LAST EDITED ON 06-25-06 AT 09:08 PM (EST)After
-------------------------------------------------------------
Of all the magic words that help me get through life on an income beggars would laugh at, two of the most potent are 'Manager's Special'. Put those two together on a red tag, apply them to the product of your choice, and it means malnutrition isn't coming this week. They mean fresh meat (or meat within twelve hours of having been fresh, that can still pass for it in even a moderately bright light), chicken that hasn't known six ounces of preservative for every two ounces of meat, and other assorted protein content that, miracle of miracles, has actually been somewhere near a protein chain. But you have to either get up pretty early to reach the red tags in my immediate area and be ready for anything up to and including small weapons fire because half the neighborhood needs those tags as much as you do -- or you get up a little later and walk up and over and down the hill into the high-rent district, where the supermarkets still need to clear out their mildly-old merchandise, but no one would dream of picking up anything less than perfect goods, no matter what the price. People might talk.
These were the good supermarkets, the ones with imported fruit, fish flown in from all over the world, sodas whose ingredients weren't speaking to each other after that last border dispute, culinary school graduates forced to find work in the built-in food court, and a lot of other things that I couldn't even remotely afford. The Manager's Specials tend to be extra-cheap in that kind of place. They have to be. The store assumes they're just going to wind up throwing it out anyway, so desperation stock movement attempts are free to be really desperate. You'd think that given that, there would be even more competition for those prime cheap cuts, but I'm not exactly telling anyone and -- no one else crosses the hill. No one else is willing to put up with the eyes of the other shoppers, all of whom treat the place as a gossip launch center. Look at what she's wearing. How can you bring that kind of outfit here? You're not supposed to be bargain-shopping, you're supposed to be trying to be seen. Hmph. Clearly someone's hiring a less-than-desirable au pair. We'll have to track her boss down and give that family a good talking-to. We have standards, you know...
Just like Connie. Standards.
Grab the specials, check for quality (almost always high here, but you never knew), stock up for the three days the mini-fridge could safely store and take it slowly all the way to the checkout, because it was going to be a very long walk back and every last car would sneer at me as they passed my slow trudge up the shoulder, especially the college students trading textbook money for gas while figuring they learned more that way. There are times when I think I'm the last young adult in America on foot, at least for this side of the hill. The beaten path is beaten down only by me, and if I don't break the snow in the winter, it goes to ice in a day and then there's no edible meat until the thaw...
A few people in line that morning, even at the express, so I settled in among disapproving stares and watched television. There are monitors (good, slightly elevated flat-screens) at the side of each line, because no one's going to read without still more odd looks and don't you know someone might want that magazine later? If you've got time to kill, you head for something showing NBC. If you're going to wind up fighting over a mismarked item, line up with FOX And Friends: it's inspirational. And if you're in what's supposed to be express and only proves that if you're moderately wealthy, you don't need to be able to count to twelve because you have people to do that for you, you're stuck with CBS. So I looked up at the screen --
-- and found myself looking back.
Oh. That's today.
I'd forgotten. Deliberate effort. You can't talk about the show, you can't admit to the show, you only think about the show, and that every damn day unless you make an effort not to, which constitutes thinking about it and hello, paradox. The way you stop dealing with it is to do everything else. Clean. Eat as much as it takes to get your weight back up, even if your budget suffers for weeks afterwards. Get a backlog of strips ready in case of writer's block. Shop in high-class supermarkets and think dark thoughts about everyone judging you for your appearance instead of thinking about how they'll be judging you in a few weeks for your edited actions. 'Today' had snuck up on me while I was otherwise occupied.
I looked very strange on the small screen. The black plastic border felt like prison bars closing in on the center. Somehow, the effect seemed to make me a little taller than I really was, at least to myself, even translated to something nine inches high -- but also more compressed: sharper hues, established limits. You go this far and then -- you get stopped. Television without pity is still television with walls.
