DISCLAIMER: It’s Uber. It might be scary. It might have sex. There could even be violence. So, it’s for grown ups.
WARNING: The beliefs, comments, and 'writings' of six of the characters presented in this story are not the same as the author (you know, me) of THE RETREAT. Several of the characters introduced in Part 5 hold values which are contrary to the US Constitution and the basic roots of American ideals. My purpose in included these characters is to explore the terror of intellectual evil. If reading about ignorant and biased minds bothers you then please read something else.
FEEDBACK: Is welcome. p.phair@comcast.net or you can visit my web site at http://www.phair1.com
Taylor wasn't really sure what to think. In the two days since their first shower together, Bailey and she had silently agreed to continue to shower together. They worked during the days getting Sagamore Place ready for the expected and honored, paying guests. Before the heat of the day was gone, the two would help each other wash away their accumulated sweat and grime under the cold water spray. It was gentle and teasing and just a tad erotic but nothing more than that. Taylor wasn't really sure if she wanted it to be something more than that. Maybe a summer fling on the other team would be interesting, enlightening even. But if things didn't work out, as most summer flings went, Bailey could get really hurt. And, if Bailey got hurt, would she make certain Taylor got hurt too?
"HEAVEN ABOVE, HELP ME! EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! ALL OF YOU, COME AT ONCE!" Madame's shriek rattled the house to the rafters; fake French accent and all.
Taylor dropped the scrub brush she was using to polish the brass door knobs on the guest rooms. She silently cursed the interruption. She was certain this was some stupid bit of theatre Madame was playing out for them. Just a little drama to get the blood racing before sending everybody back to the tedious boredom of their daily chores.
"Our guests are arriving at any moment. They're nearly a day early. No time left to make ready! No time left at all! I'll be ruined!" Madame wailed before she swooned into a dead faint.
Igor was behind her, right on cue, to catch her limp body. Lovingly, he lowered her to the foyer's cold marble floor. He began to fan her with the stiff long fingers of his right hand while showering her forehead with kisses from his colorless, chapped lips.
"Oh, for God's sake," Taylor rolled her eyes at the act.
"You should thank God he caught her," Bailey mumbled with a hint of irritation.
"Got that right. There's no time left to repair a gaping crack in the front lobby's floor," Taylor whispered in reply.
"I heard that! You are a vicious, spitefully thin girl," Madame's eyes snapped open and she pointed an accusing finger at Taylor. "I won't forget it either. Another opportunity with be most welcome to correct your horrible manners. Now, however, there is no time for such pleasantness. Instead, we must prepare for our guests as best we can. You two, start dinner and be ready to greet our company the moment they arrive. Bring each to the library. They already have their assigned seats. My sweet, dear, boy, you must help me upstairs so I may make myself more presentable," she cradled Igor's pasty white face in her pudgy hand.
Without a second thought, Igor picked Madame up and carried her to the stairs.
"I haven't seen a move that graceful since Swan Lake," Taylor muttered to a stoic Bailey.
"Tonight's menu is on the table in the kitchen. Each item is to be served exactly as described to the minute prescribed. I'll tolerate no mistakes. You have been warned!" Madame hollered like a longshoreman as Igor whisked her off to her room.
"This ought to be a barrel of fun," Taylor grimaced.
"Well, let's just keep our fingers crossed that nothin' bizarre happens," Bailey crossed her fingers and started for the kitchen.
"Nothing bizarre? You've got to be kidding me? Have you been with me this whole week or what? The entire situation is, to turn a phrase, bizarre." Taylor swallowed hard, "It's also more than a little creepy. That woman, God only knows why, is faking a French accent. Her disposition vacillates between a drill sergeant and some fragile virgin out on her first date. Her boyfriend with the nasty temper, looks like he's three days dead and just waiting around for the grave to get dug. Then there's you. You let them lock you in a dingy shed at night because you're a criminal on work release and the arrangements here are so much better than prison. And me, I'm just going along for the freak house ride of the century because I 'won' a stupid internship."
"Oh, that stuff? That's no big deal," Bailey waved her hand in dismissal. "I'm talkin' serious bizarre! You know, like drugs, underage sex, and all that Hollywood shit. You know, doin's that can land me inside again takin' serious hard time," Bailey patiently explained as she reached out for Taylor's hand to lead her to the kitchen.
