1

 

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.”

–Kurt Vonnegut

 

Xavier Wishburn sat in the cockpit of the Grumman G-64, his hand resting on the yolk, watching the clouds part before him. It was his sanctuary, being among the clouds. When he was fifteen thousand feet up, Xavier waited for nobody. At this height, he was the one to say what was what – weather permitting. Though Xavier loved the plane he flew more than a handful of girlfriends he evert had, he did not own it. This plane along with two others were owned by Manje, LLC, a division of creepy motherfuckers, which is a wholy owned subsidiary of Stench of Death Enterprises. Xavier knew from the beginning that he was shaking hands with evil – or at least something illegal – when he signed on to run the air taxi fleet for Jackson Faraday. But in doing so, he had also made an agreement with Jackson to own one of the planes outright in two years time in exchange for crew recruitment and delivering the clients on time without bruising. That was Jackson’s word: bruising. Of course it felt like a deal with a catch, so Xavier had his sister’s boyfriend who was a lawyer in Boston look things over.

“It’s air tight…but kinda not in the best interests of the contractee,” he had told Xavier. “Which is odd.”

So Xavier signed and found himself doing practice runs to Miami and searching for two more pilots and a mechanic to round out the crew. And because the whole thing felt shady from the moment he sent the email response to an ad placed in Aviator Monthly, Xavier went by the name Jimmy Dank – as in “Yimmy Dank, mon.” He also had dreads woven in, grew the goatee to string beads in it, and substituted every stitch of clothing for tie dye. He also learned to smoke pot, which not to his surprise he didn’t mind.

Xavier was a Phi Delta, graduated from Cornell with honors in International Business and found the job market inhospitable to a graduate with his credentials. As his expectations commenced their downward spiral, Xavier found himself spending more time at the library as opposed to being online in a cafe.  That scenario only depressed him as it seemed that everybody else were doing things of great importance with their laptops and iphones as they too looked for work in a diminished capacity. Unless Xavier had planned to tell people about the savings of adding another phone line to their wireless plan courtesy of AT&T, he needed to find another way to get by in this world. That’s when he stumbled across a book at the library on Grumman aircraft. Actually, he had read an article on Jimmy Buffett who flew one of these planes. And though he didn’t listen to Jimmy Buffett he was aware of the laid back island life Buffett’s followers bought in to. Fabricated brand or not, Xavier liked the message od taking life slower and on your own terms. The next day he enrolled in flight school learning on a Grumman G-111 Albatross and became fast friends with the awkward bird and the sky. This was it. It didn’t matter that seaplane taxi services were far and few between. This was his love and Xavier was willing to starve for it. And that’s when he saw the ad.

 

2

 

Located behind the main hotel, which has yet to be renamed though everyone calls it “St. Aggies,” was a small outcropping of bungalows. This was where management resided. Made with aged pink clapboard walls and white shutters, the building looked more like interconnected swimming pool cabanas than executive suites. Designed by a Miami architect, the building failed to meet Jackson’s vision of “Flannery O’Connor gone native.”

He was soon replaced.

Tad Wingo sat in his cabana/office, his face was buried in his laptop scrutinizing a PowerPoint presentation he was putting together to show the latest projections of tourism to St. Aggies. Tad was the marketing manager for St. Aggies. Before that, a consultant for several GOP senators. Before that, Yale.

So involved was Tad that he failed to notice the small glowing red dot that appeared on the forehead of Rudy Guliani’s portrait hanging on the wall of Tad’s office. The glowing red dot began to travel down Rudy’s face, passing over the mouth that just couldn’t pronounce the letter “S”, off the portrait, on to the wall, on to the “REMEMBER 9/11” commemorative pencil holder, up Tad’s arm, coming to rest just above his left ear. UV coated window glass tinkled to the carpet and Tad fell face first into his laptop, causing an error sound to continually beep.

Outside of the room Tad formerly occupied, hidden in the growth, a woman rapidly disassembled a rifle, just like in the movies, with pieces coming apart and small metal things collapsing closed into a neat package that fit into an REI Ridgeline 65 backpack. Hoisting the pack over her shoulder, she paused to survey the ground around her, searching for any evidence she might have left behind. She had curly black hair and piercing blue eyes that perfected the thousand yard stare. She wore a ribbed dark green tank top, olive cargo shorts and waterproof hiking boots. Everything about her said, “Do not. Fuck. With. Me.” Which made it difficult as she was very attractive like a Venus Flytrap is to a fly.

Deciding her trail was covered, she disappeared into the vegetation.

