The Wellness Club

Lost in the rhythms of suburban hibernation and nightly true-crime binges inside my bat cave, I had gradually drifted away from my college friends. Like me, they had married, raised children, worried about healthcare costs, and stared nervously at college tuition calculators. What I didn’t know was that they had been gathering every summer for years at a luxury wellness resort on Coronado Island.

I learned of these reunions from my daughter Maggie, who monitored my friends’ social-media activity with the diligence of an intelligence analyst tracking foreign adversaries. She discovered photographs of them lounging poolside at the Wellness Island Resort and seemed genuinely saddened that I had been excluded.

The drive from Torrance was only a couple of hours. Somehow Maggie contacted Bart, one of my old college friends, and persuaded him to invite us. My wife Lara and Maggie’s twin sister Alison couldn’t attend because they had dance rehearsals all weekend.

I didn’t question Maggie’s intervention. Partly because I was touched by her concern for my introverted condition, and partly because Maggie had inherited a taste for luxury that far exceeded her budgetary circumstances. She approached five-star experiences the way medieval knights approached the Holy Grail.

When I asked about the cost of the resort, she informed me that Bart was placing our expenses on the group’s Action Account, a fund they had apparently maintained for years to finance these annual gatherings.

This struck me as suspiciously generous.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that my old friends were attempting to relieve themselves of decades of guilt. Perhaps they had looked at the guest list, noticed my absence, and decided that paying for Maggie and me was cheaper than confronting their consciences.

The Wellness Island Resort was impressive in the way wellness resorts are always impressive. Everything appeared optimized. The pool gleamed with the artificial perfection of a pharmaceutical advertisement. Guests reclined beneath canopies and gazebos while drinking green smoothies whose ingredients sounded less like food than graduate-level botany. Men and women with improbably low body-fat percentages sipped cucumber water and projected the serene confidence of people who had never eaten a gas-station burrito at midnight. Servers circulated with trays of artisanal sandwich bites containing salmon, tofu, sprouts, and microgreens so delicate they looked as though they might require emotional support animals.

The entire place smelled faintly of citrus, sunscreen, and self-improvement.

I assumed Maggie and I would spend the afternoon lounging by the pool.

Instead, we met Chase Rangeman.

He materialized beside us moments after we checked in. Tall, angular, and radiating managerial hostility, he wore the expression of a man who regarded joy as a policy violation. His smile looked professionally installed.

“You two are members of the Wellness Club,” he said.

“We are?”

“Of course.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means everyone contributes.”

He proceeded to explain that club members rotated through various duties including mopping floors, serving coffee, preparing food, and performing other tasks one generally does not associate with a ten-thousand-dollar wellness retreat.

“Where are my friends?” I asked.

“Out and about,” he replied. “You’ll see them eventually. Meanwhile, you’re on sandwich duty.”

Maggie looked at me and shrugged.

“Do you realize how expensive your stay is?” Chase asked as he marched us toward the kitchen.

“Actually, we’re covered by the Action Account.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I’m very aware of the Action Account.”

He said the phrase the way a district attorney might refer to a criminal syndicate.

“That doesn’t exempt you from your responsibilities.”

The kitchen resembled a laboratory dedicated to extending human life by thirty years. Salmon rested on beds of ice like museum pieces. Whole-grain loaves cooled on wooden racks. Homemade organic mayonnaise occupied crystal bowls. Every avocado appeared individually selected by a committee of experts. Microgreens stood at attention in refrigerated displays like tiny green soldiers awaiting inspection.

Chase surveyed the room with paternal pride.

“You and your daughter will make sandwiches for the guests.”

“What kind?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

Then he glanced at his phone, announced he had an urgent matter requiring his attention, and vanished.

The responsibility seemed straightforward enough.

I selected salmon.

After all, what could possibly go wrong with salmon?

I mixed it with mayonnaise, celery, onions, shallots, paprika, salt, pepper, and chopped gherkins. I spread the mixture onto tiny squares of whole-grain bread and arranged the sandwiches on polished trays.

The servers carried them away.

My work was done.

Or so I thought.

An hour later Maggie and I had finally settled into our room overlooking the pool. I had just removed my shoes when the black telephone beside the bed rang.

It was Chase.

“You made salmon sandwiches with mayonnaise.”

His voice sounded as though he were reporting a homicide.

“Yes.”

A long silence followed.

“That’s the one sandwich you don’t make.”

“You never told me that.”

“It should have been obvious.”

“How?”

“The mayonnaise will curdle in the sun.”

I considered pointing out that every ingredient at this resort appeared capable of surviving atmospheric reentry, but Chase continued.

“You’ve exposed us to liability.”

“What liability?”

“You’ve committed a violation.”

He sounded pleased.

“That violation voids your discount. You now owe the resort nine thousand dollars.”

Nine thousand dollars.

For salmon sandwiches.

I informed Maggie that we were facing financial ruin.

Moments later there was a knock at the door.

It was Bart.

He looked sunburned, exhausted, and mildly irritated by my existence.

“So,” he said, “you made salmon sandwiches.”

I explained the situation.

Bart listened without surprise.

“Don’t pay anything,” he said. “We’ll cover it.”

I felt relieved.

Then he added:

“But you and your daughter should leave immediately.”

“Why?”

“Within an hour Chase will forget you were ever here.”

He delivered this statement with the calm certainty of a man explaining local weather patterns.

Maggie and I were packed before Bart reached the elevator.

As I said goodbye, he regarded me with an expression that suggested twenty years of unresolved grievances.

Then he left.

We raced to the parking lot, threw our luggage into the car, and drove back to Torrance.

That evening I settled into my recliner and resumed watching a true-crime documentary.

I was back in my bat cave.

Safe.

Yet as I thought about my old friends, the annual vacations, the Action Account, Bart’s contempt, and Chase Rangeman’s vendetta, I felt a familiar ache of exclusion.

Clearly they had not wanted me there.

Clearly they had spent years gathering without me for a reason.

Clearly I had become an interloper in my own past.

Strangely, as these thoughts swirled through my mind, I developed an overwhelming craving for salmon.