Stormy Productions, the company producing the opening party for Picchu! Art of the Ancient Incas, descended on the museum to assess the venue and meet with each staff member selected to oversee an area of the party. James Trehorn had sent an e-mail ordering museum employees to comply with all Stormy demands. “We must accommodate their every notion if this opening is to go down in history as one of the most fantastic ever produced,” he wrote.

Stormy employees crawled over every inch of museum space, identifiable by their dark gray t-shirts with images of rain clouds and heavy black boots. They checked electrical outlets, tested for wireless signals and measured out spaces for bars and buffets, all with little concern for the museum’s visitors. One of them set a cream cheese danish on the edge of a Renaissance sculpture.

Mary Ellen Seifert and Phoebe sat on a bench in the lobby, waiting to be called into action.

“It’s a strange name for a company, isn’t it?” Mary Ellen said. “Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“All of them have the same pallor,” Phoebe said. “Like they’ve been in an attic for years with no form of entertainment except back issues of Event Solutions Magazine.”

“More like Flowers in the Attic,” Mary Ellen said. “Hey, check out that guy.”

She pointed to an extremely tall man with a shock of white hair that stood straight up from his head like a white hot flame. The man appeared to be an albino. He noticed Mary Ellen pointing and cast his pinkish gaze upon them. He walked over.

“You’re in trouble,” Phoebe said.

“What areas?” the albino asked in a low voice, more bored than upset.

The two women stared.

“Yes,” the man said, sighing. “I’m a person with albinism.”

“Oh, really?” Phoebe said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“What are your assigned areas for the opening?” the albino asked.

“Oh, I’m in merchandise,” Mary Ellen said.

“Merch, yeah, I’ve been looking all over for you,” the albino said, although what he’d been doing when Mary Ellen pointed him out was drinking coffee and talking with other Stormy employees about the latest episode of Lost. “We need to create a vision for the retail stations. I’m thinking commemorative shot glasses, halter tops, grass skirts… What kind of merch are you thinking?”

“Posters and t-shirts?” Mary Ellen said meekly.

The albino looked as if Mary Ellen had just offered him a hot plate of mashed beets and rutabagas.

“Come, let’s try to rise above those Midwestern roots,” he said.

“Grass skirts are Hawaiian. Or Polynesian. Definitely not Incan,” Phoebe said, standing up.

“What’s your area?” the albino asked.

“Coats.”

“Coats? That’s not an area. That’s a menial task,” the albino said. He put his hands on his hips, which where about even with Phoebe’s shoulders, and frowned. “On second thought, I have an idea for coats.”

“Which is?”

“Tattoos. People give you their coat and get a tattoo of an Incan number on their hand. That’s their claim ticket. No fumbling with paper tickets that get lost. Did the Incans have numbers?”

“I’m sure they had some numeric system,” Phoebe said. “But tattooing people… Doesn’t that require a permit?”

“I’m pretty sure that would require a permit,” Mary Ellen said.

“Stormy doesn’t believe in permits,” the albino said. “We do what we want. That’s why we throw such kick-ass parties.”

“I really can’t see myself tattooing people with their coat check number,” Phoebe said.

“Can you draw?” the albino asked. “Maybe then people could get whatever they wanted.”

Phoebe looked around as if someone might appear who could rescue her.

“You look like you could paint an outstanding Tweety Bird.” The albino snorted at his own joke, warming to the topic. “Elmer Fudd?”

“I’m going back to my desk,” Phoebe said. “I have photocopying to do.”

“No, no, no, wait! Let’s discuss this… I know… face painting!” The albino clapped his hands. “You’ll be the face painter - all tribal and Survivor! People love that! We could grind up roots and pulverize flowers for paint.”

“So now I’m coats and face painting?” Phoebe demanded. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?”

“Why, are you union?”

“No, its just… I was assigned to coats,” Phoebe insisted.

“Jesus, forget the coats, will you? We’ll train a chimp,” the albino said.

Neither Mary Ellen or Phoebe were sure if he was joking or not.

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