Swagazine #1

I

     The sun rose mightily over the Pacific Ocean and its heat warmed the humid air, letting it rise to push the remnants and makings or tropical storms and typhoons in paths of destruction and rebirth. Rain fell and drops sizzled on hot rocks in the morning light, while small animals hunted and the few people stranded on one particular island began to stir in the new day.
     Two women, dressed once again in the only clothes they had salvaged from the damaged vessel which alit them upon this maritime prison, separated their makeshift cots and replaced them at far walls across the room. In quite tones, they discussed they misfortune which had befallen them again the previous day.
     The one called Ginger, her red locks levitating in an unblemishable bouffant, lamented, "I don't know whether I can take it much longer."
     Her companion, Mary Anne, responded knowingly: "Do you mean how Gilligan killed us all again yesterday?"
     Ginger nodded. "Something has to be done about that boy."
     Implying her agreement, Mary Anne could only ask, "But what can we do? He's just a kid with an IQ of about 75; can he really be blamed for his inability to function at a normal level?"
     "It's not a question of blame," justified Ginger, "it's a question of survival. More than once-- I can't count how many times-- his recklessness has threatened our lives or ruined our chances for rescue. If we want to live long enough to get off this island, we'll have to stop Gilligan from doing more damage. It's a miracle he's lived as long as he has."
     Mary Anne embraced her friend. "You're right. But what can we do?"
     "We'll think of something."
     With tenderness, they joined in a womanly kiss.

     Only a few feet away, Thurston Howell and his wife (known to their world, but never addressed by anyone but her husband, as Lovey) sat on their beds, always kept separate, and recited a similar conversation.
     "I cannot believe the gall of that boy, scaring us so," Mrs. Howell accused with all the clandestine venom of the society shrew she wished to once again be. "One would think he had no consideration for the rest of us."
     "Yes, Lovey," drawled Mr. Howell, gently sipping from a snifter of cognac. "Were we at home I could hire somebody to take care of him."
     "Perhaps we could find somebody here?"
     Howell contemplated a moment and subsequently poopooed the suggestion. "The girls would never do it; and the Skipper shows that he's almost as big an idiot as Gilligan for his loyalty to him. Perhaps the Professor... but, no."
     Mrs. Howell agreed: "The Professor is too busy rebuilding his nuclear reactor with coconuts and palm fronds to even consider our concerns."
     Howell grunted. "Nonetheless, something must be done."

     With the help of the Skipper, the Professor was putting the finishing touches on what he told them was a nuclear reactor; the machine was a bit more complex than Mrs. Howell understood, involving also many conch shells as well as the hide, bones and entrails of two of the wild boar, and several small birds, which inhabited the island. As the pair secured the frame into place with long strips of kelp, Skipper couldn't restrain his curiosity any longer and asked the Professor about his training. "Just what exactly are you a professor of?"
     "My degrees are in Arcane Arts and Sciences and Medieval Metaphysics, with an emphasis on Knowledge Man Was Not Meant To Know; from Miskatonic University."
     "Well, that's all good and fine, Professor," the portly sailor responded without understanding a word, "but if you are able to build these fabulous devices, why can't you fix the Minnow?"
     "That's a very good question, Skipper, let me try to explain it to you this way: Most of my training is in areas which are purely abstract, and those which are physical have multidimensional ramifications; areas like carpentry won't be helped, as my education does not apply to Newtonian physics. Does that help?"
     With all the enthusiasm he could muster, the Skipper wobbled slightly and answered, "If you say so, Professor."
     "Besides," the academic added, "any time I try to concoct a scenario in which might return us to the civilized world, Gilligan does something to disrupt it."
     "I guess that's true, Professor. But you know he doesn't mean to." Skipper removed his hat, knowing the conversation would now focus upon Gilligan and the damage done. Had he any concept of social grace, the Professor might have realized that courage was necessary to pose the following question, though to him it seemed only to be an objective, scientific inquiry:
     "Just why do you put up with Gilligan?"
     Skipper now wrung his hat anxiously, still being eaten inside over the incident which had happened so long ago.
     "When I began in the skippering business, I did some shipping of certain herbs outside the authority of some governments. But the money was good. I made enough money to buy Miami, but I pissed it away so fast... anyway, one night, I was making a drop in Chicago, and the guys I was delivering to were upset about the size of the package." Skipper paused, but did not admit that he had skimmed a portion of the heroin both for his own use and gifts for friends. "I really think they would have killed me, if a kid in a red shirt hadn't come along right then. The other guys got scared and tried to shoot him, too. He just started running around, zig-zagging in circles-- I hid behind a barrel-- and when I looked up, he was just standing there, and the three fellows I was supposed to deliver to had shot one another. I owe Gilligan my life! And the oath I took, when I joined the Brotherhood of Skippers, requires that I now protect his life."
     "I understand," nodded the Professor. "But Gilligan has caused so much chaos; he's nearly killed all of us, more than once. Am I wrong in assuming that his actions got us stranded here?"
     "No, it was the tropical storm, Professor-- aw, hell, he did turn off the ship's radio, so we didn't know we were sailing into a storm... I guess... I don't know."
     "I understand the devotion you have to your obligation, Skipper," the Professor sympathized with marginal sincerity, "but it's not only your honor, or your life, that's at stake here. Think of the lives of the girls, of the Howells. Is there some statute of limitations on your lifesaving duty?"
     "I don't think so... but what are you saying, Professor?"
     "I think he's saying that we're agreed. This Gilligan must die."
     They turned to see who had spoken; looking through the windows and door to this hut were the other inhabitants of the island. In that moment, a silent bond was formed among them, even stronger than the bond developed when the group had landed ashore.
     Mary Anne broke the reverie. "Where is Gilligan now?"
     "We're safe," assured the Skipper. "He's on the other side of the island, collecting citrus fruits."