She reemerged less than a mile away in a clearing that had a smallish pond and two metal huts side by side. The huts were made from salvaged oil derrick siding, “COCH OIL” running sideways in faded orange along one hut. The other a washed out blue with a red rooster on it. A blonde Chihuahua came out of the blue hut to greet the woman. It made a squeaking sound as it walked, the squeaking coming from the small two-wheeled cart that the dog’s rear haunches sat in. There was a sizeable chunk missing from a place just above the dog’s tail, which did not wag.

“We need to get you oiled,” the woman said to Dog.

Dog turned it’s head to the right to view the cart, then turned back to the woman nodding.

“It’s done,” she said. “On to the next one.”

Dog nodded again thoughtfully.

“How about Winston. After Churchill?” she asked Dog.

Dog licked his chops once, then looked up at her, shaking his head a definitive “No.”

“Maybe before I die, we’ll agree on a name for you?”

Dog yawned.

“Bath time,” she said to the dog.

The dog suddenly pricked up his small white ears and turned his head in the direction of the jungle. The dark haired woman slung her rifle off her shoulder and held it at waist level. They both remained silent. The jungle moved of it’s own accord. Palm fronds moved lazily as the tall grass shifted like tiny green fingers. Then the dog was content, spinning his wheeled cart on a pivot and heading towards the pond.

 

3

 

She held herself still, watching the dog watch her. Was she detected? She thought she was well camouflaged behind the foliage. But then the dog turned and she knew she was safe. They came regularly to bath and drink and sometimes nap. Always with the rifle cradled in her arms or within reach. As far as she knew, the dark haired woman didn’t know she was being watched. The dog however, seemed to sense her and on one occasion felt as if their eyes had locked and then with a blink, accepted her presence. She was certain it was her imagination but she felt as if the dog regarded her with a sort of humanistic visual…communication. It was weird, which was an understatement given the recent events that had transformed her life.

Her name was Cate Hendricks and like so many others she will come to know, she simply answered the ad. A junior copywriter at a direct mail agency in Smyrna, Delaware, Cate actually enjoyed living in Smyrna. But at the age of twenty-nine, with an ex-husband for a meth dealer/addict and a town of seven thousand knowing all about it, Cate was ready for a move.

She heard about the job from a friend of hers who worked for Saatchi in New York. Seems there was a humongous indigenous man visiting creatives at Saatchi with a job offer to work in the Caribbean.

“It actually sounded pretty sweet,” her friend had told Cate. “But the guy seemed a little intimidating and besides I got Ross and we’re thinking about having a baby, so…thought maybe you needed a get out of Delaware free.”

Cate’s friend sent her the contact info, an email address, and Cate sent her portfolio in PDF. She also Googled what she knew, which wasn’t much. There was some construction done on a series of small islands. Hoping to become a major tourist attraction, which to Cate didn’t seem like a miracle. And that was it.

Her reply came the same she sent off her work. A short, simple, “”You’re hired!” Email listing directions for transportation along with an e-ticket. It was exciting at first. She caught a flight to Miami first class. From there, it was  a seaplane ride over green water with cocktails. And then a room in what was shaping up to be an over the top luxury resort. Whatever suspicions she might have had, particularly about getting in bed with organized crime or drug running, melted away as she sat on a white wicker chair looking out at the ocean from her hotel room balcony. The ice still fresh in her glass.

Cate’s attention had waned, for the dog’s barking was upon her before she could react.

“Stay still,” the dark haired woman said quietly. She had the rifle pointed at Cate’s head.

“I didn’t see anything, ” Cate said, as if she were worried about getting shot over same sex public nudity.

“Who else is with you?” the dark haired woman asked.

“It’s just me,” Cate said.

The dark haired woman looked around.

” You’ve been her before,” she said.

“Yes,” Cate said.

” What are you looking for?”

“A friend,” Cate blurted out. The answer took both of them by surprise.

” You know who I am? The dark haired woman asked.

” You just blew out Tad Wingo’s brains,” Cate said. “All over Rudy Guliani. It was epic.”

The dark haired woman turned her head slightly to the side with a hint of a grin across her lips. She liked this one. But she was still dangerous.

” I hunt your friends,” the dark haired woman said. ” I plan to continue until I have the one that I want. Nothing will stop me so long as I keep my distance. And stay smart. Right now? This is too close. And not very smart.”

The dark haired woman steadied the rifle. Cate felt something, but wasn’t sure it was fear. The jungle sounds were all that filled the air around them.

“Don’t,” a small grumbling voice said.

Cate was startled by the voice. She was certain it didn’t come from the dark haired woman. She turned her eyes to the surrounding jungle.

