CHAPTER 0:

FOREPLAY. 

Things are cruising along just dandy for one Lucas Dalton. 

He’s just wrapped up ogling the glamorous antics of Brooke Burke tearing up the French Riviera on a rerun of Wild on E! 

Next up? The uproarious antics of Howard Stern. Strippers baring it all? Provocative interviews? Baba-booey shenanigans? Bring it on! And then, perhaps a switch to Late Night with Conan O’Brien. Word on the TV Guide Channel has it that tonight's festivities would include an appearance by none other than Triumph the Insult Comic Dog! Ah, the irresistible allure and playful spirit inherent in the comedic realm of poop jokes.

Lucas, your quintessential white suburban teen hailing from the cozy Chicago suburb of Oakhurst, Illinois, dares to dream grandiose dreams. He’s convinced he will walk down the aisle with Brooke Burke, or maybe someone more age-appropriate like Ashlee Simpson or Lindsay Lohan. And he will be a writer—maybe for Howard or Conan, or perhaps penning lyrics for Ashlee or Lindsay.

The future looks bright—aight!

Meanwhile, Lucas is on cloud nine, albeit quite stoned and ravenously hungry. It dawns on him that there are Totino’s pizza rolls chilling in the freezer, awaiting his insatiable appetite. 

Off he dashes to the kitchen, snatching up his pizza treasures and popping them into the microwave. As they twirl and sizzle, Lucas has a moment of clarity: ‘Life’s pretty darn sweet right now.’

Then, out of the blue, the Dalton family’s home phone rings.

Little does Lucas know, but this call was going to change his life forever.

CHAPTER 1:

AN ANXIOUS MAN. 

Unaware, yet undeterred, Lucas Dalton awakes from slumber once more.

‘Today will be a good day, or at least a better day,’ he tells himself. 

A marine layer still hovers over his mind, or maybe it’s just a three pinot hangover. Whatever it is, hopefully it will burn off by noon. He isn’t ready to get out of bed, so he reaches for the nightstand and grabs his phone.  

There’s nothing like a dopamine hit of Instagram in the morning.

On his Insta feed is an advertisement featuring a grinning cactus waving to Lucas. The cactus dons a campy flamingo pink fedora and sports a hipsterish brown handlebar mustache. The tall succulent even rocks what looks to be a pair of classic Ray-Ban wayfarer sunglasses. 

Lucas decides that this stylish succulent deserves a name. How about Clayton? Clayton the Cactus. Alliteration is pleasing.

Perhaps subconsciously (well, now consciously) Lucas likes the cactus because it resembles himself. He’s fairly tall (6 feet, ⅔ inches, so basically 6’1’’), likes wearing unique hats, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and has some facial hair of his own (not a handlebar mustache, just a consistent 9-o’clock shadow). Clayton has as many spikes as Lucas does freckles, and like Clayton the Cactus, Lucas also has a friendly disposition. He frequently waves at people when he’s jogging. However, underneath his shy, yet friendly exterior, he could be a tad well—prickly.

In the not-so-distant future, in the la-di-da paradise known as Brentwood, where the salty Pacific Ocean air dances with the sweet aroma of wealth, nestled within the sensational city of Los Angeles—home to sun, fun, fires, desires, natural blondes, peroxide blondes, dumb blondes, dead blondes, despair, poor air, Dodgers, Angels, demons, Kings, queens, Lakers, and a whole lotta fakers—Lucas Dalton lays in his modern contemporary (yet, ever consistently squeaky) California King bed he shares with his best friend, roommate, and occasional lover: his wife April. And occasionally their spunky daughter Ellie jumps in when she has a dream full of spooks—or worse—a diaper full of poops. 

April is taking Ellie to day care which is always a trip. It’s not far, nearby in Santa Monica, it's just an experience. 

Daycare in LA is basically the modern day mafia. 

• There’s extortion: paying someone a ton of cash for your child’s protection from harm (like bee stings and diaper rash).

• The respected, yet feared elder ‘Godfather’ figure you must show your respects to in order to remain in his favor. In this case, the Godfather figure is an older, Scandinavian woman named Teacher Lilly.

• There are many hits carried out in a shockingly cruel manner: parents get hit with surprise fees: ‘weekly sandbox cleaning,’ hit with random holidays where the school is closed (Vaffeldagen, aka, ‘Waffle Day’), and worst of all—hit with activities requiring parent chaperones (luckily, the LA Zoo has booze). 

