But not for long. A few minutes later the warrior women came flooding back down the boulevard toward the beach. They were trotting along, their bows over their shoulders, talking, laughing, making provocative gestures and sounds. Two of them clutched a young man by both his arms and he seemed to be struggling but not very hard. He appeared to be a tourist, like me. But unlike me he was a strong and very good-looking fellow. He looked alarmed but resigned as they rushed him past me toward their canoes on the beach.
I found Mr. Troels still hiding under his desk in his office. I dragged him up by his shirt, pulling so hard it ripped at the shoulder seam.
“You knew this could happen!”
“Don’t be an ass, Mr. Fodder. How could I not?”
“They kidnapped a tourist!”
“Tourists are all they have left. They have already taken all the good young men from town. As I’m sure you noticed.”
It struck me that I’d been passed over by the Amazons, found somehow lacking. I remembered the hard inspection that she gave me. Whatever that magnificent warrior woman was looking for, she did not find in me.
“Why?” I asked. “What will they do to him?”
“Whatever they want, I suppose. We assume they populate their nation in this way. And perhaps provide nutrition. We don’t really know much about how they live. No man has ever returned.”
“How often do they come?”
“The average is once every eighteen days.”
“Amazons.”
“Correct.”
“Who you thought would be a good Authentic Adventures attraction?”
“No, no, Mr. Fodder. The Amazons are no more than local colors — ask anyone! Just nuisances, like feral cats or bears of the campground. It was always our beautiful beach that I believed in most. What did you think of it?”
I let go of him and went to the window and looked out. The canoes were disappearing into the flat silver horizon. The town seemed to be back to normal, except for the hundreds of arrows bristling from the sides and roofs of the buildings. I saw no blood and no injuries. Little groups of townspeople, most still holding their y’aps, had gathered on the street corners, looking back toward the beach and pointing, apparently recapping the events. A band of little boys raced through the streets, pulling arrows out of doors and walls, laughing, clutching thick handfuls of the stone-tipped weapons.
Turning back, I glared at Mr. Troels with a fury that was new to me. “Get me out of here, Troels.”
By the time I reached Caracas my phone was working. I used the layover to send photos and an email to Ivan. It seemed prudent to promptly share the horrors of Playa Amazonia on all my social networks — in case anyone on Earth might be considering a trip there — so I posted the better pictures and a detailed version of what had happened. It was as good and honest a description as I could write. I felt that it was Conradian. Without the pictures, my postings would have been unbelievable if not absurd, but Mom and Dad’s camera had served me well. I thought how much Ivan would appreciate me saving his butt on Playa Amazonia. I imagined Ivy’s beautiful face smiling down at me in gratitude for exposing the fraudulent Mr. Troels and surviving this ordeal. They would probably ask me to dinner in an expensive Newport Beach restaurant, where I could admire Ivy and hear about my next fam trip.
It took me twelve hours and two flights to get to LAX. I got into the very long US Customs line for citizens and checked my phone. The two texts from Ivan Slattery were brief and had been sent two hours apart.
One: WHO TOLD YOU TO POST THAT SHIT, YOU WRETCHED SQUIRREL?
Two: IT’S VIRAL! GET TO AAT HQ IMMEDIATELY UPON RETURN. NO EXCUSES!
I was too tired and wrung out to care. I said goodbye to the idea of a nice dinner with Ivan and Ivy, but really, I wasn’t convinced it would really happen, then or ever. Strangely enough, I kept thinking about my rejection by the Amazon. What did she want that I didn’t have?
Three long hours later, I walked into the Authentic Adventures lobby and the formerly neutral receptionist lit up with a huge smile. Ivy Slattery came bursting through the door with her arms out. Ivan was behind her, a hairy, dark blemish waddling across the red marble toward me. Ivy smothered me with hugs and cheek-kisses and all like that; Ivan threw his big arms around me and squeezed half my breath out.
“The bookings!” he yelled. “The bookings! The bookings!”
“They’re coming in from men all over the world, Austin,” said Ivy, with a very proud expression. It was the same expression she’d had after I’d impressed her father enough to get the job. “Thanks to you, we’ve got the Hotel Playa Amazonia booked for nearly six straight months. Solid!”
I felt my mouth actually hanging open. “But... what about the arrows? The Amazons?”
“You crack me up,” said Ivan. “To visit a beautiful beach, be spared from murder, and then be kidnapped by tall women warriors? For God knows what purpose? Few men can resist! Mostly older gentlemen are booking, but that’s fine — they can afford it. Now come in here, Houston. Ivy will show you how to book trips and get rich. When we’re too tired to print any more money tonight, it’s dinner at Villa Nova. On me!”
My rise through the ranks of AAT was swift. My computer science education helped with the everyday technology that often befuddled Ivan and even Ivy. And my degree in comparative literature helped, too: I took over the copy writing, from ads to catalogues to longer, more literary pieces that went out to men’s magazines and directly to our more adventurous (prosperous) clients. After three months of AAT tourists going to and from Playa Amazonia, the only complaint we heard was: many called but few chosen. The Amazons turned out to be very discriminating about their men, which, weirdly — or perhaps predictably — made more and more men want to go. I’ll admit that most of our clients were not particularly desirable, in the classic sense. On the coattails of our success in Playa Amazonia, most of our other destinations boomed too.
Of course the State Department got involved, what with the danger that we were sending citizens into. But our disclosures of risk were truthful, our contracts protected AAT from any responsibility for death or injury, and our lawyers were top-notch. After the men’s outdoor magazine honeymoon (Playa Amazonia made two covers), the liberal media went after us, briefly, but we had no injuries other than turned ankles, dehydration, and minor arrow wounds. (We required our guests to carry y’aps at all times. Mr. Troels arranged to have “AAT” woven into the canopies with black-and-gold painted thatch). Of course the more people we sent to Playa Amazonia, the more “friendly” the media became. Our most satisfied customers — the rare few to be “chosen” — had not one bad thing to say about the destination at all, as no one ever saw them again. A class action suit was filed by men who had traveled to Playa Amazonia — some as many as four times — and been passed over by the Amazons without even a second look. I knew how they felt. A judge threw it out.