“She could betray this spot,” the dark haired woman said. ” We need this spot.”

“Just. Don’t,” the small grumbling voice replied.

Now Cate felt something like shock run through her body. She looked down at the small dog whose haunches rested in a wheelchair. The dog was looking straight at her as he opened his little mouth and said,

“She looks like she could use a friend.”

That was the last thing Cate remembered before passing out.

 

 

4

 

 

“This is my PowerPoint. There are many like it but mine is 7.0”

-Anonymous Marine,

WESTPAC

 

Slide number one visual: Painting of Benjamin Franklin looking smug. Quote: “I look upon death to be as necessary to the constitution as sleep. WE SHALL RISE REFRESHED IN THE MORNING.”

Slide number two visual: Auschwitz mass grave.

Slide number three: an etching depicting The Black Plague.

Slide number four: The Jonestown Massacre.

Slide number five: a morbidly obese couple holding hands at a state fair, each eating something fried on a stick.

Slide number six: A beauty shot of St. Agrippina as seen from the air.

“What is it we all strive for?” a youngish sounding woman’s voice asked in the dark. “We strive for lots of things. Love, power, sex, money. But most of all, we strive for survival.  When all is said and done at the end of the day, we want to see the next sunrise come up over the mountains and announce to us that we have in fact, survived to see another sunrise.”

“Ooooohkay,” another woman’s voice, older and fatigued sounding, said. “I think we’ve reached our metaphorical dead end for the morning. Is there any meat on the bone. Oops. Look. Now I’m doing it.”

“I was just about to get into it,” the younger voice replied.

“Preferably before the next ice age,” the older voice said. “Or didn’t they teach that at Vassar?”

“They did, though a first hand account would serve better. The floor is yours,” the younger voice said.

Jackson sat in the dark, staring up at the slide of the porcine couple. His eyes roamed over the bulbous rolls of tissue that made up an arm. The enlarged goiters that connected to a skull encased with layers of flesh. And the stomachs. Protruding to the point of being absent of waistline. Yes, Jackson gazed upon them, thinking to himself, “Welcome target demographic. Welcome.”

His attention refocused at the sound of a door slamming shut.

“Atria.I take it you’re still in the room?” Jackson asked.

A brief pause, followed by a clipped, “I am.”

“She’s number four, Atria. And she’s not half bad, if more than a little eager to earn her stripes,” Jackson said.

“She’s a reminder of why I’ll never play with my food again,” Atria said.

Jackson remained silent keeping his gaze on the screen. “So you’re happy with her I take it?”

Still no response.

“Maybe with further training. An elocution class perhaps. A thesaurus maybe. Really a whole desk set – ”

“Up on that screen is the whole reason for us getting up in the morning,” interrupted Jackson. “Metaphorically speaking.”

Atria let out a small harrumph.

“Who’d have thought that after all this time, it would still come down to getting bodies into beds?” Jackson asked.

“Nothing’s changed, Jackson,” Atria said. “It’s always been about feeding the beast, the Clan. Their needs getting met. Our charge to make sure that happens.”

“Our charge,” Jackson repeated, smacking his lips. “It is indeed our charge. We’ve amassed quite a sizable family. Spanning back farther than anything else on earth in human form. We’re like walking tree rings. Dig deep into us and we’ll deliver a history of the world. Set a few things right, even.”

“More than a few I should think,” Atria said. “Beginning with the whole of Creation!”

“Now, Atria – ”

“Atria nothing,” interrupted Atria. “You know as well as I do how much horror and bloodshed and suffering would’ve been alleviated had we come forth and set a few things right about certain published documents. But no, we’re the secret souls. The in-articulation of God’s plan. After a while, one develops a kind of opinion of oneself that is not entirely flattering.”

There was silence.

“Anything else?” Jackson asked.

“Elvis is living,” Atria said.

Jackson smiled. That was one of many code phrases between them along with “Crop Circle Marts,” “Jesus snored,” and “Hominid Abstract Artists.” It bonded them while at the same time providing ample comfort that a phrase like FUBAR might to a military leader overseeing the evacuation of a coastal city where jazz was born.

“Our task at hand is both plethoric and ferklempt,” he said. “The age old problem of many mouths to feed and clothe and provide shelter for mixed with something entirely new to us – modern mass communication.”

Jackson rose from his chair and stood to the side of the aerial image of St. Aggies.

“Isolated. Beautiful. Expensive. The stuff of dreams. Unobtainable.”

“We watch television. Listen to NPR,” Atria said. “I subscribe to at least five magazines. Run an ad. Make a tv commercial. They figured out Pluto wasn’t a planet. How hard could a tv commercial be to make?”