Lucas looks down at his phone once more. It turns out Clayton is a spokes- cactus for Desert Delights Hotel, a 4-star Palm Springs resort and spa with a a nightly champagne sabering, ukulele wake up service, and a ‘bespoke breakfast buffet’ featuring everything from Chia pudding, Japanese tamagoyaki, shakshuka, Dutch baby pancakes, and bacon!

The phone must have overheard Lucas mentioning to his wife the other night that they should head to Palm Springs for a weekend soon. 

Lucas has accepted that big tech are the new overlords of our society. He operates under the assumption that virtually every device is eavesdropping on his conversations at all times. So, Lucas just tries not to say anything too weird. But in this case, Big Brother has been a big help. He was looking for a boutique Palm Springs hotel. And this one looks perfect. The machines have won. They’ve enslaved us all, not by force, but by catering to our laziness and stroking our vanity.  

Lucas does the unthinkable. He clicks on the ad’s pastel pink ‘Learn More’ button. Lucas works in advertising himself, so he knows the game they’re playing. But he’s just so fucking intrigued by this hotel—and he isn’t quite ready to get out of bed. 

Lucas begins to read about the Desert Delight’s spa services such as micro membrane penetration, deep head massage, and butt knuckling. 

His arousing thoughts are rudely interrupted by the price of the hotel and spa services. Rooms start at $849 a night. And who knew a 30-minute butt knuckling would cost more than $400?! Lucas could really use a butt knuckling. His cheeks were tense. He is tense. ‘I’ll never be able to afford this hotel,’ Lucas worries. 

Lucas is a very anxious person. 

Because, well, there’s just so many things to worry about! 

Worst yet, ever since his first pimple, Lucas’s Anxiety has been living rent-free in his head. 

“It may be rent-free, but it’s pretty cramped in here!”

“Quiet, Alex!” utters Lucas.

Alex Anxiety. Lucas figures if this thing was going to be with him for the rest of his life, it at least deserved a name. Alex seemed to be an ideal name for his anxiety as it was negative gender-neutral, meaning it possessed the worst traits of both sexes. Alex was manipulative, negative, persistent, unwavering—yet sometimes good for a laugh now and then. 

“Aww, thanks, Lucas! Btw, have you checked your savings account lately?” 

Yes, the main thing Lucas worries about now are not facial blemishes, but  rather financial blemishes (Lucas still worries about facial blemishes as well). 

Money: Lucas never seems to have enough of it. 

Quite the conundrum, you see. As Lucas enters his mid-30s, his tastes have matured, now leaning towards the finer, more upscale things in life. 

Wine and gin precisely. 

Lucas and his April love their pinots and cabernets and martinis and tonics.

People said Napa Valley would be expensive. But the real expense was the raising of expectations of what wine should taste like. Typically, the more a wine costs, the better it tastes.  

Who knew? 

After nearly a week of sipping on well-balanced, full-bodied reds displaying a smooth, velvety finish, Lucas could simply not go back to drinking the overly acidic wines of bottles past. His matured palette demanded notes of black cherry, tobacco, spices, and chocolate. Not vinegar and ass. 

Ergo, Lucas and April joined seven wine clubs while vacationing in Napa. 

Lucas’s taste in gin progressed from Gordon’s to Bombay to Hendricks. Although of late, Lucas has been keener on local craft gins. There’s a distiller just north of San Francisco called Bodega Tides Gin, whose tagline is ‘See what California tastes like.’ Luckily for Lucas, the gin doesn’t have flavors of saltwater, pollution, and entitlement—just juniper and additional bright and crisp botanicals leading the way, followed by a burst of citrus.  

He doesn’t drink beer often, but when he does, he prefers fruity, hazy IPAs from local craft breweries in Southern California, served in a frosted Belgian tulip goblet beer glass. When he gets buzzed, he’ll pound a Coors or Budweiser he typically keeps in the back of the fridge. This has often led to hangovers, so April’s been replacing them with non-alcoholic beer. It’s nice that she’s always looking out for him. 

Lucas Dalton is a man of particulars. 

His particular job as a particular copywriter, where he sells particular things to particular people that they may not particularly need, helps fund his particular lifestyle. But his particulars are growing, and his wife and daughter, they also have their particular tastes as well. 

Lucas knows it is a privilege to have particulars at all. 

