emotions spill over onto the saucer.  Fear emerges from its cocoon, drops to the ground, ready to run its race.  Head still.  Shoulders level.  Fear reaches back to secure the baton from Selfishness and accelerates.

Fear tornadoes into town leaving a trail of debris in its wake.  The alpha male is on scene.  It moves in, locks the doors, dims the lights, shuts the blinds, and SQUATS!  Fear owns the whole shebang, life itself, and pulverizes rational thought.  Town folk convert to frothy rabid mindless sheep.  Fear finds Uno SQUAT!  “Really Uno?  You?  The town misfit good enough?  Look at you, you’ll embarrass Mama.”  Uno stares in the mirror.  Gut check.  A final inspection.  Fit and trim.  Wordiness and excessive punctuation gone.  The dream is too close.  Despite trembling hands and a faint heart, Uno laces up a pair of dependable boots and, with both feet, commences to stomp out Fear.

The Dream knocks.  Uno answers.  Smiles.  Gives a firm shake and auditions with heart on sleeve.  It’s simple!  Flawless!  But unforgettable?  The Dream says, “We’ll be in touch.”  The pregnant bag now empty, Uno walks home past the Three Ring Bazaar dispensing its gobs of promised bliss.  Under the cover of night, when the stakes are pulled, and the convoy leaves SWOOSH! for “Bigger and Better”, Joy quietly SHHHH! makes a house call.  The town awakens, with sticky cotton white mouths, to their customary beige bland tasteless monotony.  Fear cracks the whip.  The dog days of clawing… just to… get by… return.

The Rainmaker, the false respite, arrives with a different brand of Pleasure promising, “Better taste!  Longer lasting!  Twice the Pleasure!”  The parched town folk crowd, wide and deep, around the makeshift stage, primed yet again to negotiate the nonnegotiable for one inhale.  One breath.  The Rainmaker knows Joy is in town and fears, if town folk breathe Joy, Pleasure is done because Joy makes bland beautiful.  Monotonous purposeful.  Joy sticks around like meat and potatoes, digs a foxhole, and fights.  Joy is loyal.  The Rainmaker eyes Joy on Mama’s porch, rocking side by side, reading and rereading Uno’s postcards from the road.  Inside, Mama’s Little One toils, midnight oil late, in pursuit of a farfetched if not awkward dream. 

The electric buzz… thick, gooey, pacing KABOOM!

Author's Note

This began as a writing exercise I assigned myself after reading Girl Gone that slowly morphed into my first writing contest entry.