Reboot

While leaning on my beach bar, hand under my chin, squinting contentedly to cope with the perpetual blue sky and bright hot sun, looking at the countless bikinis jumping all around me, I acknowledged a wink from a cute and energetic volleyball player by giving her my best smile. I wasn’t faking it. It was the smile of content. I had everything I wanted here. If it weren’t for that small fleeting twinge of guilt at the thought of my family and friends freezing their asses off in northern New York, everything would be perfect.

“Why quit your job, Robert? You’re good at translating. There’s a future in that at least.”

Yes, mom, I know. I’m sorry. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. But wasting it in Tahiti for a little while didn’t seem like such a bad deal. If I hadn’t quit, I’d be in a small bleak office stall right now, probably nursing a cold, typing endlessly on my computer, translating some inane text about asphalt or oil support structures into Arabic. Fine, apparently I did an ok job of it and I liked the work. It was an oblique way to learn new stuff on my own terms, not in school where I had always felt out of place. Hell, it was a dying art anyway. Robots were now translating everything and doing it quickly and cheaply. The only reason I lasted even this long was because my clients were located in reclusive dunes or off-the-grid tax shelters and they wanted a level of privacy that could only come with the hands-on approach. I’d have to find another line of work; reinvent myself. I had only been in this translating business for a couple of years and that was a lot for me. Part of the giddiness I felt now from having my bare feet in this particularly pale hot sand came from shedding the accessorial nature of the work. Most of my texts were dubious contracts that were specifically designed to avoid paying taxes and to rob as many people as possible by abusing loopholes. I’d decided that the guilt was slowly killing me. You work in a cesspool, you get dirty. I came to Tahiti to clean up, to have fun and to think. I worked on a beach just near the volleyball courts where there were countless beautiful distractions from my new job of mixing drinks. I considered it a small victory that I was able to focus on any of my patrons for any length of time. I was twenty-one years old, going on twenty and I had no plans and no pressures.

During the day, I’d play tennis or go scuba diving. Sometimes I taught a Tai Chi class to a group of retirees, or a beginners’ aikido class to kids. I was just a beginner. I only had a couple of years’ training behind me and sometimes I’d make up a move because I often forgot what the correct sequence was. But the guests liked it.

Most evenings, I’d pour while the beach went completely insane. There were parties every night and when I got off work, I joined in. Sleep deprivation and the perpetual temptations of various addictive substances and activities were an ongoing test of my character, and I fell in love every week in a recurring cycle of teasing, beautiful torment.

I worked with other kids my age in one of those vacation villages where people came to forget. Forget what? I thought. And how does constant drinking and having tons of sex help forgetting it? Well ok, I suppose, temporarily… but they sure seemed to have a lot of forgetting to do.

Some of the workers in the village had regular bets going on. For example, who could have sex with a vacationer the soonest after the bus came in. Roberto had that record, two and a half minutes. Good-looking kid I guess, a bit short, but well-built. More importantly, he was extremely confident and had a way with words. The girl of his dreams was getting off the bus, he went to her and grabbed her hand, helped her float to the ground, said something delicious in her ear and they went straight to the nearest bush which was a minute away where she vigorously started ‘forgetting’. If the bus had been closer to a reasonably abundant plant, Roberto’s record would be shorter. One affluent man came here for the usual two-week holiday package six years ago and never left. He figured out the place and decided this is where he wanted to be. Probably saw Roberto operate.

I was just getting distracted again as my new volleyball friend fell face first in the sand while frantically trying to keep her top from falling off, when an annoyingly efficient popping sound brought me back to my bottles. At the request of the balding, finger-snapping Belgian businessman sipping a daiquiri at the far end of the bar, I turned my attention away from the volleyball court and turned on the TV. He wanted to watch the international news. I could live without it. I no longer cared about anything happening outside this beach. But he was tipping me very well. I was up, having a great time, getting along with all my clients and putting on a show throwing bottles up in the air. My clients were comfortable. I was king of my castle.

During the next juggling mix, I noticed the TV was getting more attention than me, so I stopped throwing things, turned around and watched too. The President of the United States was going to be interviewed.