     Gilligan was indeed across the island, but collecting citrus fruits was far from his mind. He was relaxing on a ledge over the mouth of a small volcano. He breathed deeply and held, watching steam from the bubbling magma below twist and dance into ghostlike images, and smoke from the makeshift appliance in his hand rise and waft in counterpoint. At the base of this hill he had found a patch of the purest cannabis sativa L. ever tasted, and as often as possible he sat here to enjoy it. More than once he had nearly slipped from the narrow path which brought him to his secret place, threatening a plunge into the boiling rock below, but as always, his safety was overseen by a protective force he did not pretend to understand. That unseen force had also shown him that strange combination of coconut and bamboo which the Professor had made for another of his machine, but which Gilligan recognized as a perfect substitute for a bong. So what if they hadn't been able to send up a flare for that airplane that minute after he'd removed it? Couldn't the Professor build another one?
     Swiftly, as always, his thoughts became paranoid. He knew that the others on the island hated him for his clumsiness; that was the same reason his father had always beaten him, and why he'd finally run away. It was only the most uncanny of fortune which had led him to the Skipper to take care of him, after those strange men had that duel on the dock. Gilligan could never be sure whether Skipper really liked him, though he did sometimes hit him on the head with his hat. It was a lot like home.
     By then, the warmth in his lungs was making him feel better, and he didn't even notice the mud and leaves stuck to his chin like some beatnik beard. Gently, his hand slid under his waistband and began to rub between his legs. He knew he was probably destined to die a virgin, but he had the satisfaction of knowing the sin-- no, the Gift of Onan would always bring his spirit closer to that of the sophisticated, wholesome woman who lived on the island with him. With a clear image of her in his head, he began also to chant her name and his feelings of devotion to her. "Oh, Lovey... oh, Mommy."
     He would go back to the clearing of huts soon, but knew that the others would only give him another impossible task to strain his back and numb his mind, and if something went wrong, again they would curse him for it. So for now, he waited, alone.

II

     The castaways gathered with morose zeal around the camp's fire pit. Gilligan had been sent to gather wood for the evening's fire, and they knew he would not return soon. Trepidation was balanced with anticipation as this war council prepared to advance and reject schemes to eliminate the threat to their safety from the island. They sat silently, eyes shifting form partner to partner, knowing not where to begin.
     Ginger spoke first. "I did a movie once, where I played a vicious she-devil gun-moll who seduced a rival gangster and smashed his head with a vase. We could try that."
     "But there are no vases on the island," countered Mary Anne. "Though you could use a rock. Back on the farm, once, one of my dogs got mangled in the combine and we had to put him out of his misery by bashing his head with a rock."
     "Surely a knife would be easier," suggested Howell. "Simply stab him-- in the back, as it were." The picture of smugness, he smirked and Mrs. Howell patted his arm in compliment.
     Ginger nodded. "The only knives we have are the primitive, home-made ones we use for cutting fruit."
     "Shivs," informed Skipper. "They'd work, but I don't think the plan will work. Though you're very beautiful, Ginger, I don't think Gilligan would be seduced by you."
     "He's right," agreed Mary Anne. "He's always seemed to me to be completely asexual and disinterested, like a cat with its nuts cut."
     "Or a eunuch," added the Professor, his eyes never having left Ginger's cleavage since she first began the discussion. None of the others knew what a eunuch was.
     If any better suggestions were had in mind by the group, none were spoken, until Howell defiantly stood and slammed his highball glass against the table. "Fine, then! If no one else will take the initiative, I will do it myself!"
     "How bold of you, Thurston," Mrs. Howell commended, "but don't you think it will be dangerous?"
     "Danger?" he boasted. "I laugh in the face of danger. I buy and sell danger every day, and make money on it." He pursed his lips and finished his drink. "In the morning, I shall go with Gilligan to a high cliff and push him off."
     Muttering amongst themselves, the rest agreed that this was a fine plan, and quickly they hushed as Gilligan returned to the camp and promptly dropped his load of firewood on his foot.