Publicity shot. The background was provided by computer: the actual picture was taken against a green screen to make the editing a little easier later. They always want to make the editing a little easier. The young woman is standing in what will eventually be revealed as her confessional grove: each contestant films in a slightly different spot, and she can usually be found talking directly to the camera in a small clear patch among tangled lemon trees, transplanted citrus flourishing on this strange island, where so much exists that never should have come here. Thanks to digital compositing, she appears to be leaning against a tree trunk: in reality, she was captured in a variety of positions, and thought they'd wind up using a sitting pose. Dark brown hair verging on black, slightly wavy and with a tendency to curl up and tangle in high humidity, which will be coming to the island and doesn't dare to approach within ten miles of the studio. Gray eyes, set slightly deeper than normal, and the picture accentuates this: she seems to be perpetually looking out through private shadows. Nose small and sharp, chin a little stronger than usual, ears hidden. Breasts oversize for her frame. It's hard to get an impression of the rest of her body because she's wearing very loose clothing (other than where it's tight across the chest): light beige top, long-sleeved, and light blue pants, both cotton. (The shoes, not visible in this shot, are about as close to moccasins as sneakers ever get, and the thin socks are high. The idea for the outfit as a whole was maximum protection from bug bites. It helped.) Limbs could be average, muscular, or stick-thin: there's no way to tell among the excess of fabric. Height is equally impossible to accurately judge: she's 5'2", but somehow comes across as taller, and you would never get the true number from the context of the picture. Hands are long-fingered and have numerous small, old scars across the knuckles: you have to know to look for them or have your eyes on just the right spot at the right time, but this is someone who's been in fights, winner undetermined. As this is a publicity shot, taken well before mainstream filming began, there was no buff, and none has been edited in. Her loyalties, if any, will remain hidden.
The picture was on the screen for about eight seconds. Closed captioning, used to keep the lines from clashing with each other, provided the context. 'Alex Cole, from Haledon, New Jersey. Our first cartoonist. One of the -- odder characters we've had on the show. It was hard to tell who she was playing against.'
The photo vanishes. Jeff and Connie Chung in the studio. Connie is speaking now. 'An alliance jumper?' She's trying to look as if she knows what the words coming out of her mouth might mean. Her chance of clue existence is, at best, a fifty-fifty shot.
Back to Jeff, whose face is trying not to give anything away. 'Us,' he says simply, 'or them.' And then the next picture came up. Kesel. I hadn't known Kesel very well.
So -- today. As of today, you can admit you were a contestant. You cannot talk about how far you went, who you were with, what you did, any of the pre-game briefings and preparations. You can only admit to those episode by episode, confirming what the public sees after they see it, or expanding on it at your own risk. Say too much, and it'll cost you more than you ever could have won. Today, you are a Survivor contestant, something only a few hundred people in a country of a few hundred million have ever achieved. For now, you can say that, and no more.
Not that I had anyone to say it to.
For about five seconds.
The woman ahead of me had glanced back when I'd gotten in line, briefly expressed her disdain in eyebrows and lip curl before facing forward again, very quickly. Best not to look at people who didn't carry thousand-dollar handbags (or quality knockoffs of same) to pick up a few items which the maid had clearly forgotten. They might be contagious.
But now she was looking again, forcing herself to move across the borders starting from glance, going quickly across stare, and stopping at outright survey, visibly comparing and contrasting until she came up with an answer she didn't like.
"You," she half-snorted, "were on that?" Pointed at the screen.
Well. Okay. Earlier than I'd ever really expected, as in So much for 'never'. I tried it out. Nodded, two slight head movements.
"Well," with a glance at my shopping cart, and a full snort this time, "clearly you didn't win." And immediately back to facing forward.
Clearly.
And for the first time in months, Jeff echoed at the back of my head. "Clearly."
-------------------------------------------------------
Before
-------------------------------------------------------
Luggage inspection.
This was, I'd been told -- presumably we'd all been told, but we were being kept isolated from each other, I wasn't sure I'd seen any other contestants -- not going to be a single-outfit season. We weren't going to be allowed to bring a full wardrobe, but in the interest of viewer interest, any fashion parade we decided to hold would be allowed to proceed for at least a block. As such, we'd been told to pack 'normally' for a tropical zone, trusting in the production staff to remove any contraband before we were sent on our way. The inspector was a gray-haired woman in her early fifties who appeared to have been constructed out of a child's alphabet blocks. Her nose formed the J.