Taylor let out a heavy sigh, "I'm starting to wonder where they sent the runner up."
"Okay, since when is a Bloody Mary considered a main course?" Taylor grumbled as she struggled to mix the drink. "And, how safe is it to serve the same person a fresh one every thirty eight minutes?"
"Tonight, it's his dinner," Bailey nodded her head toward the tanned faced figure with tight gray corn rowed hair sitting on the floor wearing an orange and black caftan, "her dinner. I'm guessing from his or her smile that it's safe enough for him, her, it, ah, whatever."
Taylor gave a grin at Bailey's confusion, "That would be Giuseppe. For you to understand the writer, the human soul before you, I'll quote the most important of Giuseppe's poems. 'I be neither he nor she nor black nor red nor white nor you/ I be/ It must be enough for you to be me/' There're another seven hundred stanzas but you get the idea that Giuseppe seeks to be androgynous, multi culture, multi racial,…"
"Unidentifiable?"
"Right!" Taylor stopped her work to look at Bailey, "Giuseppe's writing is a reaction to mass classification. Giuseppe tries to strip away all the markers from life that are meaningless after death."
"Oh yeah, well breathing is meaningless after death but I'd hate to have it stripped away at the moment, thank you kindly."
Taylor let out a sigh. She had no suitable argument against Bailey's logic and decided to go back to bitterly mixing the drinks designated as the writers' main course.
"Can't you be happy that the most difficult food we have to serve tonight is mini hot dogs?" Bailey finely broke the silence. "Look at 'em. The six of 'em are sittin' happy as pigs in shit getting' stinkin' drunk and all we gots to do is pour," Bailey added a half cup of orange juice to the half cup of vodka already in the glass on the bar.
Taylor glanced around the room. Bailey was right. Each of the literary luminaries were sitting silently getting sauced out of their minds as they waited for Madame. They had paid a small fortune for this exclusive writer's retreat to jump start the creative process. Taylor tried to shake off the feeling of dread wrapping itself around her. She believed beginning the retreat with a drinking binge was truly dooming the writers to failure.
"This can't be part of the program," Taylor complained out loud again. "Alcohol and writing are traditionally a disastrous combination. It leads to nothing but dead ends; writer's block, bad marriages, children, and hack attempts at literature."
"Taylor, I'm sure you're right, 'cause you're always right, but can't you see your way to go along on this one so I don't have nothin' much more to cook?" Bailey pleaded.
Taylor grudgingly nodded her agreement.
"Thanks, cause I'm really tired," Bailey's whispered reply was interrupted by the double doors to the room opening.
"My honor guests!" Madame made a grand entrance with Igor, dressed in an ill fitting, outdated tuxedo, escorting her. "I'm so sorry to be the last to arrive. Please forgive me. If you remain seated here in the library then my servants will provide for all your needs before our communal bedtime."
"Communal bedtime, my ass," a tall man with a ruddy complex cursed. "No woman's sent me to bed since my mamie got herself lynched. I ain't goin' back to that no how, no way, ma'am."
"It seems we can still count on Mr. Hix to provide that southern charm the world so desperately lacks," a woman, slamming back Manhattans, dressed in a finely tailored, conservative blue skirt and jacket casually observed. The straight backed hard wood chair seemed perfectly suited for her rigid frame.
"No, no, my talented darlings, I must insist on no petty bickering between yourselves. To do so will invite my merciless wrath." Madame's motherly tone suddenly turned icy, "You were first to break the first rule: silence unless spoken to, Mr. Hix. It is only fair then that you should stand and introduce yourself first."
The big man struggled to his feet from the low, cloth covered chair he had been lounging in. He had downed almost a case of domestic beer and three tiny hot dog weenies.