He knows he has a good life. But he can’t help but wonder how great the gooder life would be, or even better, the goodiest life! A life full of endless fine wines, age-defying moisturizers, delectable desserts, vintage watches, luxurious hotels filled with full-service spas that offer butt-knuckling—and home ownership? 

BOOM! 

‘What’s that sound!? And that shaking? Earthquake!? No, that would actually be a relief.’ 

BANG!

The essential oil humidifier atop Lucas’s nightstand rumbles. As does his Undone Vintage Killy wristwatch—aesthetically styled after the timepieces American pilots wore in WWII. Like those men, Lucas is also being attacked from a foe above. 

BOOM!

This enemy's weapon of choice sounds uncannily similar to a dumbbell. But how can this be? Quiet, sweet, but most notably quiet, Franny lived in the apartment above them. He’s not sure her 70-year-old petite frame could endure such a workout. 

Could it be new neighbors? 

BANG! BOOM!

A double strike! Lucas cowers under his covers in fear. Oh no. It must be new neighbors. Loud, bastard neighbors! NO! 

“DAMMIT!” WHY, GOD!?” Lucas bellows to the ceiling. “WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME!?” 

Lucas does not take this particularly well. 

CHAPTER 2.

APRIL’S SHOWERS.

Under a pink sign that reads ‘BE KIND,’ April Dalton awkwardly squats in a Nickelodeon-orange chair that’s clearly made for a toddler. It’s a good thing she wore her Lululemon high rise pants. Her crop top sweatshirt, maybe not so much. She runs her hands through her platinum blond hair and directs her baby blue eyes up toward the other end of the table.

She braces for a lecture from Teacher Lilly, a red-headed, broad-shouldered Scandinavian woman who probably descended from the Vikings.

‘Of course, she gets to sit in a normal sized chair,’ April thinks to herself.

“Hi, can I sit somewhere else?” April meekly asks. “This chair’s a little small.” 

“This will only take a minute,” Teacher Lilly quickly replies. “I wanted to talk to you about your daughter Ellie.”

April quickly glances outside at Ellie feeding a Barbie doll some sand in the sandbox.

“Ellie loves it here,” April states. “We’re really happy we found this place.”

“Well, after giving it some thought, we think that Ellie may not be the right fit for Rainbows and Sunrays Daycare,” Teacher Lilly bluntly replies. 

April is none too pleased and very perplexed.

“Not the right fit? She’s two-and-a-half!” 

“We feel she’s just not quite advancing as much as we’d like her to. Most days, when we do group activities, she just wants to dance around in her Elsa dress,” Lilly rambles on as she makes slight dancing motions with her burly arms. “And she’s very picky with her food, and well, she’s not potty trained yet, this has all been taking a toll on us.”

“Well, I know, but we discussed this before,” April replies. “About her not being potty trained, you said that it was ok.”

“She pooped in the pool yesterday, some of it got loose and it needs a full clean.”

Well, this conversation has gone to shit. 

To make matters worse, April can only fit her left ass cheek on the miniature chair, and it’s getting sore. 

“Well, I’m regretful that happened,” April attempts to shift her right ass cheek onto her chair. “Did she not have her swim diaper on?”

“There were none in her diaper bag.” 

‘I told Lucas to put those in the bag, he always forgets,’ April notes to herself.

“Mrs. Dalton?”

“Yes?”

“Anyway, that’s why I asked you here. We all took a vote and decided to let Ellie go.”

“What is this, Toddler Survivor?!” April retorts.

“We like Ellie, we just think she would do better somewhere else.”

“So, you’re saying she’s being expelled from daycare?”

“No, not expelled, she just umm, can’t come here anymore,” answers Teacher Lilly. “We’ll let her stay a few more weeks.”

“I’m sad it’s come to this,” April says as she struggles to get out of her chair. “I don’t think this is fair.” 

April plants both of her feet but just doesn’t have enough torque for liftoff.

“Umm, can you, ah, help?”

Teacher Lilly gets out of her chair to assist. April grabs on to her sturdy arm and flings up from the chair.

“Thank you, for helping me out, well, out of the chair, not the kicking my daughter out of school thing.”

“We’re sorry, Mrs. Dalton, we believe this decision is in the best interest of all parties involved.”

‘Not this party.’ April sneers internally. 

Teacher Lilly smiles. Then, a very awkward silence. Then, April glances at her watch. Except she’s not wearing a wristwatch. Just a wrist.

