Dark Designs

by Flowers, Thomas S.

  (Disgusting. Turns my stomach.)

  After just two days by the pool, Ray sported a wicked lobster burn and an upper lip that looked like a flaky, cracked raisin. Yet, provocative as always, his radiant mother sunbathed comfortably on her cedar chaise beside him. Without warning, he tossed 50+ waterproof sunblock at her and grunted while gesturing toward his back. Startled, she fumbled before finally clutching the hurled tube just before it hit the ground. Then, without missing a beat, she applied the lotion for him with an enthusiastic flair. Ray cringed as onlookers raised eyebrows.

  (Why must she be so sexy all the time? As if she can't help herself... I'm her son. This is innocent. I'm not cougar bait!)

  These thoughts screamed in his head, as his shriveled lips pressed together in private fury. His eyes avoided contact with others as she finished rubbing his back. Then his mother reached into the pool bag for her tanning oil, and she found his secret potato stashed at the bottom. She picked at the foil.

  "What's this?"

  "Biology project."

  "During summer vacation?" She sniffed and squeezed, "It's raw."

  "Extra credit for lab. I'm appealing that B Professor Moon gave me. Do you want to see my perfect GPA drop over something as stupid as biology?"

  "All right then. No need to get snippy."

  Uninterested, she dropped the tater back into the bag. Out of the corner of his eye, Ray watched his mother rub oil over her tanned skin. He envied how she had gotten the most desirable redhead genes, while he got stuck with all the pasty, awkward ones. She leaned forward and pulled her long, curly hair into a loose knot on the top of her head. Before she finished, a burly man and his luscious wife volunteered to oil her back, tag team style, and of course, she let them.

  (How embarrassing.)

  Once the couple finished groping her, she pranced off to frolic with her new friends in the pool. Ray watched them flirt. They touched too often and too long. And soon, their hands disappeared underwater as they huddled neck-deep in a suspicious clump.

  Ray seized the opportunity to work on his experiment. He had gotten sunburned again yesterday while obsessing over the exact spot. As he surveyed the reflective glass of the hotel tower, he held his foil-wrapped Idaho russet like a precious kitten. Cradling the spud close to his chest, Ray dragged his lounge chair over three paces, aligning it with the big palm tree by the bar. He checked the time on his iPhone and placed the potato on the hot concrete. Then he arranged a drink table, another chaise, and his bag to camouflage his project. Pleased with himself, he checked the pool and saw his carefree mother following the couple back towards the hotel.

  (Typical. The woman has no shame.)

  Back home, Ray had read a fascinating article about Vegas "Death Rays." The concave, reflective surface of some high-rise hotels acted like a parabolic reflector that concentrated solar energy into a specific area on the ground. Vdara Hotel Public Relations called it a "solar convergence phenomenon." Guests got burned. Plastic cups melted. Plants died.

  (Like how I fried ants with a magnifying glass as a kid.)

  Originally, Ray had planned to stay at the Hard Rock—alone, but he substituted this project as a consolation prize when his mother offered to pay for his entire trip. Persuading her to stay at Vdara was easy, because she wanted to check out the new City Center. According to his online research, the focal point would be somewhere next to the pool. Luckily, on his first attempt, he stumbled right into the special spot. The obvious cluster of unoccupied chairs and lounges around the packed-to-capacity pool area led him right to it. Since then, he tracked this death ray with a nifty, and free, vector graphing app on his phone. Along with its daily path, he discovered the sun's intensity was greatest from one until four in the afternoon.

  (Almost too easy.)

  He had gone through quite an ordeal to obtain his test potatoes and aluminum foil. The Friday rush hour detour involved a twisted and complicated cab ride to the scariest Walmart superstore he had ever seen. Certain the taxi driver gouged him, he hopped on a double decker after procuring his tubers, but the manic bus ride back to City Center left him stupefied.

  (Not leaving the strip again, no matter what.)