“NPR?” Jackson said. “I would’ve pegged you more of a Rush Limbaugh listener.”

“Pfft!” Atria replied. “And Cleopatra would let a snake within five miles of her.”

“Well,” Jackson said turning to look at the slide on the screen. “So happens that we have a specialist in the field of mass communication to work with Cate. Should be here later in the day I should think.”

“Where did we find him?” Atria asked. “Harvard?”

“Our scout found him in a place that I’d deem perfect for someone whose field lay in the art of creative persuasion,” Jackson said. ” A psychiatric ward.”

“Good,” Atria said. “Now we’ll have a Hemingway to round out the roster. He can shoot up the place when not describing the ocean view in three words.”

“Actually, he’s one of three,” Jackson said. “I decided to have two creative teams.”

“Also from mental wards?” Atria asked.

“Oh Atria,” Jackson said. “Where would I find amoral, creative and completely dysfunctional people to come play in our island paradise?”

Atria thought for a moment. She cracked as close to a smile as should could muster.

“You’ve gone bi-coastal,” Atria said. “Hollywood and D.C.”

Jackson clapped his hands together as he moved into the slide of St. Aggies. His white suit became a deep green ocean.

“I predict great chaos followed by great success. Rounded off with a feast of Arthurian gluttony,” he said.

 

 

NOBODY SAW THAT ONE COMIN’

1

 

Sandy Rankin sat in the cavernous conference room inside St. Agrippina’s flagship resort enjoying the crisp, cool air conditioning he had helped install. He’d been in this position many times, enjoying the fruits of his labor while waiting for praise and a check from another satisfied customer. Like other kings, being the King of HVAC in South Florida enabled Sandy the time to sit with his latest conquest and ruminate about the hard climb to the top and how to remain there. Florida was full of air conditioning specialists – most being hacks with a few notables. But it was a lonely landscape with no equal to compare himself to.

The sound of heavy oak doors bursting open roused Sandy from his reverie. A man dressed like Col. Sanders with slicked back golden hair and a square jaw that arrived a few second before the owner, extended his hand to Sandy as he began to talk.

“It’s quite a system you’ve put in Sandy – can I call you Sandy?” the approaching man said. He took hold of Sandy’s hand and gave it a firm quick shake before releasing it as he turned to the football field length marble conference table that had a series of schematics  sloshes across it’s mirrored surface.

“You’ve really given it the college try, and for that I am grateful,” the man said. He stood silent looking over the schematics. ” Real attention to detail, indeed,” the man said smacking his lips.

Sandy came up beside the man, uttering his thanks for the kind words-gee it’s nice to hear-I love my jobs speel.

“Yup. A real barn burner here. Just one thing, Sandy,” the man said turning to face Sandy. “It’s not what I asked for.”

“Excuse me?” Sandy blurted out.

“You followed the American Society of Heating, Refrigerating, and Air -Conditioning Engineers handbook on this job,” the man said.

“Absolutely,” Sandy said. “It’s the gold standard in HVAC.”

” That’s true, Sandy. It is the measure of an HVAC professional to follow the fundamentals set forth in the four volumes. Which is exactly one volume longer than the three volume series on physics delivered by Richard Feynman at Caltech. I wonder, Sandy. What kind of HVAC system I would have if I hired a Caltech graduate to design it?”

” Now listen,” Sandy said, drawing himself up. “In this part of the world, Sandy Rankin is king. It’s not a boast. that’s just how it is. When I did this job, which is by far not my biggest job, I followed the ASHRAE code to a tee.”

“Well King Sandy,” the man said. ” You followed the North American ASHRAE design standards and if you want to go back to your suite, the comp suite we provided you along with the prostitutes and the drugs and the free cable, and you check your luggage tags you’ll notice THAT WE’RE NOT IN NORTH FUCKING AMERICA BUT THE WEST FUCKING INDIES!”

Sandy had that look. The one where you know you’ve screwed up so much so that you haven’t considered formulating a denial. Partly because the Man had a look on his face that was anger mixed with something else. Something almost animalistic and every bit as terrifying.

“I have my doubts, King Sandy,” the man continued in a lower register. “As to whether you even differentiated between the Uniform Mechanical Code or the International Mechancal Code, nevermind NADCA or IAPMO or even the lowly SMACNA. And King Sandy, I’m afraid to peel back some ductwork to see if you used compressor refrigeration instead of the absorption refrigeration I requested because we are in essentially the third world and electricity is extremely unreliable here.”

Sandy gulped. He had used compression.