____________________


George Marvin was fiddling around with his microphone and looking at his notes when an assistant grabbed his attention and counted down from five fingers to four, three.... “Shit! Already?” Another assistant quickly removed the paper that was around George’s neck, just below his perfectly cut hairline. They put that there to keep the collar makeup-free. The lights are hot in the studio and a sweat attack is an anchor’s worst fear. This was going to be a stressful interview, maybe the most important of his career.

“Good Morning! I’ll soon be joined by President Davies to talk about his successes and failures during his last six years in office.” He stared at the camera, at his audience with the authority and complete confidence that was a pre-requisite for that job. “As you all know, Jonathan Davies is a fifty-two-year-old lawyer who came from, well, all over the Bible Belt. He’s often been compared to Lincoln, both because of his looks and his personality. He is a Democrat from the Republican strongholds. So he knows how to speak the conservative language. Let’s see what he has to say to us today. Please help me welcome the President of the United States; Mr. President.” He stood up. People clapped and even howled. The President walked on stage casually, exuding nonchalant fatherly magnetism and smiling to the audience in the studio. He was wearing the usual dark blue suit and red tie, which hung well on him. They shook hands; an easy up and down movement; comfortable. Georges was instantly at ease.

“Thank you George,” said Davies as he sat down.

“Mr. President, the country is in good shape. 3,5% unemployment, everyone has healthcare. Schools are now accessible to everyone, students have less debt, programs to help people out of poverty are working, albeit slowly. Infrastructure is finally being rebuilt and we are leading again in technology and big Pharma. The Chinese are in recession and the US is leading again on the world stage in manufacturing.”

“That has to be managed but it’s nice to see them less cocky isn’t it?” cut in the President, smiling at the crowd. He had a way of looking into your eyes without causing discomfort. He made you feel like you were family. Georges continued, “The last few Liberal governments fought for the middle class and won. The banks have been reigned in, the 1% have been forced to pay their taxes and to stop hiding their money in off-shore accounts, big oil lost their subsidies. Money no longer buys politics. Republicans are seething.”

“Let them,” Davies smiled.

The crowd laughed. He smiled at them again. He smiled a lot.

“How do you explain all these successes, Sir?”

“Well George, I think the key has been support for small business and easy access to better, free education. What made the US great in the first place were qualities such as innovation, competition, and investment in Americans. Not trickle down. That was the biggest con in history and we finally realized it. We must broaden our middle class, not rain leftovers from the rich to the poor. Once we got off that, we’re seeing a stronger middle class. You build a house by starting with a strong foundation, right Georges? Now it’s stronger than ever and that’s what makes the USA strong.”
The crowd cheered again. He smiled.

“What’s next? What do we have to work on?”

“Internationally there is work to be done. The U.S. has blundered too many times into other people’s backyards and has been widely seen as a bully. Even if we meant well, new tactics must be used. Bridges need to be rebuilt, walls taken down. A solution has to be found to pacify the Middle East. There is a feeling of general angst over there, as if they’re constantly on the verge of boiling over. One little tap and they’d be pushed over the edge. Everyone is waiting on the sidelines, waiting to see who takes the first steps on the dance floor. As always, the main events are the Israeli-Palestine problem and the North Koreans.”

“While we’re on the subject, what do you think about the Frank Jacobs article in the Times?”

“Refresh my memory please, George.”

“The Israeli-Palestinian conflict involves a very small area of land, only a few million people, and no mineral resources. The reasonable solution has always been obvious, to draw a borderline somewhere between the Mediterranean Sea and the Dead Sea that both sides, however grudgingly, could live with. Yet the conflict casts a shadow over world peace, and continues to fester.

Frank Jacobs, New York Times”

“Well, the reasonable solution depends on your point of view of course, and ours is that American interests and security are primordial and I believe that we best serve American interests through ongoing transparent dialogue leading to a long-term solution. We’ll get it done George.”

“Is Vice-President Mooney in agreement with your strategy?

“The Vice-President and I do not always agree but his input is important to me.”

“Thank you Sir.” They both stood up and shook hands. Then President Davies went over to the adoring crowd, waved at everyone and grabbed a baby who was deliriously happy. I guessed that the baby had probably been preselected by a panel of experts for his potential for making the President look great.

___________

I turned off the TV, built another daiquiri and slid it down the bar where it stopped in front of the beige gentleman before he’d even asked for it. He laughed out loud and slapped the bar with a chubby little hand a bit too hard - made him wince and look questioningly at his palm. I looked around to my left and did a double take when the same balding short rotund man wearing the same desert camouflage garb motioned at me from the opposite side of the bar. He asked for a daiquiri also. Twins.