      During the evening's leisure, Howell speculates to Gilligan about possibly purchasing the island, upon their return to the outside world, for research and development. His assertion that it is top secret research clued Gilligan enough that he asked no further questions, but he agreed to show Howell the lay of the land and the defensible high ground.
     Come morning, the unlikely pair hiked not far from Gilligan's secret place, but up an easier path, at the base of which was a pike punctuated by a boar's head. Skipper had placed it there some time before, at the Professor's suggestion, to represent not only how they as a group were conquering nature, but also because they displayed a fair cross-section of society and must endeavor to keep society and civilization alive within their small group. That was one of the few times the others had ever witnessed the Professor laughing, and it was a strangely ironic laugh, not jovial, and only verging upon sinister. At the foot of the hill, Howell found a large branch to use as a walking stick, both to aid in his climb and to hasten Gilligan's descent.
     Ascending the hill was a greater challenge than the old man anticipated, but with the determination of a man on a mission, he ignored the painful ache in his lungs and the distasteful sweat which ran off his body in sheets, a sensation he had never before felt. He hoped never to experience it again. And after all, he did concede that the view from the zenith was nearly worth the effort expended. Howell rested on a rock as Gilligan peered against the horizon.
     "Do you see that?" the younger man asked his oblivious companion, whose eyes were closed and mouth was open.
     "I see only stars, and my grandfather waving to me from a long tunnel," Howell gasped. "What do you see?"
     "It looks like a ship-- over there!" Gilligan began jumping up and down, stupidly thinking someone on the distant boat might notice. "Here! Over here!" He turned to Howell. "I've been eating my carrots. My eyesight is very good." He commenced jumping and yelling.
     Howell, exhausted as he was, recognized his chance, slowly stood, and swung his walking stick at Gilligan. Feeble as he was also, Howell's strike missed, only succeeding in hurling Howell himself off the sheer face of the cliff, to splat resoundingly on the rocks below.
     Gilligan stared, aghast. He was most surprised that there was no blood; the body remained, if dead, intact.

     He hurried back to camp, to relay to the others the fateful news. He explained, as sensitively as he could, that while trying to signal the ship, he had slipped, and in trying to save him, Mr. Howell had fallen. Mrs. Howell screamed and demanded solitude, where she might drown her misfortune (or good fortune, half of her thought, now that she controlled all of Thurston's empire) in their fine collection of libations. The Professor and Skipper agreed to collect the corpse after building a signal fire; they knew they would also formulate a new plan while traveling.
     By evening, no rescue party arrived from the passing vessel, nor did they hear any news on the radio. The reconnaissance team toted Howell's body back to camp, placed it on a makeshift raft, and with only a few words of eulogy, they set it out to sea in funeral.
     By that time, Mrs. Howell had imbibed enough alcohol to ferment an army, spurned the rest as unworthy proletarians, but miraculously said nothing to reveal to Gilligan the plot.
     The sun set as Howell's body drifted out of sight.