“I understand your frustration,” Sandy said.

“No, Sandy,” the man said. ” You have no idea of my ‘frustration’ as you call it. No inkling of how important this is. Of how your failure truly makes me feel. But you’re about to. Sandy, I’m going to import to you the deep understanding of just how much me and my people rely on air temperature regulation. I’m going to give you the gift of true customer insight.”

“How so?” Sandy asked.

“More like ‘where so’ really,” the man said.

“What the hell is this – who are you?”

“I’m Jackson Faraday,” the man said.

Without warning, Jackson Faraday sunk his teeth into Sandy Rankin’s neck and with almost no effort at all, yanked a chunk of flesh out and began chewing it. Arterial spray criss-crossed Jackson’s white linen suit as Sandy collapsed to the floor like a marionette whose strings were suddenly cut. After a few moments of body spasms, Sandy’s body went almost immediately to rigor. Alll color left his skin. the blood flow came to a halt.

“New employee orientation starts at four p.m.,” Jackson said as he chewed. “Dinner bell’s at six.”

 

2

​

Eleni “Lennie” Dolmayan sat in her cheap Home Depot office chair in front of her IKEA clearance “Yurdkvistle” Executive Desk, with matching veneer file cabinet.  On her laptop facing her, her hands resting on the ergonomic plastic area beneath the keyboard, she stared at a map of The Grand Cayman Islands. Lately she found herself doing this more and more: just staring. One time she realized she had spent twenty-five minutes staring at the stainless steel toilet paper dispenser in the  bathroom at work. Time vanished into that dispenser. Lennie was sure of it.

The office she spent time in a light coma was a travel agency located in a strip mall in Punta Gorda, a suburb of Southwest Florida near the Peace River. It’s also a sort of jumping off point to the Gulf of Mexico. Which meant almost nothing to Lennie who had never been outside the U.S.

Right. A travel agent who never travels. Job’s a job.

Lennie had a good reason. She was close to four hundred pounds. It made travel difficult. Going to Safeway for a few dozen boxes of Stouffers pizza bread was difficult. She walked with two canes. Hadn’t owned a belt or worn jeans since 1979. She slowly succumbed to a kind of self-imposed house or “town” arrest She had a mile long list of things she would do if only she lost weight. She could then be her true self and embark on a life of adventure. If only food wasn’t the beautiful reward and damning punishment that she dangled before her for nearly every occasion. It was also pretty basic: Lennie loved food, hated exercise. How shocking that at the age forty-six she was already beating the insurance actuary tables. Though for how long is anybody’s guess.

But no matter how many boxes of Twinkies she consumed, in Lennie’s mind, she would one day circle the earth and then as an old woman, sit in a comfortable rocking recalling all of her experiences in the open air market in Istanbul or the midnight walk along the Nile.

“I book adventure for thinner people,” Lennie announced at a Weight Watchers meeting once. “Maybe one day, I’ll book something for myself.” She knew that was not going to happen but figured it’s what you said at these kinds of meetings.

What Lennie really craved, more than food or travel, was to be involved in a caper of sorts. She loved the notion of being the “Mother” in charge of some kind of operation. The one who sat in a dark room brimming with technology, wearing a wire thin headset, sitting before three laptops, a map of the operation glowing on a display to her left. Her team sending her information via voice, laptop and GPS. She would be dressed in black, her frizzy brown hair slicked back. Fat, thin, it didn’t matter. She was the one carrying the ball. She’d watched movies like “Sneakers,” “Ocean’s 11,” “The Sting,” all three “Mission Impossibles,” and  “The Great Escape,” to feel the camaraderie – the sense of purpose she so desired. None of those movies took place in a strip mall.

Lennie considered redecorating the travel agency like her vision. After all, nobody really came in anymore. It’s all done over the phone and on the web. Currently she did business in what could best be described as a “faux environment.” All of the furniture; the desk, credenza, chairs, all of it pretending to be oak or granite or a textured plastic (imitation plastic?). The travel posters were at least fifteen years old and yellowing. Fake palm tree by the entrance. Fake tiffany desk lamp. She spent hours online searching out quality spy furniture, but it began to be cost prohibitive when it came to the plasma screen geothermal map, servers, laptops, and the Herman Miller Aeron chair. Lennie consoled herself that the current office design was created to give the look of a pedestrian travel agency in a strip mall in Florida as cover. Deep cover.

So when the seven foot Caribe Indian dressed in Brooks Bros. came into Lennie’s travel agency and asked outright what her price was to become the sole travel agency representing his associates, Bahamian Holding & Marketing Partners, Lennie managed to close her gaping mouth and began entertaining visions of passports and glowing screens.