  Now, after all his hard work and planning, he finally got to test whether the heat generated from this death ray could bake a potato. All afternoon, he tracked the sun and adjusted his rig to keep the tater within its focal point. While he waited, he read about Boeing using stacked bags of potatoes as substitutes for human subjects while testing the strength of the airplane's onboard WiFi signal. They named the project SPUDS for "Synthetic Personnel Using Dielectric Substitution." Snickering aloud at the clever acronym, he laid back and pondered working for Boeing one day. After a long while, lost in a grand career daydream, he noticed a pleasant smell from the roasted, foil-wrapped potato that made his stomach rumble. He poked at it with childlike curiosity and found it soft and hot to the touch. An almost evil smile crept across his face.

  (Excellent. Everything going according to plan.)

  Now aware of his hunger, and feeling overheated, he packed up his experiment and headed for the hotel room. On his way, he spotted an unattended room service tray in the hall and swiped silverware, two single-serve, foil-sealed, plastic packages of whipped butter, and some paper tubes of salt and pepper.

  (First, cool off with a cold shower. Then, taste the sweet reward of success.)

  His mother returned to the room and started eating the potato while Ray showered. When he caught her shoving a forkful of sweet and salty mash in her mouth, she shrugged.

  "You know what Oprah says... Happiness is a great big baked potato and someone to share it with."

  "Quoting Oprah? Really?" Ray rolled his eyes.

  Unfazed, she stabbed the crispy skin of the last buttery bite, and offered it to him by holding the fork in the air. She looked like an eager mother spoon-feeding her infant.

  (Open up the hanger and let the airplane fly in.)

  "No thanks. It's all yours."

  "Oh, my... Did I just eat your science project?"

  "Part of it."

  "Well then, I declare it a delicious success," she said before shoving the last bite in her mouth. She chewed, swallowed, and bounced to her feet. "Let's go spend some money!"

  In addition to the other intolerable atrocities she forced him to endure, near the top of his Most Hated List was clothes shopping. Ray couldn't fathom why she insisted on dragging him along to look at girlie stuff and sexy outfits that made him squirm with an uncomfortable mixture of curiosity, arousal, shame, and embarrassment. After a couple hours of grossly overpriced boutique hopping, he managed to manipulate her into buying a silver lamé bikini that he thought would work. His logical argument highlighted how the metallic, haltered two-piece perfectly matched the five-hundred-dollar pair of sunglasses that she just bought at the two-story Louis Vuitton store at Crystals.

  (Don't roll your eyes this time. You'd be justified in doing so, but if she sees your contempt, she won't trust your wardrobe suggestion. Pretend you care. Tell her she looks great.)

  He did, and she fell for his flattery. While his mother dressed in the changing room, Ray made a move on the sales girl.

  "You're so beautiful that you made me forget my pickup line."

  Unimpressed, the pretty Vegas local glared at him in cold silence and crossed her arms.

  (Another snooty one.)

  His mother emerged and handed her a platinum card with the bathing suit. The insulted woman escaped Ray's boorish advances by dashing behind a cashier, and once she completed the transaction for the silver swimwear, Ray faked a stomach ache.

  "Oh, you poor baby," his worried mom swooned over him.

  (Knock it off, Mother. You're embarrassing me.)

  "Just need to lay down for a bit."

  "Can you make it back to the room yourself?"

  Ray reached the exit before she finished her sentence. He shooed her back. "I'm a big boy. You finish your shopping."


  "Well, okay. Call me if you need anything."

  With that, he got excused for the rest of the evening. He needed to go back to the room and prepare for tomorrow. Except first, he had to make a quick pit stop. Someone online had told him that the Walgreens on the strip was a good place to get illicit substances.

  (Drugs. Illegal street and prescription drugs... Rohypnol, to be exact.)

  Not in the Walgreens, but from the seedy types that loitered around the Walgreens. Lucky for him, the store happened to be one easy, pedestrian bridge away, just on the other side of the Boulevard.

  The next day, Ray invited his hungover mother to join him by the pool. He knew she would want to flaunt her new bikini and ultra-cool sunglasses, and of course, she accepted. While she primped in the bathroom, he packed the pool bag.

  "I'm going to head down awhile," Ray yelled through the door.

  "Okay sweetie, I'll be out in a bit."

  "I'll save you a spot." Ray wrung his hands together in an evil-pleased-with-itself manner followed by an asthmatic snicker. When he got to the pool, he marched straight to his always unoccupied death ray area. He arranged two chaise lounges; one just outside the reach of the death ray.

