CHAPTER 5

 “Meet the new boss/same as the old boss.”

Won’t Get Fooled Again
- The Who

Cool. Smooth. Ocean. These are the thoughts that began to bubble to the surface of Kyle’s semi-fried brain.  He opened his eyes slowly.  Above him, the woven tapestry of a canopy bed. Palm trees and coconuts in a soft blend of tans and greens. Kyle turned his head slowly to the right. A veranda framed with white weather beaten shutters. Beyond them, the pale white beach and the frothing green ocean that rolled in over the sand. And yes, palm trees, arched inward as if planted to frame the scene. Was that brown thing at the base of the palm tree a – no, couldn’t be. A coconut?
     “Coconuts,” Kyle mumbled.
    “They’re prevalent around these parts.”
    Normally Kyle would’ve jumped ten feet, but seeing how information and response time was on a ten second delay this morning the best Kyle could muster was, “Whaaaa…?”
     “I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion.”
    Kyle sat up in his bed, the cool silk sheets, sliding down his chest. A man looking very much like Jeff Bridges sat in a high backed rattan chair across from the bed. He was dressed in white linen pants and a tan linen shirt with billowy sleeves and a low v neck.
    “I’m Jackson Quark.”
    “My new boss,” Kyle said under his breath.
    “Hopefully not the same as your old boss,” Jackson said with a classic high wattage million dollar grin.
    “I’d say by the state in which you arrived, you’ve proven your bona fides as a true ad guy,” Jackson said.
    “Only if the bona fides include feeling like your head was hit with a small apartment complex,” Kyle said, rubbing his face then checking his fingers.
“We took the liberty of tidying you up a bit,” Jackson said. “It was unfortunate that the red paint was oil based.”
     Kyle couldn’t help but chuckle, even if it did cause his skull to almost shake loose. Then it occurred to him that someone in this place had seen him naked. Sobering thought.
     “I simply can’t be trusted with such temptations as booze, drugs...red paint.”
     “The very qualities I seek in a recruit,” Jackson said. “I hope your flair for a dramatic entrance illuminates your art direction style of advertising. I do enjoy spectacle.”
     Kyle leaned back against his pillows.
     “How is it all you Southern gent types have such eloquent speech?” Kyle asked. “You gave birth to moonpies and RC Cola and incest.”
     There had been times in Kyle’s life when he said things that were taken the wrong way. Things he blurted out as observation that might have come across has harsh or condescending. Sometimes he meant them to. Most often not.
     “What kind of world would it be without the proper decorum of communication?” Jackson replied, pulling the small white bone from his hip pocket. “I understand that most clichés demand that I give you a speech about how we do things differently down here. As if you couldn’t already deduce this nugget of insight.”
    “I don’t know much about Caribbean culture,” Kyle said.
    “You’ll get up to speed rather quickly I bet,” Jackson said. “There’s nothing like immersing oneself in a culture in order to understand it. It’s as if one must surrender all he knows in order to receive the, hmmm, bounty of a civilization.”
     Kyle nodded, understanding about seventy-five to eighty percent of what was just said. He stuffed a pillow under his lower back with a fist while eyeing the small white object in Jackson’s hand. Jackson rose from his chair, putting the bone back in his pocket.
     “We’ve got an informal get to know each other scheduled for six p.m. tonight,” Jackson said. “A creative brief detailing the ad campaign I’m hoping for is being assembled as we speak. I thought we’d go over it with a good meal, good wine.”
    “Sounds like you’ve been in your fair share of ad meetings,” Kyle said.
    “Well, you’d be surprised how many ad folk I’ve had,” Jackson said. “I thought we’d make it a dinner meeting. Just the four of us.”
    “Four?” Kyle asked.
    “Right. Of course. You haven’t met the rest of the team,” Jackson said. “Your partner, Virgil. Johnette Han, the brief writer – she’s an extraordinary account manager. And me, you’ve already had the pleasure. Jackson Quark, Land Barron and Creative Director of  Advertising and Marketing. At your service.”
     Jackson gave Kyle a wink and another million dollar grin.
     “You should take a walk on the beach,” Jackson said. “It’ll cure what ailes you.”
    “Actually, I was hoping to connect up with Virgil,” Kyle said, looking toward the ocean.
    “Right. Of course. All you have to do is go out your door and knock on the door facing you.”
    “Oh great!” Kyle said. “Right across the hall. That makes it convenient.”
    “Mr. Whitman, we are nothing if not slaves to convenience here,” Jackson said. “And decadence.”
    “How about Tylenol?”
    “Medicine cabinet,” Jackson said over his shoulder, “Next to the Valium.”