 

3

 

Things were looking up for Lewis Dorn. The cafeteria fridge was constantly stocked with little plastic containers of ice cream and chocolate milk which made for a tasty little stir/shake concoction. The night nurse who dispensed the meds was cute in that single mom with eleven children and a psychotic ex-husband kind of way. Oscar’s PTSD seemed to be momentarily suspended, which meant no more being woken up in the middle of the night to help Oscar flush Charley out of the peat bogs. USA cable network began running a Law & Order marathon on Thursdays to compete with Bravo’s already existing L&O marathon, which meant Lewis could flip back and forth between the two with nary a commercial interruption. And lastly, the combination of meds and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy were making Lewis feel almost human again.

True it had only been a week. But according to day nurse Jackie, Lewis was making a comeback.

“Seven days and you’re back in the Matrix, baby cakes,” Jackie had told Lewis.

While funny to Lewis, this statement was also terrifying. What was his plan upon discharge? Maybe get shipped off to Western State? Even the paranoid schizophrenics feared that option. Apparently they did science experiments on you and had no cable. Nicholas, the advanced encephalitis sufferer had an interesting re-entry plan that involved living in a hollowed out tanker truck in the Redwoods.

For a man missing half of his brain, it wasn’t the worst idea Lewis had heard on the subject. But no matter how the conversations or thoughts twisted and turned, Lewis always came back to the same place: the small torn slip of paper with an email address that Randall had given him three days ago. Lewis often found himself rolling the slip of paper between his fingers in the pocket of his hospital pajamas to comfort him. Randall had told him that there were jobs for guys like him – marketing guys – set right in the middle of paradise. All of which sounded too good to be true. But then what other options besides living in a tanker truck in the middle of the redwoods were available to him?

So when Lewis was able to get a little computer time, after Dennis who was researching examples of ancient brain surgery techniques such as trepanation, he opened a Gmail account and sent an email introducing himself. Lewis didn’t expect a reply and found his heart skipping a beat when he received one later that day.

“Dear Mr. Dorn,

Upon reviewing your letter we have come to the conclusion that you are very much a person of interest to us. We’d like to meet with you to discuss opportunities within our organization, particularly in the fields of marketing and advertising. To that end, please find enclosed an e-ticket to a private jet service to meet with us on February 23, St. Agrippina, British West Indies. If for some reason you cannot attend, simply disregard this notice.

Sincerely,

Juanita Clemmons

VP Marketing

Manje, LLC

 

Lewis sat stunned by the reply. His first thought was that it was some obvious kind of scam. A scam in which some organization flies out someone to a Caribbean island to what? Harvest organs? Recruit into a cause? Maybe Al Quieda operated in the the West Indies? It didn’t make sense. But neither did his life at the moment. A Hunter S. Thompson quote popped into his head: “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.” Lewis got up from the computer and began walking around the ward, picking up bits of conversation, grunts, moans and gas release. He passed Paul, the suicidal bond salesman, who wore a neck brace due to a failed hanging and carried a scrapbook of all the prostitutes he nailed while in Singapore. He passed Tristan sitting in a chair, stroking his boner with his good hand. His other hand was in a cast after he beat it with a framing hammer hoping that would curb his meth addiction. He had been advised to find a positive use for his remaining hand. His masturbation was incessant.

Lewis came to a stop at his bedroom door. Inside Oscar was curled up in a ball, the sheets drenched with his sweat, whispering about outflanking them. He was crying in between whispers, the drool mixing with the tears in a pool on the bed beneath his mouth. And that was all Lewis needed to put aside his doubts and fears.

“How could it possibily be worse than this?” he said shutting the door to give Oscar his privacy.

 

1

 

Lewis learned a few things about flying in a Grumman Albatross. For instance, they’re crazy loud. They shimmy with a constant low vibration that gave him an erection. And you can put in a concert quality sound system loud enough to squelch the crazy loud propellor noise.  Another more startling thing Lewis learned was that after an hour of flying, he had become a Jimmy Buffett fan. Sure when the first bar of “Cheeseburger in Paradise” burst through the seaplane’s speakers, Lewis’s first thought was, “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.” Twenty-five minutes later he found himself half-singing along with “Margaritaville.”

Other things learned: while sitting in the tiny bathroom of the plane, he realized he had no real idea where he was going beyond, “The Caribbean.” Grumman Albatross bathrooms are too small to rub one out (to relieve the plane vibration effect). The Caribe Indian who drove him from the Miami airport to a private airstrip was the most intimidating human being he had ever encountered. The pilot of the Grumman Albatross he was on was named Jimmy Dank and for some reason, Lewis didn’t quite buy the rastamon thing Jimmy was selling. Was that even a hint of a Boston accent he caught when Jimmy said, “I’ll load deez bags, mon.”

