Advanced Mythology (14 page)

“He’s a born salesman,” Diane said, half-teasing and half-proud. “He started talking about the empty spaces on the shelf and how good your items would look in those spaces. Before you knew it,
they were throwing money at him.”

“Just to make him quiet down and go away, no doubt,” Enoch said darkly. He sat at Marcy’s feet at the foot of the porch steps.

“Probably,” Keith agreed cheerfully.

Marm read over the papers, chewing. “Two of these are substantial,” he said.

“Holiday orders,” Enoch said knowingly. “It’s beginning already.”

Tiron came to peer over Marm’s shoulder and pulled down the edge of the first page with the tip of a forefinger. “Ah, these’ll be easy to fill. Ye’ll be able to deliver them next week, my word on it.”

“Perhaps,” said Candlepat, “but I wanted to work upon museum pieces and special orders.”

“That would be good, too,” Marm said, amiably.

“Well, we can’t do both,” Tiron insisted. Candlepat and Enoch immediately rounded upon him with their objections. Keith groaned. They were fighting again, but it sounded like the normal rivalry to him, not the uncomfortable acrimony of before. Marcy caught his eye and beckoned him over to where she was sitting. He and Diane tiptoed over.

“Anything on my problem?” Marcy asked in a whisper.

Keith shook his head. “I dropped in on your father. I honestly
don’t think he heard me. He kept dodging the subject.”

Marcy sighed. “That’s the way he’s been with me.” Enoch took her hand firmly in his and squeezed it. She squeezed back.

“I’ll go back,” Keith promised. “Maybe I can take him to lunch where I can keep him away from other distractions, and really get his attention. I’ll find some pretext. What do you think?”

“He likes you. He might think you … you’re …” Marcy waved her hands helplessly.

“I’ll make sure he knows what I’m there for,” Keith said, “I mean, who. And why. I’m not Cyrano de Bergerac. I think it’s a great idea for you to get married, and I understand completely that you want your family to go along with it. But look at it from your folks’ point of view for a moment. I think they’re kind of confused why you’re not bringing them together. Your dad has probably got the idea that Enoch is a monster or something.”

“Why would he think that?”

Keith looked from one woeful face to the other, struck by a blindingly bright flash of the obvious. “Because they’ve never seen him?”

Marcy’s eyes dropped. “You’re right. They haven’t. My mother’s been hinting like crazy. But I’m afraid if we go up there they’ll reject us. I … won’t be able to handle it. I’d be so hurt.”

“Pictures don’t have any feelings,” Keith said, temptingly. “We could photograph Enoch. I’ll take the photos up and sell your dad on him.”

Marcy’s dark blue eyes widened like saucers. “That’s perfect.”

“That’s exactly the right thing,” Diane said eagerly. “If he brings pictures, your dad will see he has nothing to worry about.”

“Right! It’ll be just like a campaign,” Keith said. “Present him in the best light, and they’ll fall in love with him on sight. Hey, that rhymes! I could make a poster.”

“None of your nonsense!” Enoch snapped. “I’m not a … a pair of shoes.”

“Nope,” Keith said. “More like a work of art.” Enoch snorted.

“I think it’s good idea,” Marcy said, dropping down from her step until she was sitting beside him, her eyes pleading. “It means so much to me. I want them to like you. And I want them here for the wedding.”

“Oh, all right, lass,” Enoch said, relenting and putting an arm around her shoulders. “It’s a hard adjustment to make, when we’ve been so careful not to let ourselves be photographed.”

“I won’t let the pictures out of my hands until they get to your folks,” Keith promised solemnly. “Now, where do you want to take these pictures?” He glanced around the field. “The trouble with doing it outside is that there’s no scale, and that’s half of what we want to sell your folks on. I think we ought to take them at your workbench. We’re not hiding your profession, we’re bragging about it.”

“If you say so,” Enoch said. “Oh, but that’s another thing that’s been going wrong. The expensive digital camera has ceased to function. The Conservatives are taking it as another sign that technology is our downfall.”

“Really?” Keith asked. “Where is it?”

Enoch led them into the workshop and pointed him toward a table in the middle of the room where odds and ends accumulated. He brushed off a light dusting of sawdust and took the camera out of its case.

