Chuck Schading

This story placed seventh in the first-round of NYC Midnight’s 2024 500-word Fiction Challenge. It had to be a comedy (genre) that involved joining a club (action) and a bathrobe (object) had to factor into the story somehow. One of the judges called “it one of the more revealing comedies” they’d read in some time.

“You said you’d do anything to get ahead, Matthew,” my wife Deidra reminded me as we arrived for our interview at the exclusive Blue Moon Beach Club. “You need to network more, and this is a perfect opportunity to see more of your new bosses.”

Moments later, we sat face to face with the club’s president, retired 75-year-old investment banker Manfred Stevens.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I said, nervously adjusting my polo shirt’s collar. “My colleagues spoke very highly of you when they recommended the club.”

God, I sounded like such a doofus. Hobnobbing always left me feeling so exposed.

“I apologize for overdressing,” Stevens said with a wink, gesturing to his monogrammed bathrobe and flip-flops. “But rules are rules. Robes and footwear inside the clubhouse at all times.”

He started with a tour, leading us through the lounge, locker rooms and sauna before ending at an outdoor area behind a privacy fence where a long line of similar robes hung on hooks. 

“Most of our members are already at the beach,” Stevens said. “In fact, I think the partners from your firm are here today, too.” 

See? Deidra mouthed.

And just like that, the old man kicked off his flip-flops and dropped his robe, hanging it next to the others. 

“Mercy,” I muttered.

“Golly,” Deidra whispered. 

The beach was indeed picturesque, dotted with colorful umbrellas and artfully arranged towels, not to mention a stupendous view of the bay.

Oh, and did I mention everyone was stark naked?

“Uh, Mr. Stevens, if I could just make an observation,” I said, motioning to Deidra that it was time to go.

But Stevens, or Ol’ Mr. Pendulum, as I will now forever remember him, beat me to the punch.

“There they are, this way!” he shouted, leading us to a cabana where three horrifically familiar older men sat at a table playing canasta with their wives. “Folks, I believe our newest potential members, Matthew and Deidra Carter, need no introduction. Matthew is one of your new attorneys at Dansforth, Parker and Talley, I’m told.”

“Of course!” Dansforth shouted as he stood up and extended a hand and a penis. “I’ve seen you around the office, Matthew! I’m sorry we haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet.”

“We’ve heard good things about you, son,” Parker added, also standing, his manhood grazing an egg salad sandwich.

Finally Talley, my supervisor, stood. He took a sip of his martini and arched his back as he stretched, hands on his hips. He said nothing but merely nodded, his bits and pieces swaying in unison. 

“You didn’t have to stand up on my account, sirs,” I said, trying to keep it together. “Honestly.”

Back in the clubhouse, Stevens donned his robe again and led us back to the lounge to discuss the particulars.

“I’m sorry, but I think …” I started to say when Deidra elbowed me.

“You said you’d do anything,” she whispered.

I swallowed hard.

“So about those robes … ”