"You don't get this," she sneered, pulling the lightweight waterproof poncho out of the array on the hotel bed. "People like to see you jerks suffer in the rain: we've got ratings that back it up." She clearly would have taken it even if the ratings had encouraged things going the other way. Power corrupts: petty power corrupts all out of proportion to actual power. "Is that your swimsuit?"
"Yes." Bright red one-piece, coverage from neck to thighs, a little more in common with a wetsuit than casual beachwear. Tighter than I'd wanted, as in 'it fits and I have to wear it in public.' Black was discouraged because it looked bad on land, blue discouraged because it was hard to shoot against the ocean. The briefing book had been full of helpful fashion hints, none of which remotely mentioned the illegality of ponchos.
"The viewers like to see bikinis," she harshly said as she pulled out the anti-bug bracelet that I'd known wouldn't pass for conventional jewelry.
"The viewers can pay for it."
Clouded brown eyes came up, locked into mine for no longer than necessary to convey the spite. "If that's what you're playing," she shot back with clear disbelief. "Whatever..." Into the blouses now. I got to keep four, including the lightweight cotton that I'd been praying to have -- it was my best bet against insect invasion -- and, much to my surprise, a single sweater and a thin jacket were added to the list. "No jeans?"
"No chafing," I replied. Everyone remembered Rupert, didn't they?
"No skirts," she sneered again. "No shorts..."
"We'll all be trading clothes anyway." Bugs get under skirts and don't even have to try for shorts.
"You dress like a boy," she decided before moving on to the proof that I wasn't. All the panties cleared. Sanitary items didn't. "You'll get those on request," she said. "Your choice of whatever you usually use," clearly unhappy about the unwarranted attention to contestant comfort. "You also," she added, "get birth control if you -- 'want' -- it, and condoms are available." Reading from the internal script now, hatred dripping off every line.
"I understand." Pass.
Bras. She just stared at them for a while. They were the crystallized financial embodiment of my goal: make six days. No one wanted to be the first one out, but I needed the larger check just to justify the custom sports work. (It hadn't been $2500 by any means, but it had stung. Every expenditure hurt, and if you put together everything I'd spent and lost by going on the show, the last-place check would probably mean I'd come very close to paying for the honor of my own humiliation.) She clearly didn't want to pass them through -- the viewers probably liked to make snide remarks, too -- but there was no way to consider them illegal: eventually, she just decided to let me keep four. The fifth was added to the pile of stuff I'd get back once I was out of the game.
The moccasin-sneakers that were for everyday wear: pass. One set of cheap beach sandals for going into the water in rocky areas: pass. She pointed to the sketchbook and attached pencils. "That's your luxury item?" I nodded. "Lucky you. Burnett's actually letting you -- people -- keep them this season. You'll get it after you hit the beach." As with everything else except whatever we were wearing onto the final boat. All the luggage would be waiting for us on the beach. There was no guarantee that it wouldn't be re-sorted first. "You should have designated the bug bracelet."
"It's only good for a month." Less with water exposure. "That would have been legal?"
A false smile showing tobacco-stained teeth. "No." Sorting socks. "You think you'll make a month? Cute..." And done.
Or not. "Okay. Let's see what you're wearing now."
Oh, hell. "You can see what I'm wearing now from here."
More mirth, not quite as faked this time. "That's why the women get a female inspector, sweetheart. You're on the first boat in ten minutes. You're not getting away with anything extra because we didn't check your fashion choice for the day. That's how Osten almost got the liquor through. Do you think we don't learn?"
No, and that's why I'll be screwing over the people who come after me. I'm the only one who can get away with this -- if I do. "Fine. Whatever." I turned in a slow circle.
She shook her head. "Take them off."
I glared at her. We had just passed petty abuse and stepped into the very large land of Looking For A Butt-Kicking, and my hands were acknowledging the transition with a slow clench.
She knew she'd just crossed the line, and even though she outweighed me by a good eighty pounds, she didn't like what was waiting on the other side of it. "Fine. Kick off your shoes and I'll pat you down." I kept staring at her. "It's that or you forfeit your place and we call in the first alternate. Look, sweetheart -- you don't have anything we're not going to strategically blur out for the viewers the first time you try to sneak off and wash up." Very amused by that. "Either I check you out or you go home. Pick one."