“Yow!” Keith exclaimed, as it fell back to the table with a clatter. “It zapped me!”

“Oh, no,” said Marcy. “Is it broken? Everyone’s been so careful.”

Keith looked it over carefully. “Oops, look at that: the battery hatch is jammed. That might be the cause of both problems.” He flipped it open, tipped out the battery, blew dust off it, returned it to its place, then pushed the switch. With a musical hum, the camera warmed up. “How about that? No charge for the emergency repair.”

Enoch glowered. “They’ll be saying it’s because you’re one of the Big Folk that it works for you.”

“C’mon,” Keith said, “you don’t believe that. Okay, sit down and work on something. Smile. Look natural.”

But Enoch couldn’t. Nervously, he took up a half-finished box and one of the yet-to-be-attached sides. Setting one of the sides at the proper angle, he concentrated on the charm that would join the pieces of wood as though they were cemented together. Keith, behind the camera, found himself scuttling around trying to capture Enoch’s face with the lens.

“Smile!” Keith called. Enoch tried, but the smile faded and his brow furrowed as he got interested in what he was doing. “I’m not getting any good pictures. C’mon, Enoch, you’re only supposed to
pretend
you’re working.”

The black-haired elf frowned up into the lens. “This is unnatural,” he said. “Pretend? Smile? You try it.”

“No problem for me,” Keith said, peering at him through the viewfinder. “I’ve had cameras shoved in my face from before I could hold my head up. Look, just sit still and smile. Hold something in your hand, if you want.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Enoch said, starting to get up. But Marcy looked so sad that he sat down again. “Ah, well.” He picked up the box and a chisel, holding them awkwardly in his hands, almost as though he had them by mistake. The chisel slipped out of his hand and clanked to the floor. Enoch bent to retrieve it just as the flash went off.

“Damn!” Keith exclaimed. He poked at the buttons on the back of the camera to erase the last five photos. “These aren’t turning out very well. That last one was a blur.”

“It’ll be okay,” Diane said. “Just sit tight a little longer, and we’ll get a good one.” But Enoch wasn’t paying attention to her. He was looking over her shoulder. She turned around, and tugged on Keith’s sleeve. He glanced up.

While they’d been trying to take pictures, the others had crept into the room to watch. Keith was embarrassed for Enoch’s sake. What had begun as a simple task was turning into a spectacle.

“Hey,” Keith called. “Look at the birdie!” Enoch dragged his attention woefully to him. Concentrating as hard as he could, he made an absurd little yellow bird appear on his shoulder and let it void, dripping white down his shirt front. Enoch grunted.

“Not bad,” he said, pointing a finger at Keith. “Fine speed of enchantment and an even appearance, but can ye do nothing without that touch of foolishness?”

“You were just supposed to look at
me
,”
Keith said sternly, “not criticize my bird.”

The others tittered. Enoch rose from the bench.

“I’ve had enough,” he said. Marcy rushed to him and laid her hand on his arm.

“Please,” she said. “For me. Just one more time.”

“I don’t know what to do!” Enoch said resentfully, sitting down again. “Look
natural,
this big fool says. How do you do that?”

Tay, in the midst of the crowd, caught Keith’s eye and nodded toward the door. Keith nodded back. The white-haired elf slipped out for a moment. He came back in a few seconds, with Dola in tow.

“Let me help,” the girl said, bustling importantly through the crowd. “I know what to do, uncle. I have done many photo shoots now.” Marcy made way for her. She plumped down beside Enoch. “Pretend he’s got to see all your front teeth.” She opened her lips in an exaggerated smile. “Do you see? So, when I relax slightly, the camera sees a friendly look that it likes.”

When she did it, it looked very pretty. When Enoch followed her example, he looked like a fox caught at bay. Keith took several shots, then brought the camera over to show him the results.

“How grim you look, uncle,” Dola said frankly. Enoch looked up at Keith, who nodded solemn agreement.

“Oh, aye?” Enoch asked, surprised, as he scrolled through the pictures, seeing one grimace after another. “I had no idea.… Do I look like that often?” he appealed to Marcy, as he handed the camera back to Keith. She bit her lip.

