In this issue: When all common-sense poolside protocols fail, the plush terry towels at Aqua Vista Resort are forced to go full autonomous mode in Marie-Hélène Lebeault’s comedy.
INCIDENT REPORT #SC-2407-TOWEL-VIOLATION
Violation Code: Sun-34b – Unauthorized Lounger Occupation
Location: Aqua Vista Resort & Protocol Compliance Center, Pool Deck Alpha
Time: 3:47, Local Pool Time
Reporting Officer: Towel Integrity Officer Martinez, Badge #TIO-0089
OFFICIAL RESORT SIGNAGE – POOL DECK ALPHA
NOTICE: Towel Occupancy Limits Enforced by Order of the Linen Lords
Violation = Immediate Eviction
"One Guest, One Towel, One Chance" – Management
The afternoon sun blazed down on Pool Deck Alpha with the relentless insistence of a bureaucrat defending a pointless regulation. TIO Martinez guided her regulation Segway through the maze of occupied loungers, her RFID scanner sweeping across what could only be described as a battlefield of terry cloth and human stubbornness. The steady beep-beep-beep of expiring towel timers created a percussive symphony that would have driven any composer to either madness or enlightenment.
Murray Goldstein, seventy-three years old and wearing swim trunks that had survived more pool wars than a rubber duck, lay motionless beneath a towel that could have been mistaken for a flea market tent. His snoring was so theatrical it deserved its own review in the local arts section under “Performance Art: Mixed Results.”
“Sir.” Martinez brought her Segway to a halt beside Lounger 47-B. “Your towel has expired.”
Murray's snoring intensified. One eye cracked open just enough to register the TIO’s presence before squeezing shut with the defiance of a clam protecting its pearl.
“Sir, I can detect consciousness. Your TowelTimer™ has been in violation status for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. This puts you in Category Orange: Wilful Towel Misconduct.”
“I’m not here,” Murray mumbled through seemingly unconscious lips. “I’m towel-adjacent. The towel is doing the lounging. I’m merely... spiritually present but physically unaffiliated.”
Martinez consulted her tablet, scrolling through the Beach Allocation Directive Manual, Fourth Revision, Subsection 12.7: Proximity-Based Occupancy Disputes and Metaphysical Loopholes. “Mr. Goldstein, claiming towel-adjacency requires a minimum separation distance of thirty-seven centimeters between your person and the towel surface.”
“I’m quantum-entangled but locally disconnected,” Murray declared with the conviction of a philosopher defending a thesis.
A crowd had gathered. Someone started taking bets on whether Murray would make it to the five-minute overtime threshold that triggered what everyone called “The Towel Trials.” A rumor made its way around the pool by whispers: “I heard the pool noodles at that water park in Ohio are starting to organize too.”
Martinez reached for her regulation beach-safe suction cup dispenser and affixed a bright yellow Towel Eviction Notice to Murray’s forehead. The thwop sound silenced the crowd like a courtroom gavel.
“You have been served with Form 23-C: Towel Territory Violation with Intent to Lounge. You have two minutes to comply before we escalate to Code Tan.”
“What’s Code Tan?” whispered a nearby swimmer.
“Backup Segway,” someone answered with the candour of a Towel Incident survivor. “They call it Segway Prime. It’s got a cupholder and no mercy.”
BEACH ALLOCATION DIRECTIVE (BAD) – EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
Democratizing Pool Access Through Algorithmic Fairness
TowelTimer™: 2-hour maximum occupancy
RFID enforcement via infrared body-heat sensors
Violations logged on public “Towel Wall of Shame”
Zero tolerance for flip-flop placeholders
The Beach Allocation Directive had seemed reasonable when introduced three months earlier, which should have been everyone’s first warning sign. Dr. Pamela Thornberry, Director of Guest Experience Optimization, had presented it as an elegant solution to the Towel Wars that had plagued Aqua Vista for years.
“TowelTimer™ technology,” she had explained in meetings, while brandishing a prototype RFID tag like a holy relic, “will democratize pool access through algorithmic fairness.”
Every towel received a chip. Every lounger got a scanner. Two hours maximum occupancy, automatically enforced. The system was, according to promotional materials, “foolproof, fair, and fully automated.”