It was fast, semi-professional, and completely humiliating. Done.
Wrong. "You have something around your neck under the blouse. Take it out."
Damn. I reached under the collar and pulled out the chain, followed by the cross.
She looked at it closely. "Little big, isn't it?"
The chain was longer than I'd wanted, but it had been a last-minute addition to the cross itself (which had taken too much time to get) and where the cross hung down to didn't matter as long as it was under my clothing and against fabric: no problems there. The cross was big: five inches tall, three across. The looseness of the blouse had hidden it until the pat-down. "I have a lot of faith."
Maybe it came out too dry. "That's not a token, that's almost a weapon." She started reaching out for it.
I strained not to step back. "Personal jewelry is allowed at the contestant's own risk for loss or damage, neither of which the show will stand responsible for," and that was a quote from the briefing book. "Each contestant may have earrings, a necklace, and a ring, up to three pairs for the first, one piece for the second, two for the third provided one of them is a wedding or engagement ring." She'd stopped moving, her hand frozen six inches from the metal. "I have no rings and my ears aren't pierced. This is my jewelry and this is what I choose to have faith in."
She wanted to take the cross. I could see it in her eyes. She wanted to do anything that would make me feel bad and weaken me mentally for whatever waited ahead. But she also couldn't break the rules someone else had set, and she couldn't do anything about small religious pieces. It had been in the briefing book. A prayer mat is not a luxury item. If you absolutely needed something for your faith and it had no other use in the game, it went through. (Bibles had uses other than the obvious -- you could write in them, for starters -- and they weren't essential to practice the religion, so they were still luxury items.) Ibrehem had forced that change. Good for Ibrehem. If she went any further, she was stepping on her own rulebook and the First. Problem.
"Fine," she spat. "Keep your stupid cross. We'll see how far it takes you." Angry, eyes flashing, feet thudding against the thin carpet as she turned to leave with her gathered excess and contraband. "God doesn't come to our islands, little girl -- and if he did, we'd toss him out for interfering with the game. You're not going to pray your way to the Final Two."
I was quiet until she was out the door, well into the time it would take her to reach the elevator and get in, plus a little extra for safety -- and then I finally allowed myself the single head shake.
------------------------------------------------------------------
{CBS finally updated. Everyone go see!}
{Ladies and gentlemen, presenting Alex Cole, Woman Of Mystery. This is the whole of her information sheet. Brace yourselves for the absolute flood of data:
Age: Twenty-three.
Marital status: Single.
Occupation: Cartoonist.
Hometown: Haledon, NJ.
Favorites:
Color: Grayscale
Scent: None
Flower: Dandelion
Board Game: None
Video Game: None
Sports to Play: None
Sports Teams: Mets, Red Bulls
Outdoor Activities: Walking
TV Shows: The Amazing Race
Movie: Moscow on the Hudson
Actor: John Goodman
Actress: Katherine Hepburn
Music: "Spider" John Koerner
Magazine: None
Books/Author: The Glory Of Their Times, Lawrence S. Ritter
Cereal: None
Fruit: Green seedless grapes
Snack Food: Raisins
Cookie: Peanut butter
Candy Bar: None
Alcoholic Drink: None
Non-Alcoholic: Pure water
Alex is self-employed, making a living by selling ad space on her webcomic site, along with self-published books of her collected works and pieces of commissioned art. She has won five Web Cartoonist's Choice awards, including Outstanding Newcomer, Outstanding Layout, and Outstanding New Character Design during the five years the strip has been online. She has come on the show, in her own words, 'to see how far she can go.' Her birthdate is September 15th.