“Not very,” she said at last, in a small voice. Enoch let out a sharp burst of laughter.
He put his arm around her, pulling her cheek to cheek with him. “Lass, you’re a poor liar.”

Keith backed up and started snapping pictures again. Marcy dropped her head, looking sheepish. Enoch looked at her with a fond smile. She looked up into his eyes. They’d forgotten all about the crowd.

A few moments later, Keith interrupted them. “These’ll do the trick,” he said, waving the camera in the air. “Let’s print ’em out!”

They took the camera inside and fed the memory stick to the computer’s docking unit. The entire collection popped into sight on the screen. Keith sat down on the low stool in front of the keyboard and went through them, checking off the ones he wanted to use.

“See?” he said. “You actually look handsome in these.”

“Well, thank you for a useless compliment,” Enoch said sourly, watching over his shoulder. “No, I take that back. I appreciate the help. These are fine. You did well.”

Keith examined the files critically. A few of the shots he’d taken at the beginning were good enough to use. The ones with Marcy were really sweet. You could tell how much those two were in love.

“Your folks won’t be able to resist these,” Keith assured her. She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

“Thank you, Keith. You’re an angel.”

Keith printed four images on each page. As they rolled out of the printer, one of the Folk cut them apart and set them in a neat stack. Enoch popped out the memory stick and put it back in the camera.

“You can save these on the hard drive,” Keith said. “You have lots of spare memory.”

Enoch shook his head. “We’re doing that no longer. Not after what you’ve told us about the hungry program. We regret now that we were so free in sending images up and back to Ireland. We’ve removed all the others. Better not to keep them where they can be stolen all unawares.”

“That’s a good idea,” Keith said.

All the elves turned to look toward the front door. Within a few moments, the Big Folk could hear what they had heard: a car pulling in on the gravel drive.

“The others are here,” the Elf Master said. “It is time for class.”

* * *

After Keith had seen Diane off, he threw his bag and briefcase into the front seat of the Mustang and prepared to climb in after them. Catra emerged from the house, fingers ink-stained, followed by Holl and the Master.

“Keith Doyle, wait!” Catra offered him a sheet of paper.

“I have done my best to be brief but cordial,” she said. “It contains a concise description of you and your home, so they know where and to whom to respond, and the way to come here for the party. I sent it to the Niall to check for continuity. In all our years apart, we’ve never hosted a gathering, so I was not certain of the proper words to use.” She seemed anxious for approval.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Keith said, surveying the graceful calligraphy with pleasure. “This is gorgeous, Catra. You’re sure, now?” he said, looking into their eyes.

He didn’t mean whether Catra was certain of the wording. If the Folk were giving him the text, it meant they’d decided that he could have his party. This was irrevocable. He knew it,
and they knew it.

“We’re sure,” Holl said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “If for no other reason than as a reward for getting Enoch to smile for five entire minutes on end. It’ll be a memory we’ll treasure forever.”

Keith laughed. “Thanks. I’ll
accept under any circumstances.” He studied the page. “Hmm. There’s no way I can use a keyboard to input this into the ad. I’ll have to scan it.”

“I could have done that,” Catra said, frowning.

“Oh! Well, if you can set it out in a square for me, so I don’t have to cut and paste it,
that’d be great.”

“No trouble at all.” She disappeared back into the house. He heard the printer warming up. In a few moments she returned and handed him a printout and a disk. “The paper is cleanly white, so it ought to do well for your purposes. If it will not do, the disk contains a jpeg.”

“Thanks for this,” Keith said, stowing the paper in his notebook for safety. “I’m really grateful for this, and for everything. Want anything from Chicago?”

“Not this time,” the Master said. “Come and go vith our blessinks.”

“Such as they are,” Holl said under his breath, watching Keith’s ancient car drive away. “The quality’s really not worth handing on.”

***

Chapter 12

Keith followed Paul Meier toward the boardroom.

“It’s so different not being with the other interns,” Keith said, glancing back over his shoulder at the door at the far end of the corridor. The current crop of students, two women and two men, watched them go with looks of open envy.

