CHAPTER 12

“I would like to be referred to as ‘The Big Aristotle’.”
-Shaquille O’Neal

Jackson sat behind his behemoth desk (Johan Elikazer at cost), fingers clasped into a point that tapped his pursed lower lip. Kyle was wondering if he’d spend the rest of his life awaiting people in charge of stuff to pass judgment on his ideas. In his mind, Kyle watched a montage of all the people he’d presented to over the years. The head nodders, the frowners, the face rubbers, the staring off to the siders, the cheek puffers, the eye darters, the silent whistlers, the I don’t get its – and with Jackson, the contemplating lip tappers.
     Kyle glanced over at Virgil, taking notice of his pale, dead skin. His friend, the zombie. How is that possible? Walking the earth without a working heart. Eating human beings. Boning other zombies. What do zombie tits feel like –
     “Gentlemen,” Jackson said, bringing Kyle around. “It is not once nor twice but times without number that the same ideas make their appearance in the world.”
     The room fell silent.
     Kyle wanted to call Jackson an asshole, but truth be told, he was afraid of being eaten. Virgil, however, had nothing to lose.
     “Really? An Aristotle quote?” Virgil said. “We kicked ass for a lame quote?”
     Kyle was more than a little impressed with Virgil identifying the quote, even recognizing that it was a quote to begin with. Seems that IQ boost upon getting zombiefied really did work.
     Jackson put his hand on a presentation board laying on his desk. It featured a family lifted right out of middle America and plopped down amidst palm trees, green ocean and white sand. Not a skinny bikini babe or six pack to be found. The headline simply put: “YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE IT.” The copy read: “You wouldn’t believe that a Caribbean resort would welcome the people who deserve a vacation the most. That they’d be given the same hospitality and comfort reserved for the idle rich. Well, beginning June 1, your idea of an affordable island oasis vacation is about to become real. Believe it.”
     “I will admit here and now,” Jackson said. “I am humbled by your efforts.”
     Despite the layers of jaded detachment accumulated over the years, Kyle and Virgil beamed at the appraisal. So much for self-righteous indignation.
     “Not that I had doubts to your god-given abilities,” Jackson said. “But that you’d be able to fully inhabit the notion of opening the Caribbean to those…less inclined to afford or to feel comfortable in such surroundings. But you did it. I feel as if  we told the story that needed to be told, and we told it true.”
     “We?” thought Kyle.
     “That’s great!” Virgil said. “And y’know, it’ll translate across all media. Print, radio, outdoor, web, maybe tv?”
     “It certainly has legs,” Kyle said, wondering where Virgil’s spunk went. “We could campaign the living daylights out of this pig.”
     “We could go viral with it,” Virgil said. “Do some on the beach testimonials. Throw ‘em up on our website – YouTube.”
     Jackson nodded in agreement.
     “Gentlemen, we have our foundation poured,” he said. “Now we’ve got to move this endeavor to the next level.”
     Kyle and Virgil exchanged glances again. That was it? No second round? Third round? Fifteenth round? No vague dissatisfaction coupled with obtuse direction as to what could be done to make it better? Make the logo bigger perhaps? The looks, shoulder lifts and feet shuffling Kyle and Virgil gave each other asked all these questions and quickly followed up with an understanding that they would accept this gift from the Gods – quickly. Jackson leaned over his phone and pressed the intercom button.
     “Send her in,” he said.
     Jackson rose from his chair holding up a presentation board, fox in a hen house grin intact. The door opened, Kyle and Virgil turned, and as soon as Kyle’s eyes met hers, the strings came in.
     “Kyle, Virgil,” Jackson said, walking over to the woman with the long sun bleached curls, 50,000 kilowatt smile, all wrapped up just a bit to snug in corporate fashion – boxy high heels included. “I’d like you to meet Matilija Horvath. She’ll be running the show from an account planning and management angle.”
     “Please, call me Mattie,” she said, extending her hand to Kyle.
     “Your name is awesome,” was all Kyle could manage.
     “I’m named after the poppy that grows in California,” Mattie said.
     “So you’ll be working with Johnette?” Virgil asked, shaking her hand.
     Mattie gave Jackson a look that suggested she’d never heard the name before.
     “Johnette has transitioned on to a very specialized and intriguing project,” Jackson said. “But right now, I’d like to have you walk Mattie through the campaign.”
     Virgil eyed Jackson with a mixture of suspicion and irritation. He was with Johnette the day before yesterday. She didn’t say a word about any special project. Okay, they didn’t do much talking, but still.  Virgil looked at Kyle, whose mouth was slightly agape, eyes transfixed on Matilija Horvath’s face. What was that all about? Virgil wondered as he studied Mattie. She was cute in typical blonde chick way. The wavy sunbleached hair and slight lisp were fun. The rack was fine. Nothing to blog about. But fine. What’s with all the drama? Then a thought crossed Virgil’s mind for the first time since becoming a homosapien
snacker:
     “The fuckin’ living.”

*****

     About the time Kyle was wondering if Matilija Horvath dug him, Seebee was watching something he’d never seen before. A squadron of Grumman Albatross’ landing in formation at the dock at St. Agrippina. Shiny, refurbished, repainted. Sitting in the cockpit of his own sea plane, Seebee absent mindedly patted the throttle arm of his plane as he watched newer, shineier version land. That’s how this place worked, he thought. Things just appear. People just appear. And some of them disappear.
     It had taken Seebee exactly one plane ride over to learn the secret of the sprayed on tanned ones. The fresh arrivals tended to be pale and sagging. When a man who identified himself as simply a banker, (which was a relief to Seebee who had met too many “Information Architects” and “Human Resources Consultants”), whose right forearm slipped out of his linen sport coat to the floor, well, Seebee started asking around.
     He began to take notice of what exactly came to the island. Lots of construction materials with lots of construction workers. Plumbers, computer networking geeks, electricians, HVAC techs – like that guy who Seebee knew was human, but felt less so than any of his previous passengers. What was missing? Food. There were no food deliveries, except for the occasional bizarre giant fast food run from the Winn-Dixie in Key West, which he assumed was for the construction workers.
     But then, he seldom saw any of those folks actually return to Florida, or any one of the billion islands in the Caribbean. He was the only airborne game in town, at least until about fifteen minutes ago. The chartered boat service was run by his good friend, Jerrick, who had taken to collecting bug life on the island to fill the chunks of inactivity.
     Seebee studied the sea planes as they taxied to the dock. He wasn’t too worried about his plan to purchase his own plane and start his own private taxi service to the Caribbean. But all those planes did make him wonder just what was coming his way. It was a lesson he’d learned back in B school. It’s not whether the problem was tough, but whether it’s the same problem you had last year. Seebee smiled at this thought. This time last year, he was learning how to turn his dropped R Boston accent into an authentic Jamaican/Creole/Pidgeon English dialect.
     Because they didn’t teach that at Harvard B School.