And that's it. Quiet much?}
{Alert the astrology thread: we've got a Virgo.}
{Well, give her credit for guts. You generally don't come on Burnett's show and say you love TAR the most...}
{Folk jazz blues and an ancient baseball book at twenty-three? Everybody sing: She's out of touch, she's out of time...}
{At least she's not stuck thinking nothing happened before she was born. Anyone come to mind on that? Anyone...?}
{Nice head shot. She looks so happy to be there.}
{Oh, gods -- another radical fundie Xian. Look at the group shot. Have you ever seen a cross that big? Luxury item: endless babble about the saving power of Jebuzz. Just wait.}
{So where's the Bible to bash people over the head with?}
{Probably copied it word for word inside the sketchbook.}
{Sighting: I live in Wayne, and I saw her walking up the hill towards the college, trudging with three bags of groceries and two of water. I actually swung back to make sure it was her. There were a couple of cars honking at her, but I don't know if it's because they recognized her or because it's just a really narrow shoulder and they were afraid she'd fall off. Couldn't stop to ask her anything. If I see her around where we're both on foot, I'll see if I can get anything out of her.}
{Maybe they were trying to make her fall off.}
{Any significant weight loss?}
{Not this many months after. She looked like her photo, right down to the neutral expression. I guess she didn't win the car...}
{She said she likes walking.}
{Dude, no one walks that hill if they have a car.}
{The car isn't delivered until after the episode where it's won gets aired, so the point's moot.}
{Three days to the premiere and she's a mortal lock for ninth place on my PTTE.}
{So now you think she makes the jury?}
{Hey, I can switch as much as I like until the opening credits start.}
{Yeah, but fifteen times?}
------------------------------------------------------------------
During
------------------------------------------------------------------
Blind.
Ears are not eyes. Artists -- even cartoonists -- constantly look at the world to decide which parts of it to capture/distort for their own purposes. Listening isn't the same thing, doesn't become anywhere near as good even with an unknown amount of boredom time to work at it. Of anticipation, mystery, wondering what's happening around me. Mostly boredom. Some fear. I can't see, I don't know where I'm going or who's with me or what's about to happen, I'm not allowed to move from this spot or speak, and I can't see...
They put the blindfold on before I was allowed to board the final ship. The first twist. We all know the general destination, but not the specific. None of us know who's sitting around us. They did a great job of keeping us from each other. What was the saying about the old Red Sox? Twenty-five men, twenty-five cabs? We might have been sixteen contestants, sixteen hotels.
I think there's sixteen of us. I can't know for sure.
Listen. Strain. We're on the deck of the ship. I don't know how big it is. I know it's got a pretty good motor because that's most of what I hear unless I make an effort to block out. Every so often, there's the faint whirring of cameras, but only when they get very close. They must want some travel shots.
I'm sitting, seat-belted into place inside a bowl chair, with the railing right behind me: I reached out before we were officially told not to move, and it was the only thing I made contact with. Every so often, the boat goes over a wave and splashes a little water up: the back of my head is damp and a little itchy with salt. The occasional shuffling sound to both sides tells me the others are having trouble resisting the urge to scratch, too.
Footsteps here and there, the crew and production people moving. Once -- just once -- a soft "I can't take this..." somewhere off ahead and to the left, which was quickly followed by a very loud "No talking!" The voice was female and had a Southern accent.
On my immediate left, shallow, slow breathing, each inhale a declaration of war against fear. Someone is very nervous, afraid of the dark, the ocean, or the mystery. You'd think it would be hard to pick out the smell of sweat against the ocean, but it can be done. Or he's just sweating that heavily. I'm pretty sure this is a man: there's a twinge of cheap cologne in the mix.
To the right: deeper breaths, slow, steady, almost measured. Maybe another male, or at least someone on the tall side: the efforts come across as -- well, large. Not sure, though. The efforts are very rhythmic in a casual way. Close to meditation, I think.
Every so often, the ship's horn goes off. I think someone is trying to make us jump in our seats. It works every time.
I don't know how long we've been out here, or how fast we're going, or when we're going to stop.
I wish I had my watch on. They took it before they put the blindfold on, the last confiscation. The only time you're on once you reach the island is Production Time. No timepieces allowed as luxury items, unless you really want a broken watch so you can have the comfort of knowing what time it is twice a day, even though you're not sure when that is. But just the weight of the cheap plastic strap on my wrist would make me feel better, let me know time was passing at a standard measured pace instead of this shaky subjective one.