I made the drink, gave it to him and then he walked over to sit next to his brother where they sat whispering to each other for the better part of an hour. Back and forth, back and forth, without looking anywhere else than at each other. Until:

“Robert, come here for a second.” Damn, he smelled bad.

“Yes sir.” I looked at both of them because I didn’t know which one had called me.

“Can you come by our boat tomorrow? We’d like to discuss something with you,” said the first daiquiri.

“Yes,” said the second.

“Um, of course, I’d love to. Which boat?

“The big one,” they both answered at the same time.

Of course, the big one. I knew which one they were talking about. “The Big One” was the Myriad. Frank and Harald Smets were the unlikely owners of the prettiest boat I’d ever seen. I was to meet them in the morning at 10am sharp. I say unlikely because they looked to me as if they’d be more at ease permanently standing at attention in a kitschy garden then helming a ship. Funny though, they’d never looked at me once in the eyes; always at the top button of my Hawaiian shirt. In fact, they never looked at anyone, just at each other. I should have paid attention. Details matter.

I had walked by their ship many times just to ogle it from every possible angle. The Myriad was a venerable, fluid sculpture; a marvel of soft athletic lines hewn from the mind of an accomplished artist who somehow successfully harmonized the sinewy nuances of the sea from his desk at home to create a vessel that fit in these waters like a baby in a mother’s arms. It was slow and majestic, definitely not built for speed; it was built for stature and class, with stretchy feline arches and curves. Forty-five meters long; all wood with the occasional copper flash; those three masts that typify the larger schooners. It was an older boat - about eighty years old - but lovingly restored and peppered with all the gadgets available to the more indolent maritime itinerant - radar, sonar, navigation system, computer, full kitchen, fishing gear and scuba equipment, and a giant TV and sound system.

I showed up right on time the next day. They welcomed me aboard, stepping on each other’s feet, stumbling around, talking at the same time, interrupting each other, pointing to different areas of the ship at the same time. I didn’t listen. I stared, mouth agape. As I walked around the various rooms, the kitchen, the small dining room that turned into a living room by flipping over a table that turned into a couch. I marveled at the quality of the woodwork. Everything was top of the line. These boys only bought the best.

After the tour we sat down on some deck chairs that had been prepared for the occasion and a young blond man came by with drinks. He smiled at me, but not at the twins. One of them barked at him to get more ice. He nodded and hurried off. Kept his smile though. Their obvious contempt for him made me uncomfortable.

“We watched you work, Robert. You enjoy being with people. They like you,” said Harald. I think it was Harald. They both had tiny hands and waved them around as if conjuring up spells.

“Yes,” said the brother. “You have cha- charisma.” He looked at his brother for confirmation of the word choice. He got it with a nod, which made him smile, but only long enough to turn his gaze back to me.

“Ok,” I answered, and then I just waited because I had no idea where this was going. I was a little worried actually.

“We wish you to come work for us,” they echoed.

“Excuse me? My eyebrows jumped up.

“You have charisma. We do not. We would like you to work on the Myriad with our guests. You would take care of them. You understand?

“Yes, yes, I do. You want me to manage your boat, right? That is absolutely perfect; I’d love to do that, of course, of course, yes. I’ll do it.” I stood up, knocking over my glass and then sat back down again.

“You don’t want to think about it?”

“Absolutely not. It’s perfect for me. It’s a dream come true.” Then I had a quick doubtful glance at the blond kid who was off to the side. But I shook off the feeling and stood up again, nodded frantically and said, “it’s done. When do I start? When do we leave?”

“As soon as you are ready. We had some business to take care of here with the manager of this camp, but we are done now. And we work out of the Philippines.”

“Sounds perfect. Never been there.” I didn’t care where they went. I’d follow. They both stood up and smiled and bounced around a little as if they’d won a car in a game show. They each grabbed my hand in turn and shook it sideways in a jerky motion. They’d said we could leave as soon as I was ready, which was amazingly fast. I quit that day; I could leave the next. The manager of the village came to try and talk me out of it, which I thought was considerate of him, but how could I turn this down? I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t go. I packed my things, which fit in one medium sized garbage bag, and I said my good-byes to my friends.