****

    Kyle took a luxurious hot shower, basking in the six streams of water that sprayed his body. Like the room, the shower was a fetish of fine touches and details that stank of quality and taste. The walk in shower, which was the size of his bedroom back in Seattle, had a sky light that made the whole shower glow. In addition was a huge soaking tub, two sinks, and a bidet next to the toilet. The floor was polished white marble. Kyle wondered if he could set his workstation up in the bathroom or would that be considered weird?
     “Bet it’s got DSL in here,” he said to himself, before noticing the telephone jack input in the wall to the side of the toilet.
     What little clothes Kyle brought had been put away in the teak armoire. In addition to his own clothing, t-shirts, cargo shorts, jeans, there were some linen pants and shirts similar to Jackson’s garb. Feeling too new and fresh to wear a faded “Circle Jerks"” t-shirt, Kyle put on the linen clothing, feeling at once like a local. Or was it Harry Belafonte?
     He was excited to see Virgil and see what exactly he’d gotten himself into. Now that his head was relatively clear (thank you six headed shower of mercy), the Kyle he thought he’d left back in Seattle began to wonder about things. Things like, what exactly is the salary? What kind of benefits? 401k? Is Jackson any good as a Creative Director? What kind of machinery would Kyle be using and how soon would he be getting laid?
     And what about this Jackson guy? What kind of boss would he be? Flamboyantly meglomanic? Lovable fuck up? Kyle had a theory with bosses – they’re all the same boss. Anyone who runs something, manages something, leads, directs, oversees – they’re made of the same material. Every once in a blue moon you might get a boss who’d hire you for your skills and really couldn’t give a shit what you did with your time as long as the skills delivered. Kyle had actually never had one of those bosses, but he’d heard they’re pretty cool.
     Jackson seemed smart enough. He had that comfortable way about him rich folk tend to have, particularly hedonistic ones, like Sir Richard Branson, or Keith Richards. Not that Kyle knew this either, but he read magazines. But if Jackson was so rich, he easily could’ve landed himself a creative superstar team. A pair that Steve Jobs or Mark Cuban might have recommended at a rich guy party.
     That kind of stuck with Kyle a bit.
     “Why us?” he asked out loud, as he tried on a white billowy shirt. And Jackson hired Virgil first. Virgil, who farts in elevators. Virgil, who humps lobby furniture behind the client’s back. Jackson might find him amusing. Many people did. Virg could be charming in that Bill Murray sort of disregard for humanity. But not really the kind of guy you shake hands with on a deal to promote your multimillion dollar luxury resort.
     “I think the other one gives you the Mandingo vibe you’re in search of,” Virgil said behind Kyle’s back.
     “Jesus fuck! Does everybody just appear around here?!” Kyle said spinning around.
     “S’up duder?” Virgil said with a smile.
     “Cockballs, it’s you,” Kyle replied, thus completing the way modern men greet each other.
     Virgil held up his arms, displaying his billowy shirt. The exact same shirt Kyle was wearing.
     “You got us jobs as Caribbean bell boys, didn’t you?” Kyle asked.
     “I got your bowl of fruit hat in my room, c’mon,” Virgil said.
     Good ol’ Virgil. The whole thing could already be going South and really who would care? They’re not in the Seattle murk. They have matching shirts. It’s a good day.
     “Are we feeling better, Mogwai?” Virgil asked. “You look like shit, but a few days here will set you right. See you got the paint off. Bet you don’t even remember getting to your room.”
     “I have a room? Nevermind that,” Kyle said. “You’re the one looking like tapioca pudding scum. Are you…are you wearing makeup?”
Virgil instinctively touched his face.
     “They call it a tan,” Virgil said. “All the kids are getting ‘em.”
     Kyle studied Virgil for a moment. When does a best friend not look like a best friend? Kyle didn’t know the answer, but he sure was asking. Something just seemed…off about Virgil. His face seemed fuller, his eyes a bit dull. Probably been a nonstop alcohol and sun fiesta. Still, where was the..spark?
     “There’s a private movie theatre,” Virgil offered.
     “The hell you say,” Kyle said.
     “The whole THX surround sound thing with…recliners.”
     “I’m getting a boner.”
     “Thought you might. C’mon let’s go check it out,” Virgil said heading for the door.
     “What’s playing?”
     “Showgirls.”
     “Awwwwwwesome.”

