Gilligan's Island of Mystery: The Hole

NOTE: Last Sunday, I reposted an 11-year-old entry from my old blog. That post was intended to be an ongoing story but I never picked it up. Today, I thought I'd give it a go. Also, I literally made this up as I went along. Like a writing sprint. This is literally a rough draft. Do with that what you will.

Life is funny. One minute you're throwing back tequila shots in a tiki bar with a redhead named Joan who says she's in advertising , the next you're sitting in the sand of an uncharted island somewhere in the Pacific thinking about how is life is funny.

We've been shipwrecked for three days now and I'm pretty sure we're not going to experience a resurrection of our boat. The S.S. Minnow sits buried on the beach, a hole big enough for baby elephant to walk through in its hull. What exactly happened is still a bit of mystery. All I know is the weather started getting rough. Our tiny ship was tossed. I stare at the hole and think about metaphors. Does the hole in the Minnow represent the hole in my heart? Not the literal hole in my heart. I don't have a medical condition. No, it's a metaphorical hole. An emptiness. A void. I thought the the Navy would fill it. I really hoped Joan from advertisting would fill it. Nothing has, though. The hole in Minnow is like the hole in my heart: it's big and I don't know how to fix it.

Damn, I should be writing this down.

I notice shadow on the sand. Someone has walked up behind me.

"Mind if I join you?" asks a sultry voice.

"It's a free country," I say.

"Is it though?" Ginger, the actress, sits next to me. "I mean, we're on a deserted island. We don't know if we're free here or not?"

"Maybe we're free to start over," I say. "Life is funny, ya know."

"What do you mean?" she asks, wiping some sand from her elegant evening gown.

"Take you for example. You're wearing an elegant evening gown. Who wears an elegant evening gown on an island charter? What were you doing before the boat trip? An awards banquet? You're an actress, right? Were you getting an acting award?"

"So what if I was?" Ginger looks at the hole in the boat.

"I'm just saying that would be an example of how life is funny. One minute you're accepting an award, the next you're sitting on a beach in your elegant evening gown next to some sailor telling you life is funny."

"You're an odd duck, Gilligan," she says, turning to face me. "It's Gilligan, right?"

Her eyes are seductive, her voice sultry. She sounds the way a bottle of Macallan Whiskey tastes: smooth, rich, and characterized by notes of dried fruits, dark chocolate, orange, caramel, and warm spices.

"Gilligan," I said, "that's right."

"Is that your first name or your last name? Gilligan." She reallly takes her time saying my name. The way I used to take my time when trying to color a picture inside the lines as a kid. That was always hard for me.

Before I can answer, a cheer rises up from the others. They're gathered around the makeshift fire we've had going. Ginger and I exchange a quizzical glance. She helps me to my feet because standing up in sand is challenging for me. Not as much as the coloring thing, but it's still pretty hard. We rush over to the crowd, which isn't much easier in the sand but it's marginally better than trying to stand up. Stupid sand on this stupid island.

"What's going on?" Ginger asks.

"The Professor got the radio working!" Mary Ann says with glee. It's the first experience with glee we've had since we shipwrecked. Getting the fire strated brought us relief, but not glee. Catching some fish to eat was exciting and all, but I wouldn't call the experience gleeful. But Mary Ann's voice definitely has glee. It is like a moscato: sweet, light-bodied, featuring dominant notes of orange blossom, peach, apricot, and honey.

The Professor holds up the radio. Static spills from its small speaker. He moves the antenna arouind trying to find a signal. The static increases and decreases in volume accordingly. Suddenly, a voice breaks through. Urgent. Pleading. Female. French.

"Je dois rapporter ces livres a la bibliotheque! Je ne veux pas payer l'amende! Ou sont les livres de al bibliotheque? Feldman a perdu les livres. Feldman est un idiot. Merde!"

"Shit!" Mary Ann cries, not as gleefully. We all look at her. "She said 'shit.' 'Merde' is the French word for 'shit.'

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"I just know," she says with a shrug. No glee this time. Like a Milwaukee's Best beer: notes of starch or mild bitterness. "She's always talking about some guy named Feldman and lost library books."

"So, we're picking up the signal of a French chick talking about some guy named Feldman and lost library books?" The Skipper says.

"That's literally what I just said, so, yeah," Mary Ann says.

The Professor picks up the radio he has miraculously repaired. He listens as the French chick talking about some guy named Feldman and lost library books keeps talking about some guy named Feldman and lost library books. The feed pauses and replays on a loop. The Professor lowers the radio and looks at us.

"Guys," he says with a whisper void of glee. "Where are we?"