“Yeah, you’re one of the big boys now,” Paul said, giving Keith an avuncular slap on the back. “You can come and hang out with us in there anytime. You’ve got the kind of energy they’re cranking. I’m too old to relate. Or so they say.”

“Is that a real client, or something you thought up to keep them busy? A rock group called Skim?”

“Oh, they’re real, all right,” Paul said. “Nice bunch of guys. One really astonishing guitarist who maybe could grow up to be Eric Clapton, with an act of God. Good lyrics like Sting or the Moody Blues. Even tunes I can recognize, and I admit to owning Cole Porter albums.”

“You’re not
that
old,” Keith said.

“No,” Paul sighed, “but I miss melody. We had a group come to us, called themselves Pap Smear. What did they think, we were going to get out there and plaster the world with posters of gynecological exams? I told them to change their name and come back when they could play their own instruments. Bands have always had weird names, back to the beginning, but do they have to be obscene?”

“Some of them are pretty good in spite of their names,” Keith said.

“Yeah, but admit it: kids are embarrassed to ask for albums by them. You know why they started putting condoms behind the counter in drugstores? People were shoplifting them because they were too embarrassed to ask. I bet the same thing happens in music stores. You’re forcing little girls to go in and shop for the latest thing from Hole.”

“Paul’s on a rant again,” said Dorothy, coming up between them and putting an arm through each of theirs.

“Damn straight,” Paul said, allowing himself to be towed into the boardroom.

“Yeah, but it’s our job,” said Doug Constance, tagging along behind. He liked to get Paul going.

“All right,” Paul said, trying to break loose to face Doug, but Dorothy held on. “Never mind the kids. What about their poor grandparents, who grew up in more polite times? I’m buying music for my nephew, who one minute ago was chanting along with Barney, and the next thing you know he’s giving me a birthday list that has names like Rage Against the Machine and Popped Zits, for all I know. I can just imagine my mother having to go into the record store.”

“And we’re right in there writing ad copy so the kids will buy them, right?”

“Yeah,” Paul sighed, sinking into his chair. “Right. I’m piling wood on the pyre around my own feet.”

“You died in a good cause, man,” said Rollin, who was waiting in the boardroom, propped up against the wall. “Our bottom line salutes you.”

Suddenly inspired, Keith plastered an imaginary headline on the air with one hand. “‘Skim: All of the music, none of the fat.’”

“Yeah.” Paul chuckled. “Not bad. You want in on the brainstorming session?”

“Yeah!” Keith said. “If the group comes in to meet the staff, can I come and meet them?”

“Sure, kid.”

Jennifer Schick, Gadfly’s marketing director, arrived at that moment, followed by Teresa carrying a box from the coffee shop on the corner. She pushed a cup in front of Keith. He looked up at her in surprise. She gave him a shamefaced little smile. It was meant to be a peace offering from the team. He tasted it, then beamed at her. Sweet, but not enough to send him to the moon. She must have been watching him during the earlier sessions. He raised an eyebrow at the size of the cup. “Short” meant short meetings. “Medium” meant business as usual. A “lofty” brew meant a long meeting had been scheduled.

“It’s okay; it’s half-caf,” Janine told him. Keith pantomimed wiping sweat off his forehead.

“All right,” Dorothy said, tapping a sheaf of papers on the table to square it.
“We’ve got a lot of work to get done. Welcome, Jen. I think you’re going to like what we’ve got for you. First, let’s
look at the storyboards for the commercials. Janine and Rollin have worked on the first one together. I think it’ll give just the right play with a touch of whimsy. It makes use of as many features as we could work in. And for music …”

With a dramatic flourish, Dorothy reached for the T-shaped control in the center of the table.
The lights dimmed, the screen at the front of the room descended, and the agency’s million-dollar multimedia system took over.

To the tune of the ’60s hit, “Bend Me, Shape Me,” the Origami did a little boogie across the screen, twisting into several configurations. Behind it,
wrapping around it
and flowing like draped silk caressing it
were game graphics, stock ticker numbers, obvious pager messages, GPS instructions, as a mellifluous man’s voice said, “Play a game. Write a memo. Keep in touch. Chart your course. Be productive. Have fun.” The camera zoomed in on the screen to show a close-up of a young man’s face, obviously the user taking movies of himself, followed by a quick glimpse of what looked like regular TV programming. The unit folded itself
up, and stuck itself into the pocket of the young man’s polo shirt. “Origami. The new perpetual motion machine from Gadfly.”