They attached a wire to the back of the blindfold after I sat down -- I felt it briefly against my neck -- and then it sounded like they fastened it to the back of the chair. I think what's going to happen is that when Jeff gives the signal, the belts will come off, and we'll all stand up at once and the blindfolds will break away. We'll all see each other for the first time in a single instant and probably have about half a second to figure everyone else out before they either assign tribes or make us decide for ourselves. It'll be a great shot if they do it right. Easy to picture, although I'm having a hard time keeping contestant faces constant. Images of former players keep intruding into the new imaginary faces I want to use. At one point, I had fifteen Jon Daltons and nearly gave up on the spot.
We're moving pretty fast. The wind is strong on my side, and then to the front.
And then it's slowing down.
And stopping.
The motor cuts out.
Footsteps, lots of footsteps. People moving onto the deck. Two splashes: something large and possibly flat hitting the water: sounds like a pair of giant belly flops. Production crew padding lifeboats out to the island, beating us there so they can get the arrival shots?
More movement. The whirring of the cameras, heavy in my ears with the motor having stopped. Distant birds. And --
-- Jeff.
Listen. These words will be crucial.
"We're floating two miles offshore of Yanini in the Society Islands grouping. This large, verdant isle has just passed back into local control after spending several decades as the exclusive home of a reclusive billionaire." Jeff's into this: you can hear it. He loves getting 'exclusive' and 'reclusive' that close together. "This place, considered to be cursed by many of the locals, was used as a private garden by that figure, who used it to stock and grow plant life from around the world, creating his own personal idea of Eden --" dramatic pause "-- and Hell." Another pause. There would probably be a few shots inserted into it later.
"The island was stocked with not only plant life, but animal. Creatures from all over the planet were brought here -- to meet their deaths. He liked to hunt, and he gave himself the challenge of a lifetime by importing the strongest game known to keep his interests fresh." A little louder, "According to local legend, that game included humans -- and their ghosts still haunt this strange place."
Another pause. To my left and right, the sounds of people tensing. We'd read about the private garden and wild variety of plants in the briefing book. This was the first time anyone or anything had mentioned hunting. Secrets, always secrets right from the beginning...
"The dangerous animals are gone now, the billionaire dead, and the mansion he built has fallen into disrepair --" and would be used as the base for the production staff "-- but the island will soon be the home for the most dangerous animal of all: man."
Some sharp inhales all over the deck. This was it. This was us...
"From all over the country, sixteen Americans have been gathered. They don't know anything about each other. They've never even seen each other. But if they want to survive here, they're going to have to work together to form a new society -- while at the same time, competing against each other. In the end, only one can reach the end and claim the million-dollar prize."
Another pause. More tensing. Muscles almost starting to cramp now. We now know there's sixteen of us. It's more information than we've had in the entire show, which is very clearly under way.
"Who will be the hunters? Who will be the prey? In this deceptively peaceful setting, who will tap into the secrecy, danger, and violence that lie under the surface and ride them all to a triumphant conclusion?" I'd never heard his voice so rich. It's a lot stronger close up, and the joy is perfectly audible under the drama. He's looking forward to this.
And then the movement starts. The seat is -- rotating? The direction of the salt scent is changing: I'm being turned around to face the sea. And the chair is rising in the air.
Wriggling. Small panic. Something is happening. They're going to do something... Gasps all around me, startlement, fear. We've been had, all of us, and in a few seconds, we're going to find out exactly how...
"Sixteen Americans -- thirty-nine days -- one -- Survivor!"
And silence.
Someone -- male, very young, excitedly says "We've got it! One take, Jeff! We're clear to go!"
The chair is very high now. There's a breeze against my legs.
"Okay," Jeff says. "Let them go!"
The seat tilts forward.
The seat belt comes apart.
I fall, and the blindfold comes off, and the first image of a new life is water rushing up to meet my eyes...
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Thrashing. Which way is up? The screams don't help: they're distorted by the water and all around. Twist, try to orient. I want to breathe. I didn't get anything in before I hit, and I want to breathe, but I don't know which way is up yet and if I try to breathe now, surrounded by that which gave life to all, it's going to take the dubious gift back on the spot and --
-- I'm going to die --
-- unless I can find a direction, the one that leads to air, and thrashing around under the waves is leading nowhere, and all around/above? me are screams of fright and surprise and perhaps even victory, and none of it can be homed in on --
-- stop moving.
