Yurt it Up

Gilbert rolled a half smoked Lucky Strike between his index finger and thumb while he stared at the corkboard that he had thumbtacked up the previous night. The whole room smelled like tobacco, old paper, and that funky odor that stink bugs give-off in self defense or when you smash one. During the fall months of New England, you find that stink bugs crawl up the corner boards of homes and nest in the attic until spring, and that’s just where Gilbert had set up.

Gil brought the cigarette to his chapped lips and took a deep pull, “This just doesn’t make any sense,” he said, exhaling the smoke which floated to the rafters where cobwebs lazily hung. “Make sense to you?”

Next to Gilbert, tied to a chair, was Lance. About fifteen hours ago, Lance was an Amazon Prime delivery driver. Gil had more-or-less kidnapped Lance and proclaimed he was his research assistant now.

“Lance?” Gil said.

Lance turned his head up and looked at the corkboard and then at Gil. Having been the driver on this route for about three months, Lance was somewhat familiar with Gilbert, and he always looked the same. Well manicured, but at the same time, tired and sleepless. He always had a cigarette in his mouth too, sometimes it wasn’t even lit.

“Sir, can you please let me go, I swear I won’t tell anyone. I think I might even have a package for you,” Lance said.

“Nonsense, my boy, your place is here now,” Gilbert said.

“The Prime trucks are equipped with GPS,” Lance said, perhaps making a vague threat.

“You aren’t,” Gilbert dismissively said. “Now listen,” he continued as he rose to his feet, “Coca-Cola is a multinational beverage company, we’ve gone over this, but Lance, riddle me this,” Gil said, staring at his corkboard with red eyes that hadn’t slept a full night weeks. “Coke, or Pepsi?”

“Pepsi,” Lance said.

“Right! I myself am a Pepsi man. The Wilsons next door, you know them, right?”

“Sure.”

“I asked them the same thing, can you guess what they prefer?”

“No.”

“Frank Wilson and his wife, Sarah, both took the Pepsi Challenge back in 92’. They never went back.” Lance sighed deeply. “Yes, I was thinking the same thing. Incredible that a carbonated beverage giant such as Coca-Cola can still wield such a large domestic market share despite the collective opinion of the people that say otherwise. . .” Gil finished the statement by grabbing another Lucky Strike. He took a long dry pull on it with his eyes closed tightly. “Smoke?”

“No.”

Gilbert usually chain smoked smoked Newports, the menthol made his mouth tingle and kept him awake at night. Before taking a sabbatical from his position at Quincy Community College teaching humanities, he’d often burn through a pack at night making last minute alterations to his lesson plan and lectures. When he needed to look at something with fresh eyes, he’d reach for Lucky Strikes. Gil thought they made him think differently.

“41-33, Eagles upset the Patriots in Super Bowl LII,” Gilbert said, going over his notes. “Malcom Butler is benched for some reason or another. A week later Pepsi loses a massive contract in Asian markets. Total market share is reduced to 23% from 39%, estimated losses, sixty million dollars.”

“Can I please go home, I have a family.”

“I know, Lance. I’m right here,” Gil said, before lighting the cigarette he’d been chewing on. “Lance, Asian markets were quiet on this, totally radio silent. No one said anything. Totally caught all the guys at Pepsi off guard, I read. None of the sales guys could reach their contacts on the mainland.”

Lance said nothing, he rested his chin back onto his chest.

“We’ve all seen the commercial Coca-Cola ran during that Super Bowl, it was terrible, just terrible. Wasn’t it Lance?”

“Awful,” he replied absently.

“Want to live in a yurt — yurt it up! Who writes shit like that, and how could something so dumb not be met with backlash.”

Lance quietly laughed at the insanity of the Coca-Cola tagline. “What’s a yurt anyway,” he added.

“Yurt it up, awful! A yurt is a sort of tent you might find in the steppes of Mongolia or in say. . . Northern China,” Gil said, pondering the last two words. “Northern China.”

“Yurt it up,” Lance said.

Gil excitedly started flipping through his notes, cross referencing his corkboard. The cigarette rested in the corner of his mouth with a long tube of ash developing on the end of it. “Lance, do you know what’s in Northern China,” Gil asked, tracing a line on the board with his finger from Beijing to Xinjiang.

“No,” Lance said, looking up.

“There is not a soda that can compete with the refreshing taste of an ice cold Pepsi, we both know this. Pepsi, despite selling fewer Pepsi’s than Coca-Cola does Cokes, has a larger, and more diverse brand. Thus, Pepsi has more to offer than just soda to an emerging market. Coke was surely intimidated by this.”

“Uh-huh,” Lance said.

“Cornered, even, and what does a cornered animal do, Lance? It strikes back, it fights tooth and nail, or in this case, can and bottle,” Gilbert said, amused at his own joke. After a pause to see if Lance shared the same amusement — he did not — Gil continued, “Coca-Cola ran that commercial, not as an ad, but as a threat, a shot across the bow. Not at Pepsi either, but at China. Lance, what is in Northern China,” Gil said, circling back to his original question.

Lance shrugged.

“Uyghurs. Coke purchased a commercial during Super Bowl LII and threatened to blow the lid on the human rights violations taking place in the steppes. Coca-Cola persuaded China with three little words that could have brought UN Peacekeepers to Xinjiang and up Xi Jinping’s ass.”

“Can you untie me, please,” Lance said.

“Yurt it up.”