Staycation, p.1
Staycation, page 1
RJ Clark
Staycation
First published by M4L Publishing 2023
Copyright © 2023 by RJ Clark
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
RJ Clark asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-951762-56-8
Editing by Melissa Prideaux
Cover art by 100Covers
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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In memory of
Ryan (“Horse”) Gholinghorst,
my brother in horror.
Your leaving was entirely too soon and, more, unfair,
but I am better for having had you as a friend.
#fuckcancer
Contents
WARNING
Staycation
1. Warning: The Rules
2. Day One: Fun and Games
3. All Quiet on St. Augustine Place
4. Two Many Cooks
5. Kibble, And Bits, And Bites
6. Please Leave Us a Message After the—
7. Words, Unspoken
8. Burning for You
9. Gasping for Breath
10. These Dreams
11. Day Three: A Cupful of Useless Shit
12. Feeding Time at the Zoo
13. Shitty Shoes
14. Rabid
15. Gots to Have Faith
16. Dead Air
17. Silent Words
18. Jeepers, Peeper
19. Prestidigitation
20. Lost
21. Day Seven: Strays
22. Patience Pays Off
23. Morning Routines
24. Unsolved Mysteries
25. A Happy Tune
26. Caught Between Two Bad Choices
27. The Bad Man
28. The First Interlude
29. Day Twelve: Dead on Arrival
30. Endless Days
31. Little Pigs
32. Alone Again, or… Not?
33. Day Fifteen, Part One: Sour Suckers
34. Blackout
35. Summertime, and the Living’s Not Easy
36. The Second Interlude
37. Day Fifteen, Part Two: The Witching Hour
38. What’s That I Smell Cooking?
39. Just Say a Little Prayer
40. Doing the Unthinkable
41. Endings Are Hard
42. Salvation Lay Within
43. Day Seventeen: Junior Miller Eats Shit
44. Getting Busy
45. It’s a Sin
46. Masks
47. There’s Children in That There Corn, Ma
48. The Final Interlude
49. The End of Days
50. A Door Opens
51. An Actor Prepares
52. Family First
53. The Postman Always Dies Twice
54. The End of Bob
55. The Whole Enchilada
56. The Winner Takes It All
57. Off to See the Wizard
58. Prayer for the Dying
59. Sore Losers
60. Go Time
61. Win Some, Lose Some
62. The House of Horrors
63. Epilogue
Acknowledgements
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This book is not intended for those easily offended. If you are easily shocked and offended, please do not purchase this title.
This novel is intended for mature audiences only.
Staycation
A staycation (a portmanteau of “stay” and “vacation”) or holistay (a portmanteau of “holiday” and “stay”) is a period in which an individual or family stays home and participates in leisure activities within driving distance and does not require overnight accommodations.
1
Warning: The Rules
At the start, the rules of the game were simple. There were only three, which made them infinitely easy to remember. Five players and three rules, so none of them should have any problems keeping to the objective of the game. Before it began, everyone had the opportunity to ask questions regarding the rules or to seek clarification.
No questions were asked.
Again, the players were asked if they accepted the rules of the game, and each nodded in turn that they did.
And that was how it began. The game.
They called it “Staycation.”
The rules:
Once you have your role, never break character. Ever.
The house is home base and a safe zone. Anywhere inside of the house is fair game, and anything outside the house is out-of-bounds. The basement, however, is the only forbidden zone and is strictly off-limits for all players.
Punishment for breaking any of the rules shall be both swift and severe.
Once the game begins, there is no turning back. No surrender.
The game began on a Friday—the last Friday in June—promptly at six o’clock in the evening.
And it began like this.
2
Day One: Fun and Games
“Honey, I’m home!” The Dad shouted in a booming but exasperated voice.
His thin baritone reverberated through the house, traveling up and down its lengths like electricity. The front door shut with a forceful and deliberate bang to announce not just his arrival, but the official start of the game. In the next room, the dining room, the good plates clattered in the china hutch, rattling what remained of The Mom’s nerves. The set had been a wedding gift many moons ago from one relative or another—The Dad’s mother, perhaps.
The design was loud and obnoxious, so that was a good guess. Like the dresser itself, bought thirdhand at a church flea market in Hunt’s Point, the plates had seen better days. Two dinner plates had been broken, along with a dessert plate. And three Thanksgivings ago, a cup and saucer went missing. They bought a second, more expensive, set last year at the Macy’s after-Christmas sale. The real Macy’s, too—the one on 34th Street in Manhattan and not a “mall Macy’s.” The new set was less of an eyesore than the gifted one, and at least this Thanksgiving, everyone would have a “real” plate.
