Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Three more weird calls from even weirder men. If this were not the night of my favorite show, I would start investigating this phenomenon. But I have only five minutes to make popcorn and settle in for an evening of Castaways, the reality show about ten people who are forced to compete with one another to stay on a neglected Caribbean island. It’s a cheap rip-off of a more popular reality show; the characters even have less personality.
I blame my captivation with this low-rent version of human drama on my teen years’ obsession with Gilligan’s Island. Shown on the late-night classics station, my opportunity to watch it depended a lot on how soundly my parents were sleeping. Imagining the castaway experience to be the most adventurous thing ever, I used to pretend my top bunk was the island. If my foster-siblings approached me to tie their shoe, make them a sandwich, read aloud another issue of Ranger Rick, or perform some other mundane activity, I would point to the blue rug and call it my deep ocean.
Being shipwrecked would be a tragedy for most folks, but it was certainly a salvation fantasy for me at the time. Like a message machine response I would say, “I’m sorry, I cannot be reached. You are in the ocean. I am far off in the distance, beyond the vision of your telescope and far past the range of your communication efforts.” They would walk away rolling their eyes or calling me names…and I would sit up tall, glad to be alone on my island of pressboard, a hand-me-down mattress, and a Kate and Allie comforter, contemplating not how to get rescued, but how to remain, survive, and build a life apart from others.
My doorbell rings. This shakes me for a moment because Paul, the rodeo clown from Colorado, is just about to say who he is voting off the island, and because nobody has ever used my doorbell before.
A peek through the peephole reveals a funhouse rendition of Y’s torso. I just walked by the uncovered living room window, so it is too late to pretend I’m gone.
As I open the door I am quick to look over my shoulder to indicate that something…someone…important is waiting for me in my living room. So important I really shouldn’t take my eyes off of them to get the door. But I will…just for a sec. I say the last part out loud, “Just for a sec.” She falters on the step and pushes up her sleeves nervously while deciding whether to run away.
Afraid to sound rude, I backpedal and say I meant that for someone else. She waits a moment for me to explain who my guest is, but I don’t.
For obvious reasons.
I pull the door in closer to my body so she cannot see beyond me to the vacant chairs or to the wobbly island shots. I have always been ashamed to admit to friends that I watch this drivel, but after this past week’s confrontation I am hyperaware of any and all behavior that is socially derailed. This show is one of my few private comforts.
“Hi. Mari, right?” Y stands with her legs wide apart and her hands on her hips.
This is the perfect time to ask her what the Y stands for, but I want her off my step so I can get back to the voting. I nod and look over my shoulder again, indicating my guest is rather needy and demanding of my time and attention.
“Do you have a vase I could borrow?” She asks while glancing at the gutters above my door. She doesn’t see such things from her grave-level apartment.
“Oh, sure. I believe I do.” I think of a cupboard where I have numerous vases I have gathered from flower orders sent to me for holidays and birthdays from my family since I never go home. I don’t have a vase; I have a vase outlet.
“What size or color would you like?” I soften a bit and step up to a customer service role.
Hands leave slender hips and hesitatingly motion the general size requirements for a bouquet. “Any color,” she mumbles, and then she adds, “but purple is nice.”
“Coming right up.” I smile and push the door shut, realize this doesn’t look right, and open it again, ever so slightly. “I have to close this…my cat…had a terrible accident before. Outside. Be back…” I leave her to imagine the horrors my cat has endured beyond the parking lot after dusk.
My assortment of vases is dusty but large and varied. I select a clear one with thin marbleized strands of blue and purple streaming throughout it. It reminds me of my plastic lab partner in freshman anatomy class.
“Thanks,” she says, looking at it as if I have handed her a treasure. Treasure. My mind returns to the climactic ending taking place just a few feet away from me.
I look over my shoulder again and say loudly, “Be right there.” My smile concludes our encounter and Y looks at me with a bit of concern. I try not to blink a lot because that would be a clear indication that I know that she knows that I am certifiably insane. I watch, with dry eyes, as she leaves my stoop. I want to make sure she doesn’t glance into my front window. As soon as she disappears around the corner by the laundry room, I rush back to my sofa just in time to see the final vote. Sandy is not voted off. Nor is Paul. But the former Miss Tulsa with sizable talents is forced to pack her bags and return home to her duplex and pet poodle.
I sit there rubbing Elmo’s belly, wishing I had someone to share this extreme television moment with. Regret covers me as I wave a high five to nobody. I should have asked Y her name. I should have swallowed my pride and told my imaginary company to leave and invited Y to stay.