Complete and utter stop.
A second -- and then my back is lightly tugged in one direction while the cross falls to the opposite.
Humans are naturally buoyant if they stop to try for it. That's up. Go for it.
Pushing, lungs screaming, the clear water getting a little lighter, and then --
-- breathe! Air! Sweet air, the best taste I've ever experienced, keep it up, inhale and exhale, inhale again because it feels so very good, look around --
-- chaos.
There are sixteen of us. I can see nine from here. We were at the front of the boat, which points out into a sharp apex, and we were all dumped off from about fifteen feet up. Some of the cries are of pain: at least two people hit the water badly, male and female, the notes clashing badly with each other. One older man is helping a younger one stay afloat. In the water around us are rescue divers, waiting just in case something goes too far wrong. None of them are moving. The pain isn't on a level that concerns them. Past them, camera operators, filming from the ship and silently floating small boats and, in scuba gear, beneath the waves. There's one ten feet in front of me and four down. I want to kick him.
Splashing. Forty feet in front of me, the last head breaks the surface: an older woman, gasping for breath. She's having trouble staying afloat, can't calm down enough to put the effort in the right places. I head for her without being quite sure why, get an arm out. She's surprisingly heavy and clutching at me, she's trying to sink herself and take a guest along to the final party, she's screaming in my ear and some of it has to be a last prayer...
"Stop flailing!", and that scream is mine. "Just stop moving and I can tow you!"
She freezes. Her eyes narrow with hatred. Apparently no one's ever told her what to do before. The grip on my arm tightens -- but then she stops struggling and comes all the way up to the surface. I tow her along. She's taking a lot of strength to drag, and she's contributing nothing.
Swimming. We're nearly all swimming now, at least practically all of us can swim excepting my waterborne leech, but we don't have a goal. There are sixteen of us (and I've moved far enough to count them all now when I look around: there are only two behind me, one male, one female, so I was near the back of the row), but not a single idea on what to do next. The island is two miles away, the green heights easily visible, but while we can all swim, we can't all swim two miles, and some of us are going to need those rescue divers very, very soon...
Someone cries out. Once, then twice, excited. "Rafts! Rafts!"
I look.
Two of them, about ten feet square, one a God-awful gaudy beacon of orange, the other a somber-only-by-comparison purple, first and third base on the diamond for distance apart, with the boat somewhere in center field. Everyone begins to make for them immediately. Some are swimming faster than others: even with the dead weight, I pass someone as I push out for the havens, the rafts about two hundred feet away. Some going to orange, some to purple. We're dividing ourselves. Some are glancing to see who's occupying a given raft before either heading for it or trying for the other. These will be the tribes. Somewhere, someone is shouting "Only eight! Only eight to a raft!", and I wonder what will happen if we overload one. Conceivably they'll tip both rafts over and tell us to start again.
Closer now, passing someone else, didn't get a good look at them. Five people on the purple and four on the orange, seven still in the water. Getting close to where I'll have to veer off for one or the other, and the weight is really dragging now, my shoulder registering pain and little else, time to make a decision, time to --
-- turn a corner and meet your fate --
Orange or purple.
Choose.
That shade of orange is offensive to anyone with working eyes. I head for the purple.
I get about fifty feet -- to the midpoint between the rafts -- and then the weight goes away. I look back, and the older woman is swimming strongly for the orange platform, as far away from me as possible, pushing using her withheld strength to reach her new fellows.
Fine. Now I'm really glad I went with purple.
Tired. Hurting. Swimming for the raft, but the strokes are faltering. There's an element of shock starting to work here, the environment changing too much too fast, and while I think I can make the raft, of course I can make the raft, I can really feel the weight of the clothes now, the shoes that I didn't kick off because I'd need them later, I'm more worn out than I thought I'd be, and my nose is coming closer to the waves than I thought it would on the downstrokes...
Splash, just ahead. Look up. I've closed to under a hundred feet and someone just jumped off the raft: a tall, older black man, hair shot with gray, eyes surrounded by fine lines, already with a two-day supply of salt-and-pepper beard. He swims up to me in something of a hurry, crossing seventy feet before I can make thirty. "Let me help you in!" he shouts, seeming to hover in front of me.