Their family loathed paper plates. And they despised plastic cutlery even more. Silverware for the poor, they disdainfully called it, even though they were poor. Not quite “may I have some more, sir” Oliver Twist poor, but poor enough. The family boasted that they were the only family on the block that didn’t receive any form of government assistance. They didn’t need “handouts,” The Dad said often enough at barbecues and block parties.
And because they didn’t accept any help, even though they qualified for several programs, their standard of living was well below that of their neighbors, who ate on better plates, had greener lawns, and drove better cars. He pretended not to notice, but The Mom knew he did. Other than a sizeable mortgage, they lived debt-free. Most things they needed, he bought secondhand. Sometimes, even thirdhand.
Even the family car, a 1978 gold-dusted Chevrolet station wagon, was bought used. Very used. The car set them back all of one hundred and fifty dollars and proved to be more reliable than either of them expected, even though the damned thing guzzled gasoline faster than Roger Clinton at an open bar.
But with five kids, she had to get creative to make his salary, which wasn’t significant, stretch. The saving grace was the health benefits. The family paid limited out-of-pocket expenses. And they always got everything back come income tax time in April. They could complain about being unable to afford yearly vacations or summer camp for the kids, but they didn’t.
The Mom had been raised simply, not in poverty. Taught to enjoy the plainer things in a life devoid of “stuff.” Her family taught her to live in the present and appreciate the small, quiet moments. Whereas, with his family, every day was about keeping up with and outdoing the Joneses. Bigger was always better.
Appearances were everything to his parents. They somehow juggled nearly one hundred thousand dollars of debt. He was at least astute enough not to follow his parents down that path of eventual bankruptcy but could still get the kids the almost-newest tech, even if they were a generation behind everyone else at school. He even treated himself to an eighty-inch HDTV, bought used from a guy who knew a guy who got it off a truck.
They were regularly on time with their essential bills. Cable and internet could slip a month or two before they had to cough up the money. Con Edison, the power company, wasn’t nearly as accommodating; they were outright thieves. A day late, and they flipped the off switch on your ass. He may not have been able to out-buy the neighbors, but he was competitive in other less expensive ways—such as claiming bragging rights for not being on welfare. It didn’t cost him a dime, but he sure as fuck felt like a goddamned millionaire every time he said, “Ain’t no welfare babies in my house. No, sir.”
Yes, he was the resident Jeff fucking Bezos of S
3
All Quiet on St. Augustine Place
Despite his shouting, the house remained quiet.
“Unfucking real.” This was not the welcome home he expected. He took a whiff of air and sighed at its blandness. No wafting aromas from the kitchen meant dinner wasn’t yet prepared. The game is definitely not off to a good start, he thought. “I said,” he began and took a long, deep inhalation of air and then released it, shouting even louder than just a moment earlier. “Honey, I’m hoooooome!”
This time, the sounds of loud shuffling feet and some sort of commotion upstairs responded. The ruckus was most likely the kids dropping like a hot potato whatever book or device had momentarily entranced them after realizing he had come home. He let go of his bag, a faded Samsonite brown leather briefcase, and it plonked to the floor, smacking it with a lifeless, dull thud.
“Daddy! You’re finally home,” one of the kids exclaimed. A muffled high-pitched barking rang out, and then a second later, he spied their legs through the railing, tearing down the stairs—two kids and The Dog.
He laughed to himself. It really sounded like a herd of wild elephants. He’d never noticed before, usually being a part of the herd himself.
“Daaaaaaady,” The Boy said, jumping at him.
As he caught The Boy in his outstretched arms, the kid squealed. He ruffled the kid’s hair and was rewarded with a small peck on the cheek. The kid leaned his head back and pointed to his own right cheek. He bent and planted a small kiss. The child snorted and shrieked simultaneously, creating a sound only possible in an excited young boy. He released the kid, and his other child, The Girl, immediately seized him around his legs.
“I missed you, Daddy,” she whimpered into one of his pant legs.
He placed his hands around her head. “Well, I missed you too, baby girl. But I’m home now, and you know what?” The Girl shook her head ever so slightly. “Today is Friday. And you know what that means, don’t you, baby girl?” Again, she shook her head. “It is now, officially, the weekend.”
“No more work, Daddy,” she said softly.
“No more work, baby girl. In fact, I’m going to be home from now on for a while because—”
The Boy squealed, and at the same time, The Dog shot off a rapid-fire succession of arf, arf, arfs.
“Today starts my—”
“Staycation,” he and The Boy said in joyous unison.
He nodded. “That’s right. I’m not going anywhere. I’m on my staycation.”
“For how long, Daddy? How long is staycation?”
“Well now, I guess that depends on you, doesn’t it, baby girl?”
She nodded weakly, not fully understanding the rules of the game that had only begun moments ago.