****

     Though the theatre held forty people in the recliners, the theatre itself  was positively cavernous. Virgil explained that they could bring in a mess of chairs to fill out the place, but otherwise, it was kept to the recliners. The thick, cool, leather recliners with drink and snack holders and lumbar massage.
     The theatre’s décor was done by none other than John Elikazer’s second cousin, Ute Barnabas Elikazer. And in keeping with the traditions of craftsmanship the theatre could only be described as “freaking ornate.”  The whole of the interior was a replication of Angkor Wat, the largest of the Hindu temples built in Cambodia around 1113. Built to mirror the cosmos and as a symbol of Vishnu cosmology, Angkor Wat boasts amazing depictions of Asuras (demons) and Devas (guardian angels) set in stone bas relief.
     The décor lent an air of solemnity to the theatre. They sat at the front of the theatre, their bodies sinking deep into the leather recliners. Kyle tried to imagine a screening of  “Transformers” and what a sin against Vishnu that would be. This place could easily replace Kyle’s bathroom as a workspace, except for the arctic chill. The theatre was cold enough for Kyle to see his breath. He was about to ask Virgil if he was cold, when something caught his eye. There was no cloud of breath coming from Virgil’s mouth.
     “Are you holding your breath?” Kyle asked.
     “I don’t think so,” Virgil said, getting out of his recliner.
     He began to slowly amble back and forth in front of Kyle. “Which brings up a good point. Y’know how you see a movie where a character is asked to believe something totally unbelievable and you think, ‘damn, I wish they’d get through this y’know, have the character do the oh my god shit and hurry up and believe it so we can all get on with the rest of our lives’?”
     “You motherfucker,” Kyle said, catching Virgil off guard.
     “What?” Virgil asked.
     “You’re a fucking vampire! I knew it!”
     “What the hell – “
     “I knew you didn’t look right,” Kyle said smiling, springing out of his recliner and jabbing a finger at Virgil. “All pasty and plastic. Like the Mormon missionaries we’d see at the Laundromat. You fuck! And now what, this is where you ask me to join you in eternity? To share in your special gift, giving me the choice you never had? Oh my God. Vampires have no genitals!”
     “Are you quoting ‘Shakespeare in Love?’”
     “Interview with a Vampire, schmuck! You’d better have a screening here of it–like a refresher course in killing. Blood sucking freak.”
     “Kyle. I’m not a vampire,” Virgil said. “And there’s no mention of nutsacks in ‘Interview’.”
     “What about Shakespeare? Shall I compare thee to a nutsack?”
     “Nice try. And when the hell did you ever ‘brunch’?”
     “We’ll see. Join me for brunch on the beach tomorrow?”
     “I can’t because – “
     “Ha! Of course not. Brunches occur in daylight, you’ll turn to ash, vampire boy,” Kyle spat. "Fuggin' amateur hour over here."
     “Can I talk?” Virgil asked.
     “Nosferatu.”
     “Anything else?”
     “Satan’s little helper.”
     Virgil waited patiently for another invective. None came. Sometimes Kyle got a little carried away in his comic self-righteousness. It required patience. Even if it did make Virgil laugh.
     “Duder, I’m not a vampire,” Virgil said in a tone that suggested they were done with the witty banter.  “I don’t suck the blood out of people. I don’t sleep in a coffin. I’m a friend to sunshine. Do you believe me?”
     “Then what the hell’s the matter with you – and don’t say the nightlife is killing you. You had ‘some work done’?”
     “I’m a zombie, Kyle.”
     “Zombie’s don’t talk. Nice try,” Kyle said. “They rot and move slowly and eat any flesh they smell. If you were a zombie, you would’ve eaten me already. They made a few movies about it. Wiki it.”
     Just then, Pinkerman, one of the resort janitors came into the theatre pushing his cleaning cart. Pinkerman was an idiot savant sans the savant part and had a habit of playing with his dental partials, sliding them in and out of his mouth with a thick popping sound.  He lived in a small hut made of construction debris and ate a lot of sea turtles.
