Chapter One
For Mason and Adena Fickle, enough was never enough. More and more, they went on looking for that next big thrill. The problem for them—one they never had too much trouble solving—was not necessarily “who” or “what” would contribute to their thrill seeking so much as it was “how” they’d keep their thrills fresh and challenging. And they didn’t experience simple thrills like clubbing with other swingers, swimming nude in a forbidden lake, or having sex in broad daylight out on the shoulder of I-80. These things the Fickles now considered boring.

The Fickles’ quest now was to be creative. And yet, it was one thing to be creative; it was another to be freaks, and it was quite another to be creative freaks.

The most exciting ingredient that the Fickles realized during their extramarital affairs was how they were able to keep it all secret in a township where everyone knew everything about everybody. Sure, the couple had friends who were neighbors, like Barbara and Bill Clemons down the block. And they even considered the Clemonses to be their best friends. But some things weren’t shared with even your best friends. After all, who would think of Mason as any more than a bespectacled accountant who worked for a Fortune 2000 company? A big deal in East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania.

And who would think of Adena as any more than a housekeeper, a maid really, who cleaned guest rooms at the local Days Inn? Both of their occupations were less than exciting, and saw these two scurrying home at the end of a hard workday to indulge in some much-needed sleep, a deep sleep wherein they could go on dreaming about “someday” and that lucky lottery ticket.

But it was all smoke and mirrors. In fact, the Fickles were a lively couple, fulfilling those fantasies that were possible, like the night they lured an absolute stranger home—a bartender from the neighboring township. Brenda was her name; and, among other things, they all took turns sucking each other’s toes.

Or, there was that other absolutely possible fantasy, where the Fickles snuck onto the local high school grounds and did it on the fifty-yard line of the football field at midnight. Not to mention that these two even climbed up on their own roof time and again—at least a half-dozen times so far—to claim ownership of each other. Sometimes Mason was the “master,” other times Adena was in charge. For certain, these two were just the opposite of everything you’d envision, putting sex right up there next to oxygen on that must-have shelf in their minds.

And now it was springtime, when pollen mixed with hope in that fresh breeze. It was a time and a climate for new beginnings, young love, and colorful landscapes. It was a time when animal species appeared (as if from thin air) on the lawns, in the sky, and in the water. It was also a cue, frankly, for Mason to get out there and cut the grass like a good husband should.

“Hurry up, Mase. I don’t want dinner to get cold!” Adena called out to her laborer/lover, trying to be heard over the manual lawn mower. But maybe she didn’t notice the earbuds he had in place, or that he was pumping his favorite old-school slow jam, and singing like he had no sense—like it was himself, and not Lenny Williams, who was supposed to be the lead on the song. Mason was even a slight bit off-key. But he couldn’t have cared less. “I love you! I neeeeeeded you!

The song might’ve been Mason’s fuel as he pushed that machine so easily back and forth along their front lawn, trying to get the place in shipshape condition before the block-watch people made another complaint to the BMCB (Blue Mountain Community Board). Another issue altogether, that was.

“It’s bad enough they get a budget to operate their flimflam group of rednecks,” Mason later blurted out before chewing what he had forked into his mouth.

“Honey, take your time and enjoy your food. Don’t just wolf it down like that. You worked hard out there, the least you could do is relax while you eat.”

“I wouldn’t be wolfin’ shit down if I didn’t have to keep grass two inches high. I mean, who came up with that absurd rule? Grass should be less than two inches high. What if I don’t want my grass below two inches! It’s my goddamned grass!”