  (For me.)

  And one smack dab in the center of the hottest spot.

  (For her.)

  The wooden chairs sat further away from each other than a casual observer would expect from people sitting together, so he split the difference by putting a drink table between them. Today he lucked out and claimed the last free-standing umbrella, so he could finally sit in the shade. Good thing too, because he had absorbed more sunshine in the past few days than he would all year in Atlanta. His skin needed a break.

  (People think southern summers are hot. This place is like the surface of the sun. Sure... But it's a dry heat. Well, screw you buddy, it's like walking through a broiler. Humidity is a non-issue.)

  After his internal argument, Ray laid a bright green beach towel on his mother's intended chaise and decided to cool off with a quick dip. He kicked off his flip flops and scurried across the concrete, feeling the bottom of his feet burn with each hurried step. The air temperature had already hit triple digits before breakfast. The forecast said the day's high would reach 118 brutal degrees. The pool felt like a tepid bath, not the least bit refreshing. Ray tried to float in only three-and-a-half feet.

  (Finally, I'll teach her a lesson.)

  He had many fleeting thoughts. But mostly, he fantasized about his impulsive mother getting an irritating burn on her naughty parts, just enough to keep her from wanting to let strangers fondle them for the rest of their vacation. Dripping wet, he shuffle-ran back to the shade of his umbrella. He ordered two frozen, strawberry margaritas from the exquisite, young, bikini-clad waitress, and reclined in his lounge chair to watch her walk away. This one had resisted his first attempt to get to know her yesterday, but he planned to try again once his doting mother was out of the way.

  By the time the sweet object of his admiration returned with refreshments, Ray spotted his mother exiting the hotel. The cocktail waitress paused for a moment, and then disappeared without a word, or the tip she expected. Preoccupied, Ray unfolded a handmade foil envelope and dumped some white powder into one of the drinks. He swizzled his index finger through the slush, dissolving the sedative. Then he whistled to get his mother's attention. She waved and made a beeline for him. Relaxing in the shade, Ray drank his untainted margarita and waited for her. And then, finally, his mother took her reserved place in the sun. Ray hid his gaze behind dark sunglasses, as she sipped her frozen alcoholic treat.

  "Hair of the dog, huh, Ray?" She licked the sugar rim. Then she gulped down the whole margarita with great showmanship and finished by suggestively sucking the berry.

  "Geesh Mother, you'll get a brain freeze."

  "Good. Maybe it'll numb my spectacular headache." She laid back and soaked up the sun.

  Today they blended in with the pool crowd. No one noticed them, and after a fifteen minutes or so, Ray swore he heard his mother snoring. He pretended to read a book on his iPhone, which felt hot and acted buggy, but he was really observing his experiment. Tingling with anticipation, he struggled to contain his enthusiasm.

  (Will she bake like the potato? How long will it take? This is so exciting!)

  He had only slipped her half a dose of Rohypnol, just enough to make her tipsy, so she'd stay put long enough for him to play his little prank. But what Ray didn't know, was that she had popped a Valium and chased it with three fingers of whiskey before she left the room. Ray sat and waited and watched, but his sleeping mother remained motionless for over an hour.

  (Passed out. That's what she gets for partying all night. Right about now, the death ray should be on target. It's almost two o'clock... The intensity will peak soon.)

  Ray took a self-congratulatory dip in the pool, which felt even hotter this time. He wallowed around, acting casual, all while keeping an eye on his mother. But then, a very fine female specimen smiled at him from the deep end. She was at least a Vegas eight—and a blonde. He smiled back. She giggled. He waded over and pulled himself along the pool edge to meet her. He could swim, but he felt self-conscious about how he looked flailing around in water. So he played it cool.

  "Hi," she said with a warm smile.

  "I'm Ray." He held out his hand in a businesslike manner.

  "I'm Cassandra Fox."

  She completed the handshake, but Ray held on too long and rubbed little circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. She pulled away.

  "Are you staying here too?" He asked.

  "Yeah. My girlfriends and I drove in from LA this morning. I bought this new suit and wanted to try the pool, but they're all running around somewhere, probably in a casino."