The list could go on.

The flight came with a bar that was a plastic cooler filled with Red Stripe. Pretzels too. This suited Lewis just fine who began immediately throwing back the beer, mostly out of nerves. He just got released from the psych ward. He was on his way to a new job in a new place to live not knowing a single person. Oh, he was gonna drink. He worried if the meds he was on, Lithium and Celexa (to take the edge off) would react poorly with the beer. But he decided what’s the worst that could happen? He had his book, “Happy All the Time” to refer to when the bad thoughts started kicking in. He had practiced his dialectical behavioral therapy techniques and felt confident that despite the unknown variables he found himself thrust into, the beer and the meds, and even the chronic masturbation he’d been experiencing of late – all that was under control.

The plane dipped to the right a bit as Lewis beheaded another Red Stripe. Below him lay the turquoise waters of the West Indies, the sun banking off it’s gyrating waves, lighting up the cabin of the Grumman. Lewis slid down in his seat, raised the beer bottle and toasted the waters.

“Res ipsa loquitur,” he said and drained the beer.

 

2

 

Forty-five minutes later the Grumman Albatross touched down on the water expertly and turned towards a wooden dock. The ocean crested along the right side of the dock pillars, causing the hanging storm lanterns to sway gently.

“Awwwright, mon,” Xavier said. “On behalf of Dank Air, we welcome you to the beautiful island of St. Agrippina.”

The announcement woke Lewis from the drunken sleep he had succumbed to a few minutes prior. His shirt covered in beer stains and pretzel crumbs. His hair looking more like a weather pattern than an advertising professional’s shag. Dried spit caked along the edge and top rim of his lips. In short, ready to meet the new boss.

Greeting the plane was a lone figure dressed in a white tuxedo. His arms tucked behind his back, the man looked like a footman from an abbey, yet his presence suggested he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Xavier cut the engines while a ground crew member dressed in light blue coveralls, tied the float plane off. The tuxedo man opened the door to the fuselage and out poured Lewis onto the dock like so much caught halibut. He was cradling an empty Red Stripe bottle and a spent bag of pretzels. The tuxedo man, clearly not amused, took a step back and said, “Sir. May I relieve you of your empty?”

Lewis looked up at the tuxedo man with a squint, looked down at his empty, back up again and passed out. Xavier poked his head out of the plane, staring down at Lewis. He began to speak.

“Don’t – ” interrupted the tuxedo man.

“But Roscoe – ”

“Just. Don’t.”

Xavier shook his head muttering to himself.

“And another thing,” Roscoe said. “This is the last one to arrive in this manner, Mr. Dank. Xavier. We cannot have a repeat of what occurred last month.”

“I’m just following protocol,” Xavier said, his accent absent from the conversation.

“Mmm. Brilliant,” Roscoe said. “How is it that your following protocol seems to end in precisely the same manner?”

“There are a thousand and one ways to get shit faced,” Xavier said. “But in the end, they get delivered to this dock in the same state.”

“At least this one had the presence of mind to arrive at the same time as the plane,” Roscoe said. “Have your crewmen take him to the West Wing. They might want to hose him off prior.”

The arrival Roscoe was speaking of was a jittery accountant from Troy, New York who drank two bottles of Jaegermeister and mistook the fuselage exit door as the bathroom. Management, like Roscoe was not amused.

With each new hire, their came a file containing everything a normal employer would never have. Manje, LLC did its homework well. Operatives were sent out to observe and report and to set up if necessary. Though in Lewis’s case, it was just happenstance that he’d go batshit in the supermarket. As for Randall, the psych ward friend with a deep knowledge of Law and Order, he was a plant right down to his crash course in the goings on of a cop procedural show.

Manje, LLC didn’t care what state the new hires arrived in. But Jackson Faraday certainly did. “Off guard and repentant,” was Jackson’s protocol. He left how to get the recruits wasted to Xavier, who decided to treat the matter like most ivy leaguers would, with an element of panache and authenticity. So far Xavier had tweaked the brain chemicals of various Manje, LLC employees with a combination of booze and drugs, each served up artfully and in keeping with the hire’s socioeconomic background.

Hence then Red Stripe in a Coleman ice chest for Lewis.