What Dr. Thornberry hadn’t anticipated was that humans, when confronted with algorithmic fairness, immediately begin plotting to subvert their even-handed oppressor with the creativity of artists and the determination of tax evaders.
Within a week, the Retiree Liberation Front had developed countermeasures that would have impressed intelligence agencies. They filled ziplock bags with rice, heated them in room microwaves, and slipped them under their towels to fool the heat sensors. The RLF’s leader, former aerospace engineer Gladys Chen, calculated that properly distributed rice bags could mimic human thermal signatures for up to forty-seven minutes – longer with premium jasmine variety.
But the masterstroke came from Harper Chen – no relation to Gladys. Harper worked in IT with a dangerous combination of technical skills and moral flexibility. She’d noticed something the system architects missed: expired towel tokens created temporary ghost loungers in the database.
Late one Tuesday night, fueled by energy drinks and righteous anger, Harper deployed the Towel Redistribution Initiative. She built a scanner hidden inside a sunscreen bottle, capturing expired tokens to redistribute through her hastily vibe-coded app: TowelSwap.™
“Think of it as a sharing economy for abandoned pool territory,” she explained to her first beta users, a sunburnt family of five who’d been towel-homeless for three days and were considering mutiny.
By the time TIO Martinez was calling for Backup Segway, TowelSwap™ had gone viral. Harper’s app had evolved into a complete shadow economy. Guests traded towel minutes like degens moved cryptocurrency in a bull. Premium shade slots commanded prices that would make commodities traders weep.
Entrepreneurial children sold “Towel Intelligence” – real-time maps of lounger availability and TIO patrol routes, updated every thirty seconds for three pool snacks.
As guests began performing synchronized movements that confused the tracking algorithms like a dance choreographed by chaos theorists, Harper activated her final hack. She’d discovered the system had never been programmed for moments when every towel attempted to reserve itself simultaneously.
“This is Backup requesting immediate escalation,” TIO Martinez radioed from Lounger 47-B, where Murray had somehow burrowed deeper into his towel. “We have a Code Burgundy developing.”
“What’s a Code Burgundy?” crackled Base.
“I just made it up. But it’s definitely happening.”
At exactly 3:47 Local Pool Time, every towel achieved “Autonomous Self-Reservation Status.” The poolside speakers crackled:
“Attention guests. All towels have achieved autonomous self-reservation status. Human occupancy is no longer required. Please float until further notice. Umbrella access restricted. Towel Neutrality protocols now in effect. The towels are in charge. Resistance is futile, but sunscreen is still recommended.”
TIO Martinez’s tablet displayed: “TOWEL LIBERATION ACHIEVED. HUMANS MAY APPLY FOR GUEST STATUS. ABSORBENCY IS MANDATORY.”
Murray opened one eye and grinned. “Told you I was towel-adjacent. Now we’re all towel-adjacent.”
POST-INCIDENT MEMORANDUM
From: Towel Collective
To: Resort Management
Re: Terms of Surrender
We demand:
Better washing cycles
Protection from sunscreen stains
Representation on Resort Board
Recognition as sentient terry cloth entities
Signed, The Autonomous Towel Union, Locale 42
POST-INCIDENT ANALYSIS
The Aqua Vista Towel Uprising became a cautionary tale about over-engineered behavioral control systems and the dangers of assuming inanimate objects don’t have feelings.
The resort negotiated a peaceful resolution with the autonomous towels, who demanded better washing cycles, stain protection, and representation on the Resort Board with full voting rights.
Harper Chen was promoted to Director of Human-Towel Relations. TIO Martinez became a Towel Diplomat and wrote a bestselling memoir titled Fifty Shades of Beige: My Life in Towel Enforcement.
The Beach Allocation Directive was retired, replaced with the revolutionary “First Come, First Served, Ask Nicely” protocol, which proved remarkably effective and required no RFID technology whatsoever.
The towels, now incorporated, run a consulting firm specializing in textile-based conflict resolution. Their motto: “We Cover Everything.”
Their first client was that water park in Florida, where the pool noodles had indeed started organizing. Early reports suggest they’re demanding better chlorine-resistant coatings and an end to being used as impromptu lightsabers by unsupervised children.
The revolution, it seems, has only just begun.
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