The Mom walked in, tying an oil-stained apron around her waist as she crossed to The Dad. “Hello, love of my life,” she said dryly.
“Ah, there she is.” He beamed. “Miss America.”
“Hardy-har-har, funny man.” She smiled at him, more to emphasize her lack of anger at his remark than to acknowledge his humor. Her eyes lit up like a Roman candle in the night sky on the Fourth of July. “Oh, my god! What is that on your face?”
He winked at her, trying to act all debonair and shit. “It’s my mustache. Real men have one.”
“Well, I hope you didn’t put it on with a permanent marker because if you did, it’ll never come off. You’ll die with it on your lip,” she said, trying her best not to laugh in his face. “Are you hungry?”
“Of course I am, darling. I’ve been out all day, working hard for this family to provide a roof and security. That kind of dedication makes one hungry. Ravenous.”
“You could’ve just said yes, you know, Bi—” She stopped herself. A horrified look overtook her face. “You… you coulda just said yes is all I meant to say.”
“You sure?” he asked with a mischievous grin.
“Yes.”
“Well, all right then.”
“I’ll… I’ll go make something for dinner.” She turned toward the kitchen and, in an instant, was pulled violently back to him. She wobbled into his arms, knocking The Daughter out of the way as her body pressed against his. His arms encircled her, moving slowly up and down her back. She could feel his hands moving lower and lower, toward her ass, and his hot breath on the nape of her neck. And something else. A hardness at his groin.
“Where’s my kiss, Mama?”
Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest. He had caught her off guard. This wasn’t something she’d anticipated, and she wondered for a second as she struggled to find her breath and words if she should have. “Your what?” she asked, her voice breaking on the what.
He pulled her closer to him. She could feel his heart racing in his chest, too. His breath was fast. Excited. Hot. Heavy. And that hardness in his pants throbbed and pressed into her lower region, her erogenous zone. “My…,” he began, stopping to breathe in her scent in an exaggerated way that almost made her laugh. She would have, too, if she weren’t trembling in fear. “…kiss.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as their eyes locked. She didn’t know why she felt so uncomfortable, but she did. The way he was looking at her; lusting after her, it seemed. He’d never looked at her with such lewdness in his eyes before. It felt unnatural. And that hardness. Was it because of her? Was it for her? And what did he intend to do with it?
She gulped the ball of spit that had amassed in her mouth and leaned in closer to his cheek. She puckered her lips, making a duck face, and as quickly as she could, she touched her lips to his stubbly skin before withdrawing with a loud mwah.
“There,” she said with some relief. She tried to jostle herself out of his embrace, to turn and leave, but he gripped her even tighter, coveting her. His hands seized her by her slender hips and pulled her waiflike frame back to him. She lowered her head as best she could manage and averted her eyes as The Dog continued its incessant yapping. The sound hadn’t gotten under his skin yet since he was preoccupied. But it would. Soon enough. It wouldn’t be long before he’d tire of The Dog entirely.
“Come on now? Seriously,” he said. His breath ruffled the hair on the top of her head. “You call that a kiss?”
“I do. Yes,” she said into his oversized shirt.
“After a hard day’s work, you think a man wants to come home to his house, his castle, to that? Limp is what it is.” He sucked his teeth, and she noted, again, that he was not in the slightest bit limp at the moment.
The sucking sound repulsed her and made her skin crawl. He’d never made that noise before. Who did he pick that new annoyance up from? she wondered. If he was going to do it for the entire staycation, along with the already button-pushing eating with his mouth open, it was going to be a long, long couple of weeks. And heaven help her if it, the game, went any longer than that.
“As the man of this house, I’d say I’m entitled to more.” He gripped her tighter. “Much more.”
She craned her head slightly, just enough to catch sight of him leering down at her and said, “What do you—”
Before she could say the word want, he forced his mouth on hers. He leaned her back as her arms flailed about helplessly until they resembled, ironically enough, the lip-locked couple in that famous 1945 Time-Life photo, V-J Day in Times Square, also known simply as The Kiss. He grunted deeply into her mouth. She replied with a series of muted protesting squeals and cries.
It’s going too far already, she thought as she fought against him. This was going too far. But it isn’t against the rules of the game, a tiny defeatist voice in the back of her brain said. Of course, it wasn’t. The game had been his idea. He made up the rules. Everyone else wanted to play, but she didn’t. It wasn’t that it didn’t sound fun because it did—a little. The game itself wasn’t what turned her off. It was his excitement. He was like a dog in heat about it. And now, here he was practically humping her leg as soon as the game began. She felt her stomach drop even as she continued to wriggle her body against his grip. This was a bad idea, she thought to herself.
For what seemed like an hour, he tried in vain to snake his tongue past her tightly sealed lips.