“Nice work, Rollin and Janine,” Jennifer said, applauding. “Fun.”

“A lot of people have been getting the ’60s and ’70s angle,” Dorothy said encouragingly. “We couldn’t resist it.
Kids will like it because it’s bouncy, and people who grew up at that time will associate it with their youth. Excuse the jerkiness of the images. That was just a computer-animated mockup, not the way the commercial will look when it’s finished. That’ll be up to the production house, but I promise you we keep a close eye on their work.”

“I understand. Sure. Can we get the rights to the song?”

Doug Constance cleared his throat. “Yes. We’ve priced it out.”

“Excellent!”

“This’ll play on CNN as well as WB,” Rollin said. “Even the stuffy shows like
Meet the Press
are trying to shed the gray-suit image. Also, they
are
the Boomers who grew up with the song.”

“Terrific. Politicians try so hard to look net-savvy these days.” Jennifer grinned. “Kind of sad, really, but that keeps ’em buying our product. Nice work.”

“The demographics for
CNNfn
,
Wall Street Week
and
Headline News
are at the bottom,” Paul pointed out helpfully. “There’s a print ad for
Wall Street Journal
and
The New York Times
that ties in.”

One by one, Dorothy demonstrated PDQ’s work in progress for the marketing director. The box and inserts were displayed and approved. Jennifer went over each graphic and advertisement with care. She made notes to herself with a stylus on the screen of an Origami unit that fit into a pocket of her purse. Keith watched her with envy rising in his heart. He
had
to have one.

Quarter-page ads, full-page ads, catalog inserts for Sharper Image, Brookstone, Amazon.com and the major department stores were examined and passed or sent back for changes. Jennifer laughed over the choice of eight proposed logos.

“I can’t call this decision,” she said. “Theo would go on strike if I made this choice unilaterally. Can we come in next week for it?”

“Sure,” Dorothy said. “Since you want to start your big push for Christmas buying, the big launch will be the day after Halloween. We’ve got time.”

It couldn’t have been the caffeine that kept Keith twitching until Dorothy got to the bottom of the stack of layouts, to the ad with his hidden invitation. He desperately wanted Gadfly to like his work. He really believed in the product. Paul had always said it helped if you could fake it, but his admiration of Gadfly’s little computer was completely genuine. If only he could have one. He wanted an Origami for his very own with a visceral yearning that knotted his stomach muscles, but more importantly for now, he wanted to get his party invitation sent out around the world. The ad had undergone dozens of changes over the past couple of weeks, as every department in the agency had had its say, but the basic idea remained intact, and so had the text on the screen. Jennifer Schick could sink his hopes with a single word.

Let it pass,
he pleaded mentally.
Let her like it!

“Here’s the final layout of the poster advertisement.” Dorothy handed around an oversized sheet to each person at the table. “None of this leaves this room, of course. I get it all back when we’re finished.”

Jennifer nodded. “So far we’ve managed to keep the project under wraps, but I don’t know how long we can do it. Rumors are starting to fly that we’ve got something new. Buzz on the ’Net is that we’re coming out with a compact PDA, but they’re missing the big news items. No one knows about the extended-life power supply or the Firewire compatibility. And no one’s guessed that the keyboard and CD player are all part of the same unit.”

“Well, the second these go out it’ll be big news all over the world,” Dorothy said. “I’ve got a press release on my hard drive ready to go to the PR people just before the ad hits. We’ll be targeting techno-news on CNN, the web and all the other media services. They’ll want interviews.”

“We’re ready for ’em,” Ms. Schick, sitting back with a satisfied smirk. She held up her copy of the poster and gave it the same careful scrutiny as she’d given all of the other pieces. Keith was relieved to see that the wording in the mockup of the Origami remained unchanged. He checked his crib sheet from Holl, every letter in place, and smiled at Dorothy.

“Good headline,” said Jennifer Schick, nodding approvingly. “‘One of Everything.’ I like it. Several meanings all in one slogan. Everyone all over the office has been quoting it. We might like that on tote bags for the Consumer Electronics Show.”