     “Pinkerman, could you come here a sec’?” Virgil asked.
Pinkerman slowly made his way over, frequently colliding with the recliners as if they just appeared.
     “Okay – now he’s a zombie,” Kyle said.
     “Not yet,” Virgil said as Pinkerman sidled up next to Virgil.
     Without warning, Virgil Steadhouse, copywriter, hedonist, man Friday, Kyle’s best pal, sunk his teeth into Pinerkman’s jugular, tearing at it like a shark. It took a few seconds for the pain message to travel, but when it finally did, Pinkerman let out a howl followed by what could only be described as an idiot’s jig.
     “WHAT THE FUCK!” Kyle said, tripping over his recliner’s foot rest and falling backwards to the carpet.
     Pinkerman fell to the floor, his body going into a tremor as the remaining blood pumped out of his throat. Virgil finished chewing the last of Pinkerman’s neck, swallowed and crossed his arms in an “I told you so” sort of defiance. Kyle got up off the carpet using the tail of his shirt to wipe around his eyes. The bumping sounds from Pinkerman’s heels and hands bouncing on the carpet slowed to an erratic rhythm.
     “WHAT THE FUCK!” Kyle repeated as he did a backwards crawl away from Pinkerman’s body.
     “I’m sorry to shock you like this, Kyle,” Virgil said, wiping the blood from his mouth with a sleeve.
     “WHAT THE FUCK!” was all Kyle could manage. His body began to slow down the backwards crawl. He felt sleepy. He was going into shock. Virgil went over to Kyle and knelt down beside him.
     “Stay here, man,” Virgil said. “You’ll see, it’ll get…manageable in a couple of minutes. I had the same reaction.”
     “Don’t…d..don’t kill me,” Kyle sputtered. “Wut…thuh…fffuu…”
     “And all those years of you shouting ‘eat me’,” Virgil said with a grin.
     “I’m gonna puke,” Kyle said, directing a stream of vomit directly at Virgil’s chest.
     “That’s right, spare the carpet,” Virgil said, turning his head to avoid the vomit stream.
     Kyle finished puking and together they watched Pinkerman’s death shimmy.
     “Pinker…Pinkerman,” Kyle mumbled.
     “I’m sorry, “ Virgil said. “He’s going to die.”
     “No….horrible….make it stop.”
     “He’ll pass in a moment. Just – “
     “No. Make IT stop,” Kyle said pointing to Pinkerman’s legs dancing about on their last death spasm of motion.
     “Oh. That,” Virgil said. “Yeah…we call it ‘The Arthur Murray’.”
     Kyle started to giggle slightly, giving Virgil hope that this melodrama would be coming to an end. The giggle turned into a guffaw, then eventually, as Pinkerman’s legs became still, a full on belly laugh. Virgil began to laugh with him. Maybe that would be the end of it, Virgil thought. Kyle would get it and then they could move on. His friend’s a zombie. What’s for dinner?
     Kyle’s laughter began to wind down.
     “Oh man,” Kyle said, drying his eyes. “The Arthur Murray. Classic.”
     “Yeah, well…” Virgil said. “First it was The Danny Zucco. Then River Dance. Arthur Murray had…gravitas, y’know?”
     “No, I get it,” Kyle said. “Listen. When my time comes?”
     Kyle locked eyes with Virgil. “Gene Kelly. Got it?”
     “Kyle man, it’s not like that – “
     “Cyd Charisse as a backup,” interrupted Kyle.
     “Cyd’s a woman,” Virgil said.
     “So, if I have this right,” Kyle said. “You con me with a fake job, making me toss my entire life, which includes leaving behind everything dear to me – Chief Brody, Gina. You bring me to this island in the middle of ocean, then inform me that you are a zombie. A cannibal. The undead. And you’re going to quibble with me over what to call my death dance when you finally take a chunk out of my neck?”
     “Kyle-“
     “CYD CHARISSE!” Kyle yelled, the name echoing throughout the theatre. Kyle leaned toward Virgil. “Got it?”
     “Got it,” Virgil said.
     “Good. And I’m out.”
     Kyle slid to the floor unconscious.
     A beat later, Pinkerman sat up, blinking. The bite sized wound in his neck had already stopped bleeding. Bits of torn flesh formed a trail down his shoulder.
     “Sorry ‘bout that,” Virgil said, bashfully.
     “I Better get a mop,” Pinkerman said.