"I'm okay," I say back, not yelling. I don't have the strength for yelling now. "Save your strength."
"You're not!" he insists. "You were towing an anchor for half a football field! Let me help you!"
Well, fine. If he's that determined to play hero. I let him take my arm and lead the way, but I insist on kicking and one-arm crawl stroking my way along. I'm not going to be dead weight. Honestly, I could have made it to the raft on my own, but it would have taken longer and if he's got strength to spare, it's his call as to where he wants to give it. I already made my charitable donation and didn't even get a 'Thank you for ripping yourself off.' Closer -- closer -- the purple is a lot worse-looking close-up --
-- he gets on first, then helps me up. I want to lie down immediately. I want to take a short nap, not because I'm completely out of strength, but because there won't be any chances later. I am more tired than I should be. Damn anchor.
I look up. "Thanks."
A brilliant smile. "No problem."
One more person got on while we were closing in. Ten breaths after reaching the raft, the final occupant makes it, and we all help him on, an elderly white male who closed in on his own slow pace, never faltering, never in trouble, just keeping it steady and turtle-like. He grins and plops down. The final two people in the water, a handsome young man and attractive young woman who seem to have been bantering while everyone else was choosing up sides, glance at each other, look surprised, a little guilty, and then seem perfectly happy to be the last ones onto the orange raft.
"There's paddles strapped to this side!" shouts a burly man -- weightlifter gone slightly to seed, more mass than definition, buzz cut, not a bit of body hair, harsh chin and hawk eyes. "Everyone grab one, and we'll start making for our beach!"
"Where is our beach?" asks a bikini model lounging in the center of the raft. Deja vu. But she does get up and move towards an edge. Not the side he's indicated: can't have everyone on one edge of the raft, but she's positioning herself to paddle. I seem to be okay where I am.
"Don't know!" the burly man calls back. "But the production people have to point us in the right direction!" He kneels down to unstrap the paddles and passes them out as he gets them. In less than a guessed minute, we've all got one -- and that's when the people on the camera boats gesture to us and start slowly motoring away. The indication is clear: that way. We follow, keeping to the right curve of the island's barely-visible shoreline. The orange raft pulls away to the left.
It is the first day. There are eight of us, and eight against us, and ultimately, every last one of us versus each other...
----------------------------------------------------
Survivor: The Society Islands
Haraiki Tribe (orange)
Robin Breslin, 27, dancer, Bronx, New York. (Luxury item: dancing shoes)
Phillip Geegaw, 34, farmer, Clay Center, Nebraska. (Luxury item: urn full of father's ashes)
Michelle Kesel, 22, floral designer, Winnfield, Louisiana. (Luxury item: scrapbook)
Connie Lastings-Adams, 42, housewife, Westhampton, New York. (Luxury item: Bible)
Angela Mistedge, 28, activist, Richmond, Virginia. (Luxury item: Go set)
Elmore Nolan, 41, computer game designer, Seattle, Washington. (Luxury item: light-up keychain)
Denadi Raven, 58, health food store owner, Cheyenne, Wyoming. (Luxury item: diary)
Tony Tirello, athlete, 28, Challis, Idaho. (Luxury item: Frisbee)
Turare Tribe (purple)
Frank "Grasshopper" Neeman, 29, pharmacist, Shamrock, Texas. (Luxury item: scales)
Alex Cole, 23, cartoonist, Haledon, New Jersey. (Luxury item: sketchbook & pencils)
Desmond Cooper, 55, construction foreman, Podunk, Massachusetts. (Luxury item: level)
Thomas Gardener, 38, personal trainer, Ann Arbor, Michigan. (Luxury item: Pilates sphere)
Mary-Jane Learner, 21, model, Los Angeles, California. (Luxury item: lipstick)
Trooper Reagan, 35, police officer, Mosquero, New Mexico. (Luxury item: ticket pad)
Gary Watson, 49, IRS agent, Washington D.C. (Luxury item: solar-powered calculator)
Trina Zolna, 32, fortune teller, Manhattan, New York. (Luxury item: tarot card deck)
Email this topic to a friend
Printer-friendly version of this topic
Bookmark this topic (Registered users only)