 

3

He was dreaming that the was in “Apocalypse Now.” Above him a rusted out fan turned slowly. The ceiling made of corrugated tin and stained from water – the torrential downpours of Cambodia. The Trang. Behind the DMZ. He listened to his breathing. Slow, deliberate, as if he had entered another realm of consciousness. The mind of a trained killer.

“Saigon,” he whispered. “I’m still in Saigon.”

“You wanted a mission. And for your sins, they gave you one,” a female voice said.

Lewis turned his head to the right. It was a woman. Sitting with her legs crossed in a chair. Pretty. He turned back to the fan.

“The Caribbean. I’m still in the Caribbean,” he said.

“That’s not fair,” the woman said, rising from her chair and walking over, her face coming into view. Her hair was shoulder length and auburn. Green eyes, a hint of freckling around the nose. Pale.

“You’re not supposed to hate it here for another sixty to ninety days.”

Lewis blinked a few times. “How long have I been here?”

“A little more than twenty-four hours,” she said.

“Am I in a bed?” Lewis asked.

“More or less,” the woman said. “You’re laying on your work desk.”

“I’m thinking about sitting up,” Lewis said.

“Don’t know if that’s the best choice,” the woman said. “But you have to get on with your life at some point.”

Lewis liked the way she rolled with his silliness. He glanced at her hand for a wedding band.

“Seriously?” the woman said. “You’re in a drunken stupor on a metal desk in a quonset hut on an island somewhere in the West Indies and you’ve known me almost a minute and you’re taking the time to check on my marital status?”

“I’m so fucking caught,” Lewis said.

“Well…shows something that you cop to it rather than some lame excuse,” she said. “Listen. There are a few rules around this place you’d do well to learn.”

With that she grabbed hold of Lewis’s hands and pulled him to a sitting position. The pain in his skull was immediate. He clinched his eyes shut. He didn’t even notice how cold her hands were.

“Rule one,” she continued. “Don’t shit where you eat. I’m Cate Hendrickson, your copywriter and partner. You’re pleased to meet me.”

Lewis grunted as he cradled his head in his hands.

“Rule two. Nothing here is what it seems,” she said, walking over to a rusted mini fridge and retrieving a two cold bottles of Red Stripe. She walked back over to Lewis, holding out the bottle for him.

“Hair of the dog?” he said.

“Put it on your forehead,” she said.

Lewis did as instructed. He was hard pressed to think of another time he’d been so hungover. His vision was beginning to correct itself fully, the surroundings coming out of the glaring state of illumination. He was in a room that could best be described as rusted out. In between the gaping areas of burnt sienna rust were some splotches of taupe and light blue. Most of the surfaces were made of corrugated metal held together with steel beams and rivets. Toward the door – which looked like three hundred year old wood and had survived several redecorations in paint years – were two brown overstuffed recliners and a dark teak coffee table. Mad Men in the Caribbean. The large brown shaded lamp gave off some cozy illumination.

Further away from the door where two office issue metal desks facing each other. Beneath them a large red woven Turkish rug. The desks were butted up against each other to give it that Woodward and Bernstein vibe. The only thing corrupting that image were the two Mac laptops. A small two burner stove lay off to the back of the hut next to a mini fridge and a stereo console encased in wood from the late sixties.

As far as offices go, Lewis had seen worse. It had a certain retro charm to it. Even the ceiling fan that turned slowly above them lent an air of “Rick’s Café”. Maybe they could get their hands on a hooka? Lewis returned his attention to Cate. It was then that he noticed how pale she was.

“Tell me something Cate,” Lewis said. “How does one go about living in the Caribbean without acquiring a tan?”

“The Irish curse,” she replied.

“I thought whiskey was the Irish curse?” Lewis said.

“Whiskey and bad tanning skin,” Cate said.

Lewis paused for a moment. Somehow the answer seemed odd, almost deflective.  As if the real answer couldn’t be revealed.

“Melanoma scare?” he asked.

“No,” she replied. “The truth is, I don’t like sitting out in  a bikini in the sun.

Lewis immediately switched gears imagining Cate in a bikini.

“Really?” she said. “You’re wondering what I look like in a bikini right in front of me?”

“How do you do that? Lewis asked.

“What?” Cate said. “Predicting what men are thinking in the presence of a woman? It’s only slightly easier than what they’re thinking in the presence of a plasma screen t.v.”

“Which is?” Lewis asked.

“Sex,” Cate said matter of factly. “Drink a lot of water and maybe catch a nap. We have a meeting in the morning with Jackson. My guess is that we’re kicking things off. You’ll get to meet some of the other players. Good times.”

Cate walked out the front door, Lewis taking a moment to check out her ass, which to his delight was wonderful.