“Well, umm, gotta go,” April awkwardly states. 

“Mrs. Dalton, one more thing, would you be able to chaperone beach day on Friday?”

April’s eyebrows turn inward, her upper lip raises—leading to her nose wrinkling and her cheek muscles rising. Her resting bitch face is no longer resting. 

“My husband; he can do it.” April hastily replies as she leaves. 

/////////////////////////////////////

April had never wanted to be a wife for life (a wifer) and mother. She had big dreams. She wanted something different.  

Growing up in Northern California, in the shadows of colossal sequoia and redwood trees, April’s eyes were always drawn toward the sky. 

“I want to explore space, I will be an astronaut,” little April told herself.

It’s a bit of an unfortunate truth, but April was tremendously prone to air sickness.  Her mom always had her back, packing a trusty barf bag for the occasions. None of that struggling with flimsy, airline-supplied stuff; they were ready for anything. Better safe than sorry. And sorry April was, more times than she would like to admit. 

As April inched closer to teenagehood, she wanted to be Shakira. She joined her High School’s dance team. And she could surely move her hips, but her voice would squeak, and while nimble, her flat feet—that she inherited from her dad’s side of the family—resulted in some epic dance team fails. Most notably when she tripped and fell onto Robbie the Redwood, her high-school’s mascot, and they both fell into a duffle bag of basketballs and a Gatorade cooler. It was referred to as ‘The Timber Incident.’

So, she wasn’t meant to be a star woman or pop star, however, being a normal teenager wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She liked hanging out with her friends, binging Gilmore Girls DVDs and accessorizing with rings, necklaces, and the occasional feather boa from Claire’s.

After walking across the stage at high school graduation (and making up with Robbie) she walked on down to Occidental College in Los Angeles. 

When her four years of Jane Austen and Jell-O shots were up, she was going to take on the world, dammit! April was smart, and progressive, and was really good with people. She was empathic and kind, yet candid when she needed to be. Despite her modest Northern California upbringing, she embraced style, and now lived in a place that appreciated it. She sported everything from modish leather jackets to chunky loafers, graphic T’s, wide brimmed fedoras, and sleeveless, wide legged jumpsuits. She turned her beige blond hair to platinum and was turning heads. People told her she looked like Amanda Seyfried. She was the girl next door type who people wanted to be around.

After graduating with a degree in media arts and culture, she scored an associate position at the wellness/lifestyle/you brand en∙clave. One day, after pruning the office avocado tree and refilling the essential oil diffuser, she was invited to sit in on a critical branding meeting. April spoke up—about renaming a few of en∙clave’s lipstick names as she thought they were a tad sexist, as well as simply tacky: Sassy Scarlet, Hoochie Hazel, Basic Bitch Blush. 

By the end of the day, en∙clave had let her go. They cited ‘bad vibes’ and performed a full sage cleansing of her desk space.

However, all was not lost that day. In that same meeting, she drew the attention of a slightly stout, considerably neurotic, yet good-natured, and sometimes witty, junior copywriter from Chicago: one Lucas Dalton. 

He enjoyed her pretty looks and open mind. Lucas claims that he planned to talk to her about more appropriate names (and after-work drinks) later that day, but only saw scattered sage ash on her desk. He was downtrodden but would not surrender. He found her on Facebook and friended her. Barely knowing who he was, and not loving the profile picture of him drinking beer from a neon green novelty yard-stick receptacle, she ignored his request. 

In the next few months, Lucas revised the aforementioned names to: Classy Scarlett, Kind-Hearted Hazel, and Ambitious Blush. After some convincing, and a minor Twitter backlash of fall’s color ‘Cunty Cocoa’ eye makeup, they were all swiftly approved.

Lucas also realized that maybe a man shouldn’t be naming feminine beauty products. He asked and was granted a copywriter role at en∙clave’s men’s division: man∙clave. 

However, he couldn’t stop thinking about April, the girl who appeared to have gotten away. 

During this time, April found a new job as an office manager at a full-service video and photography production studio in West Hollywood. She liked her new post: working with assorted eccentric directors, photographers, and producers. Sometimes a well-known celebrity would roll in (but more often it was Jon Lovitz). Life was good. Well, except for her dating life, which currently resembled the title of the 1966 spaghetti western The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The good-looking guys just wanted to hook up and giddy up, the bad guys were darn near a plenty, and her most recent date turned downright ugly: as she was exiting the restaurant, she was confronted by her date’s wife, chased around the block, and nearly took an ankle boot to the head. She began to realize that Los Angeles was the wild west of the dating world and she was just trying to stay above ground.

