At The Oasis—a bustling built-for-AirBnB pool of local families and Disney tourists—the cabanas lay empty, and the patio umbrellas are closed and numbered. It's high noon and 95 degrees when I arrive at the gate. I follow my brother to the clubhouse. We don't speak. The staff searches my beach bag and knights me a wristband. We continue through, towards the lazy river where my family has staked claim over a few broiled chaise lounges. I'm here, amongst strained relationships and aging bones. I try to feel happiness; to feel anything. Even if I must fake it. What goes unsaid is none of us know how many days like today we have left. So I play it cool, and temper the theatrics. ## Act I: Shade The concrete bubbles under my bare feet, and I wonder if I might die at any moment. I throw towels and damp t-shirts up into the air like a prop comic rummaging through his trunk. “Has anyone seen my freaking sandals?" I ask. I walk on the outer edges of my feet back towards the pool, whispering “hot-hot-hot” on beat. I look back. Ah-ha! My sandals are two lounge chairs over, roasting in the Florida sun. I slip one on only to discover the foot bed is hotter than the ground. I penguin over to the pool to soak my sandals and feet. I stub my toe along the way. I let out a grunt. I am not having a particularly magical time. I float in the shallow end feeling like an old hotdog in a dirty water pan. I look around for some relief—a sprawling oak tree, a canopy, gazebo, pavilion, awning, one of those wooden beam things that sort of gives you shade if you stand just right underneath. Something. *Anything.* Nothing. Even the large midwestern man in a speedo standing over me doesn't appear capable of casting a shadow. It's like a video game that isn't fully rendered. Except this is very real; it's hot as fuck out and my feet feel like how a medium rare steak sounds like on a sizzling dinner plate. ## Act II: Staycation We're a staycation family. On holidays, or three-day weekends, or Toyotathons or whatever, we rent a large house from AirBnB and we cut loose. We stock the kitchen with food and liquor, then spend our days at the resort-style pool. The boys smoke cigars and play dominos, and the girls sunbathe. The kids try to drown each other in the lazy river. It's wholesome family fun. What's more, it's a way for us to spend time together without Mickey Mouse asking for our credit cards every fifteen minutes. In Orlando, there are few places where people can exist without the expectation of constant consumption. These pools are as close to community centers as we'll ever get. So we pay the nightly rates and exorbitant cleaning fees for our little family escapes. Charging for shade during a heatwave is exploitative in a way that surprises me. And I'm a cynical guy. Nothing under the “private equity economy” catches me off guard. But this did. People rent umbrellas on the beach, sure, but you can also bring your own umbrella. So, I can only describe my time at The Oasis as militant consumerism. They searched our bags at the front door for unauthorized *water*. It's a hot mess. I worry that the AirBnB-ification of leisure is about to price us out of our weekend getaways. They can't just commodify shadows. Can they? ## Act III // Perhaps this whole ordeal is just a rouge HOA's money-grab. // There are three entities involved. Later that evening, we all lounge around the rental smelling of chlorine, enjoying the post-pool day high. I'm standing in the kitchen after my nap, mindlessly eating tortilla chips and pretending not to know that my root beer isn't zero sugar. Suddenly, my brother and father walk in after being gone for a while. My brother is on the phone and he sounds furious; a rare occurrence for someone who, against all odds, is the calm one of the family. My dad goes straight into his room. We learn that my dad was sitting at the front gate for an hour. The security refused to let him back in because the car wasn't registered with security. Earlier, he had left for Target in my brother's car to get more provisions. My brother is the primary name on the rental home but security screwed up and registered my car after my brother's car had been registered. When my brother arrived at the front gate to let my dad in, the security guard still refused entry. Instead, she called the off duty cop who then stayed parked behind them, lights on, never exiting his vehicle. It took the owner of the house to come to the front gate, which my brother later learned wasn't necessary. The security guard simply refused to share with my brother what needed to happen for them to reenter the grounds. Gasps and huffs pepper the living room. My niece and nephew dart up and bounce around with their fists up like Popeye after taking his spinach. They're too young to understand the implications of what happened to their Abuelo and Tio, but they know how to read a room. They're gifting us some comic relief. It works. We all chuckle. My brother grabs his phone and opens the sliding glass door. "Don't follow me," he orders the room. My sister immediately follows him. The rest of us can hear my brothers muffled voiced from the living room. It's stern by calm. I'm overwhelmed with a cocktail of fury and curiosity. But I'm also cognizant of the older brother trap. I don't want to overthrow the situation. I want to trust my brother to do and say the right things. I don't want to indulge my own anger. I sit on the couch, knee shaking, thinking of an excuse to join my siblings. Fuck it. I slowly open the sliding glass door and stick my head out. "Has anyone seen my sandals?" My sister giggles. My brother ignores me. I step out and slide the door closed behind me. When my brother hangs up the phone, the three of us riff about the day we had. None of us are willing to call it out by name.