"I didn't mean to offend you none, Madame," he tipped his cowboy hat as he stuck a thumb in the waistband of his pants. "I'm the down to earth kind. I tries to say my peace plain and simple like. So's most folk can understand my meaning. For those of you that don't know me, my given name is Redman Hix. I hail from much south of here," he gave a smile and a wink. "I'm from the great state of Texas…,"
"NEVER TRY TO LIE TO ME AGAIN!" Madame interrupted with a deafening shout. "Your name is really Roger Hixon. You were born and raised in the north. The small but pretentious state of Connecticut, to be exact. Your parents, insurance sales representatives, sent you to Texas to attend an elite prep school which would position you better to get into William and Mary. God knows, your grades weren't going to get you a seat in the freshman class of 1973. SIT!" Redman sank into his chair. "Let me read a short passage of your most celebrated work to the group for their edification."
Igor handed her a leather binder from the bookshelf. She flipped several pages. The room was still as the rapidly sobering writers waited.
"Ah, yes, here it is. From the book, A MAN'S MAN. The chapter is called Hunting. 'It's tusks were still dripping warm and clotting, red blood; the last sign we'd ever see of our aborigine safari guide, may God rest the boy we could not find enough of to bury. The beast snorted, pawing the dirt, sending warning of it's intent to gore any creature foolish enough to stand in it's brutal path of destruction. I am that foolish but I am no creature. I am a man. Armed with only a shotgun, two bullets, and my nerve…,' What absolute drivel! Thankfully, you have not written another book since so you have done limited harm to your readers."
The group let out a chuckle. It could have been from the pent up nervous energy or glee at Redman's reprimand. Madame would not suffer even that small transgression of her rules. She glared around the room searching for the biggest grin. The room fell silent once again.
"Driscoll McGee!" Madame's voice dripped with insincerity, "How lovely that you are enjoying yourself at the expense of an equal. You and Redman first published the same year."
Driscoll snorted in disgust at the comment, "True but I was much younger than he."
"STAND UP! When I speak, you sniveling losers are to STAND! Now, McGee introduce yourself to the group."
"I am Driscoll McGee." Standing, she smoothed her perfectly combed platinum hair. "I have produced numerous articles for the magazine, Voices Of Reason, as well as having written several books on modern etiquette. I was born in Germany where my father was stationed while in the service. I have lived in many foreign countries and most states in the union during my army brat time. Currently, I choose to live on a ranch in Montana; far from the bustle and poor manners of urban life."
"Ranch?" Madame questioned. "I thought it was more of a compound. You know, a place for like minded, like spirited, like colored people to…, what's the phrase, my dear boy?"
"Hold up and hide out, Madame," Igor replied as he handed another leather binder to the woman.
"That's right. Let's see, ah yes, this is from your 'etiquette' book, CIVIL BEHAVIOR FOR UNCIVILIZED TIMES. 'In the current permissive climate, where diversity and equality are the watch words, people of breeding are often forced to associate with the baser elements of society. While it is necessary to maintain polite interaction during daily routines, it is essential the class structure be preserved at any cost. One must never hesitate to draw a line in the sand between us and them. If the line must be maintained by lethal force then so be it.' This was not published in the United States or in English, for that matter, was it, Driscoll?"
"How did you get that? It was only released yesterday!" The woman fumed.
"Under your Nome de plume, General Order, in Germany only, right? Or is the French leaflet version still planned to move forward for Paris and Quebec?" Madame smiled broadly.
"I'll have my lawyer eat you for lunch!"
"No, you won't. It's not this kind of writing you want publicity for, is it? You want to fund your racist views and agenda with polite books on cooking, entertaining, and manners. You came here hoping to recapture the words of the gentle, all American McGee. A truly fictional character who has been steadily slipping from your grasp. Sit down." Madame turned to the well dressed black man sitting in a regal chair near the fireplace. "Are you comfortable, Mr. Alexander?"
"Yes. Please, Madame, my name is Ashton Alexander. I would appreciate it if you addressed me as such. Mister is a slave term," the young man pronounced from his chair before sipping his Cognac.
"Of course, Ashton Alexander. You should know the roots of social address better than any. After all, it was your great, great, grandfather who ran the slave trade along the African coast for years. The main group currently supplying African children as slave soldiers to the various wars in the region and to eastern kings for who knows what purposes is headed by a first cousin of yours, right?"
"Not a first cousin, no! He is third or fourth or something. How should I know?" Ashton took a deep breath before continuing, "He's caught in the trap left by centuries of the slavery trade. The man is only trying to keep himself and his people alive and safe in the economic void created by the oppressors."