“Attaboy, Keith,” Paul said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Jennifer, we can get you a price from fulfillment companies, unless you have one you are already using.”

“Bring ’em on,” she said. “We’ve got lots of money for giveaways. Let everybody carry our ad around.” Paul made a note on his pad.

“The campaign will go out on trial in nine cities,” Dorothy said, reading from a list, “including four in Europe: London, Berlin, Amsterdam, and Paris. We’re not ready to go head-to-head in Helsinki yet against the Nokia monopoly—maybe in a couple of weeks if the first trials go well. We’re prepared to tweak as needed. Bus wraps, billboards, hoardings, ads in trains. No one’s going to open a newspaper without seeing an Origami. And for those who don’t read newspapers, we’re preparing a blitz on the Internet. We’ve got banners going out over the lead week’s top ten websites and all the major search engines’ home pages. Our page is ready to launch. All it takes is your approval to push the button.”

“Looks hot,” Schick said, nodding over it. “I’m just curious, by the way: what’s this stuff on the screen?”

Paul leaned over to glance where she was pointing. “Dummy copy. We use it to indicate language. Nothing special.”

“Does it mean anything? Are we insulting people in Armenian? Is it ‘screw you’ in Moldavian?”

“Uh,” Keith said, shifting to sit up straighter, “no. It’s, er, a poem in another language. An ancient language. I thought it looked good. Everyone’s always using that Latin cutout stuff. I wanted this to be different. Let the customers know it can communicate in any language.”

“We could use Japanese,” Janine said.

“That won’t fly in every country,” Paul said, shaking his head. “What about China? That’s a big market and getting bigger. They prefer English.”

“And the French prefer French,” argued Janine. “And the Germans prefer German.”

“We’ve already got to pay for translations for the overlay,” Doug said. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference,” Dorothy said patiently, “is that the text is included in a graphic, not by itself. Changing the screen means changing the image entirely to get the shadows and glare spots on the plastic screen set right. They have to appear to lie on top of the text, not under it. This is okay. It won’t distract anyone from looking at the image, and it won’t stir up national prejudices because even if they can translate it, it’s something from an ancient culture. God forbid someone might get it and think we’re intellectuals.”

“Good compromise?” Paul asked, glancing around the table.

“Okay with me,” Doug said.

“I like it,” Schick said, holding the text this way and that as if it would help her understand it. “It’s a poem, you say?”

“Yeah,” Keith said. “A welcoming poem. Blank verse.”

“Cool.”

“Good?” Dorothy asked, looking at the other two copywriters.

“Sure,” Rollin said. He was still smarting a little about losing the poster to Keith. Not wanting to rub in his success because he needed the good will of the permanent staff, Keith offered Rollin a friendly, sympathetic look. Janine elbowed Rollin heartily in the ribs until he gave Keith a grudging smile. Crisis averted. Keith was very pleased: he’d gotten what he wanted, three times over.

“Good,” Dorothy said. “Everybody better hand me back the sheets. Except you, Jennifer,” she added. “You can take yours back with you.”

Alarmed, Jennifer held up her hands. “No, thank you. I’d forget my head if
it wasn’t glued on. I don’t want to carry anything I can lose. Too much is riding on keeping this all under wraps. E-mail everything to Bill. He’ll give you final approval. I’ll tell him it’s got mine.”

“Anything else?” Paul asked, putting both hands on the table.

“Uh,” Keith said uneasily, “what’s the price of the … the Origami going to be, when it comes out?”

“About $1,500 to $1,800,” Jen Schick said.

“Ouch!” Rollin said, falling back against his chair with his hands clasped over his heart.

“I know it’s a shocker,” she offered apologetically, “but it’s a complete palmtop computer full of new technology. We’re hoping the price will drop rapidly in the first two years, but we’ve got to make back our R&D. Sorry.”

“Oh,” Keith said in a small voice. So much for Doris becoming his soon. It cost just about the same as an engagement ring, and that took priority in his life. Maybe he could start a second savings plan to buy an Origami. There was a trickle left from his wages and the money he was putting by for his party.