The next morning, while scrolling through her email, she saw that Lucas had messaged her—on, of all places, LinkedIn. She smiled. She respected his tenacity and his message was amusing. He labeled himself a ‘Copywriting Connoisseur’ and the current ‘President of Advertising.’ Ha. She connected with him on LinkedIn, and, in real life as well.  

Maybe her bar for a potential mate had been lowered a notch. 

‘I’ll give him a chance,’ she thought, ‘how bad can he be? At least he’s not married…?’

Her risk paid off. 

She liked that Lucas really didn’t seem to care what other people thought, although he did in the right ways—he dressed pretty nice (for a straight guy) and kept his hair looking decent. While most guys wanted something casual, Lucas wanted a serious relationship. And whilst April had never thought of marriage and wifedom as something important to her, this Lucas was an interesting fella. He took her on dates to hipstery cafes and restaurants helmed by Top Chef contestants. 

He possessed a nervous energy and did complain a lot, but his grumbles were usually well composed, entertaining rants, that with a little crafting, could probably make it into The New Yorker.

Oh, and he bought her things. Nice things. Sometimes, unsolicited! He actually listened. April would say “I really could use a massage.” And he’d buy her a gift card to a local spa. He was smart enough to let her choose jewelry and clothing. This was a huge plus. April was in love. Lucas was in love. So, when he proposed after a dinner of slightly over-cooked salmon, but which was balanced out by a beautifully complex Pinot Noir, she could not say no.

April, the girl who dreamed of exploring the cosmos, was now tied down. She would still go on to do big things. She would just do them with Lucas. 

Her dreams were now their dreams.

Her time was now their time.

Her life was their life. 

‘Their’ now meant her, Lucas, and little Ellie. April’s life was no longer about her, it was about them.

//////////////////////////////////////////////

Back in the driver’s seat of her white Honda HR-V subcompact SUV, April desperately wants a cigarette. But she quit those. Damn. While admittedly disgusting, smoking provides the nicotine that provides the head rush of dopamine. And momma could really use a dopamine release right now. April reaches over to the glove compartment and grabs her replacement fix—a pen from Ken’s Koi Pond Maintenance. Her production company recently installed a koi pond in front of the entrance. Turns out, koi ponds are expensive to maintain, but Ken gives them a good rate. And his pens are good for chewing.  

This is the third pen April has chewed today. It’s a bad habit. Sure, it’s not as bad as smoking cigarettes or snorting heroin or watching reality TV, but ‘twas a bad habit, nonetheless. Damn, it was so good though! Maybe she was hooked because she was a thumb-sucker until the third grade. But, as with any oral fixation, it was best not to be overdone. Last week April bit down a little too hard and, well, things got inky. Remembering that chaotic ink trip, she puts the pen down on the center console next to her cherry Chapstick. As she looks back up, she sees one of the other daycare mommies getting into her brand-new metallic white Porsche Cayenne. April feels that all-too-familiar sense of shame creep up and as her cheeks turn red, she begins to cry... 

‘Not fair!’ April angrily ponders to herself. ‘Why can’t I drive a Porsche?’ 

Her angry thoughts turn worrisome and start to spiral. Why does my daughter have to poop in the pool? Where’s Ellie going to go to daycare now? Rainbows and Sunrays was the only somewhat affordable daycare west of The 405. They would need a nanny. Or perhaps the fancy daycare ‘Lil Ivies Academy, which cost about as much money as a big Ivy Academy. ‘Where are we going to find the money?’ 

Tears start to slowly run down April’s now strained, red, and puffy face. 

In the back seat, Tito stops licking his little furry dog penis. For there’s another matter at hand that requires attention. Upon hearing his owner’s sobs, Tito swiftly vaults into the front seat, settling onto April’s lap. Standing on his hind legs, he lovingly starts to lick away her tears.

“Aww, thanks so much, Tito,” April says as she pats his head. “Good boy.”

But then Tito starts to cough. Then, a gag. Then he vomits all over April’s crotch. A myriad of thoughts enter April’s mind. The first one being ‘fuck me,’ the second being ‘yoga’s not going to work today,’ the last one being ‘that’s a lot of puke for such a small dog.’ 

_______________________________________________________

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