"So, it's tolerable for him to sell his neighbors' children into a living hell? For those that don't know, Ashton wrote a provocative article calling African men to action last year. It ended something like this, 'Look to your skin. Is it dark? Is it like the night sky? Is it like the rich soil that yields fresh harvest? Is it like the fatherless boy in chains before you? It might seem like it is but scratch the surface and see the white. You have lessened yourself to their level in the name of survival. You must rise up! You must be better than the oppressors. You must reign supreme in your own land before you can claim the world. Not to do so will mean you are nothing but women, whores for the white oppressors.' Did I capture the essence?"
"Yes," Ashton smiled broadly. "If you thought I would be embarrassed then you are mistaken. I believed those words when I wrote them and I believe them now."
"Yes, I'm sure you did and do. Even though you've never been to Africa and your ethnicity is actually Spanish with some Jamaican elements. But, that's neither here nor there. You've lost your writer's voice. That's why you're with us or I should say that's why your oppressive, white agent sent you to me. He needs you to find your edge again." Madame smiled at Ashton who remained defiantly seated, "why do you have the whole bottle of Cognac?"
"You have female servers. I will take nothing from the corrupt hand of a woman," he grinned at the gasp around the room. "If the black man is going to reclaim his God given place in the world then women must be shown their place. For too long now, women have usurped our power and destroyed our pride. Women must learn their place. They are for satisfying their husband's desires and nothing more."
Before anybody in the room could protest Ashton's statement, Madame let out a shrill scream, "BAILEY!"
"Ah, shit," the woman cursed as she moved to the center of the room. "Yes, Madame?"
"You were instructed to serve Ashton his drinks, were you not?" Madame's teeth were clenched.
"He got the bottle and glass himself. He wouldn't answer me when I tried to talk to him," Bailey explained in a soft voice.
"Moron! Back to the shed! No food, no water, no shower! Go or I might decide to send you back from where you came!" Madame's spittle was flying as she screamed at Bailey.
Igor moved forward and grabbed Bailey by the elbow. He roughly dragged her from the room amid several attempted protests from the writers and Taylor. Ashton continued to smirk.
"You're a real piece of work," Redman scowled at Ashton.
"I find myself stunned to be agreeing with Hix but this display was quite outrageous," the previously silent Eliyahu Shukhman spoke.
The last of the authors, Puanani Wanaka Moananani Berulo, began the traditional Hawaiian prayer of cleansing from her seat on the sofa next to Shukhman.
Taylor tremble with rage. She was torn between chasing after Bailey and going after Madame. Her fear for Bailey actually being sent back to prison stopped her. She remained standing behind the bar as the din in the room rose with the authors' agitation.
"ENOUGH!" Madame barked and the room fell silent once again. "All of you have room assignments. You will go to them at once. We will begin again tomorrow. Go, now! You have given me a frightful headache. Go, before I decide to cancel the entire retreat. What will your agents and publishers do if I send you back to them tonight as hopeless cases?"
The group muttered as they left their chairs. However, they quickly cleared the room. Taylor and Madame were left alone.
"Taylor, I would so love a glass of water," Madame requested.
Bring the tepid water across the room, Taylor decided to take a chance, "Madame, may I check on Bailey before I go to bed?"
"Certainly," Madame smiled and sipped the water. "Both of you may have a can of beer and the rest of those little weenies if you like. Job well done!"
Taylor was stunned to silence. She could not believe what she was hearing. Waiting with her mouth hanging open only caused Madame to laugh.
"Girl, you seem to be trying to catch flies. Go ahead and take what food you want and the beer to Bailey. The shed will be left unlocked tonight. Thank her for all her hard work."
"I don't get it. Aren't you mad? Wasn't tonight a disaster?" Taylor pressed the woman.
"Not at all, my foolish girl. Tonight went better than expected. All our guests are stupid, vain, bigoted, hateful, shallow liars. Personality traits they have desperately tried to hide from the world." Madame chuckled, "And now they know that I know who they really are. Their days of hiding are over. Just wait until you see them start to sweat tomorrow."
"And they paid for you to expose them," Taylor stared at Madame in awe.
"That, Taylor, is the sweetest part of this scam!"