  "We—I mean—I, have been here since Wednesday. From what I can see, you look lovely in your new swimsuit."

  "Thank you," she said, softened by the compliment.

  And with that, Ray got lost in his first real conversation with an age appropriate member of the opposite sex since he left home.

  Ray snuck Cassandra into a poolside cabana so they could "get out of the sun and talk some more." But he really hoped for some afternoon make out action. Unfortunately, Cassandra only wanted to run her mouth about herself.

  "So, I moved to Hollywood from Topeka a couple years ago. I'm an actress, but I temp in the office of a spice factory in the Valley. I do data entry and stuff. I'm just there to pay the bills between acting and modeling gigs. It's temporary."

  "I thought you might be a model. You're so pretty." He brushed his hand through her long hair, which had dried and started to curl. His hand lingered around her neck, then traced down her back, but she swatted him away.

  "My agent is great. He's connected, and he says I've got real star potential. Most of my friends can't even get an appointment with an agency. I've already got my headshots, and it's just a matter of time before I start getting real auditions. Pilot season is coming up."

  "Naturally," Ray leaned in and kissed her cheek with his shriveled lips. She cringed.

  "All the women at the spice factory are jealous of me, but it's not my fault that they let their babies wreck their figures. Not me. I'll adopt a poor little, disadvantaged, black boy, just like Charlize Theron. People say I look like her, but with better hair."

  Ray ran his hand up her arm, and lingered near her ample breast, which hid behind tight, blue Lycra.

  (So close, but so far.)

  "I love the days at work when it smells like cinnamon. But most of the time it's a horrid mixture of odors that should never be combined. I started smoking so that I wouldn't notice the stink so much. Well, that, and it looks cool, and it keeps me thin. Now I'm hooked. You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?"

  "No. Sorry."

  They toyed with each other for a long time, but their game of cat-and-mouse ended when a hotel representative pulled back a curtain and bounced them.

  "Out! This cab
ana is reserved for a paying guest."

  Cassandra ran away and disappeared from his life forever.

  Ray almost left without incident, but he decided to taunt the man, "You think you're big shit. You're just a pool boy, but without the brains." Expecting a fight, he ran away, but the hotel guy paid no attention. Ray ducked behind the bar to hide from his imaginary enemy. Then he remembered his mother.

  (Shit! How long has she been baking out there?)

  Ray sprinted back to his spot by the pool. The shade of his umbrella had moved to an empty patch of concrete a few feet away. Gathering his things, he checked the time on his overheated iPhone. When it failed to power on, he slid the dead device and his wallet into his pocket. And that's when he smelled something that reminded him of home.

  (BBQ? Sweet, southern, open-pit barbeque.)

  He sniffed the air and realized that the smell was coming from his sleeping mother. Her skin had turned a painful looking, dark burgundy-brown. Little yellowish, oil filled blisters had formed on her highest, uncovered elevations. Ray shook her, but she didn't respond.

  (How bad under her suit?)

  "Mother? Mom! Wake up!" He slapped her face, but she did not react. Her skin felt feverish.

  (Is this heat stroke?)

  Ray grabbed his towel, dashed to the pool, soaked it, ran back, and wrung it over her. Water dripped onto her burnt skin. Evaporating steam rose from her bikini. Onlookers started to gather and whisper behind him. He patted her face with the wet towel, but she didn't move. Ray slid her halter strap aside and a thick layer of fried skin stuck to the metallic fabric and peeled away. All that remained where she should have had a healthy looking tan line was milky white goo, clear melted fat, and coagulated blood.

  "Help! Someone help!"

  He felt the inside of her wrist—no pulse. His mother was dying. Or maybe she had died a while ago, back when he was trying to feel up some wannabe actress in that glorified tent where he had lost track of time.

  "Someone call nine-one-one!" Ray shouted as he tried to start CPR, but he had never had proper instruction. He pinched her nose and blew in her mouth. Then, he pushed on her chest with clasped hands, just like he had seen on TV and in the movies, but his erratic rhythm and bent elbows proved that he had no idea how to save her. The death ray singed the little hairs on the back of his already sensitive, and red neck, making him panic and thrust harder. And then the flesh of her cooked chest slid away under his hands.