     On the morning of the third day, the movie star was bathing nude on a secluded beach. The warm water felt cleansing against her body, and she scrubbed herself with determination. At first she was not surprised when another hand touched her from behind; she assumed Mary Anne had come to join her in the bath, but a wayward wave twirled the water around her to display that her company was instead Mr. Howell-- or rather, his dead corpse floating ragged in the surf, returned by the morning tide. Ginger screamed with a sincerity unmatched in all her professional work.
     The carcass was again prepared for burial at sea, this time by Gilligan and the Skipper, while the Professor comforted Ginger in her cabin, and Mary Anne searched the island for Mrs. Howell, who had wandered away in a besotted stupor.
     While pushing out the second raft, Skipper agreed with Gilligan that the ship he'd seen was stopped; in fact, there seemed to be smoke rising from it. Certainly trouble on board would be no blessing, but if it was stopped, chances were better that those marooned on the island could be rescued: if not by that ship, by the one that comes to rescue it. They rushed back to stoke the signal fire.
     Skipper tossed wood and kindling into the pit, while Gilligan, knowing this was a suitable emergency, fetched their final can of kerosene. Careless as always, while lifting, he swung it against a branch, puncturing the side and leaving a path of fuel behind him. As he approached the fire, a spark jumped and alit. Panicking, he spun around and splashed a new trail for the growing fire to blaze. He jumped away, throwing the can across the camp, and another wave of kerosene found home at the foot of the huts.
     The grass shacks all ignited immediately, but none was faster than that of the Professor; the front wall was incinerated with the blink of an eye, exposing to plain view the Professor and Ginger, inflagrante upon his laboratory table. He was not the least bit absent-minded when he hobbled out of the tempest, his pants around his ankles; but she stood dumbfounded, the beakers exploding around her, chemicals splashing her once beautiful, now melting, face.
     Gilligan and the Skipper watched in awe, and so did Mary Anne who had carried Mrs. Howell, whom she subsequently dropped, back into camp just in time to see the spectacle.

     The afternoon rains extinguished the fire, which really posed little threat to anything else on the island, since the rest of the growth was too moist. Ginger's burns were ugly but superficial and not life-threatening, though Mary Anne refused to speak to her beyond the single word, "Tramp." The Professor was congratulated mightily by the other men for his conquest. And with the evening tide, no rescue party, no word on radio, just the prodigal corpse once again sprawling upon the beach.
     Sleeping on makeshift mattresses of leaves, moss and kelp, the survivors agreed to face their mounting problems upon the fresh dawn, allowing this day to fade with no further activity.

III

     The dawn was colder than normal, but bright and unblemished under the tropical sun. The air was clear, only the faintest trace of smoke and ash assaulted their noses as they awakened. The plume raised by the ship straddling the horizon was motionless but present, a beacon of hope for those who still had the will to live. That number was dwindling.
     The Professor suggested that, as tides were unfavorable, it might be best to burn Howell's body; besides, another signal fire was necessary. Gilligan and Skipper set out to gather fresh firewood, while the Professor began clearing rubble from the camp ground. Mrs. Howell sat beside the remaining lounge chair, barfing up not only the contents of her stomach, but most of her colon and possibly some other organs. Mary Anne, feeling betrayed, strolled to the lagoon to be alone, but Ginger followed, begging sympathy.
     "If ever I needed a friend, it's now."
     "Didn't you use that line in one of your movies?"
     "That doesn't make it any less true."
     "I thought we had something special."
     "We did; we still can."
     "And what about the Professor?"
     "Well, frankly, he's got something you haven't."
     "Tramp!"
     "Mary Anne, please! What about our future?"
     "We don't have a future. I can barely stand to look at you."
     "That's cruel, Mary Anne."

     When Gilligan returned to the camp with a few planks of wood, the Skipper and Professor were already trying to light some branches with dried fronds and coconut hair as kindling. Gilligan carefully set his armload down and did not injure his foot. Skipper asked where Gilligan had found those properly cut boards.
     "I took them off the Minnow. I figured that since we're getting rescued, we wouldn't need it any more."
     For a moment, they looked at him speechlessly, baffled that this simpleton had lived so long. Reflexively, the Skipper removed his hat and obligatorily smote Gilligan's head.
     Mary Anne was just returning to camp, dragging the raft bearing Howell's body behind her. "Did he do something stupid to ruin our rescue chances again?" she asked. The others nodded. She dropped Howell, picked up a two-by-four, and whacked Gilligan in the back of the skull with it.
     Ginger had been sitting on the opposite side of the clearing, but not wanting to miss her chance, she walked over and kicked Gilligan in the knee. The Professor pushed him to the ground and they all began to kick the shit out of him. It was Gilligan's greatest fortune that he escaped their wrath and ran into the jungle. When he was sure they were not following him-- they thought it more important to start the fire-- he went to his special place.
     He didn't stop to pluck any cannabis from the crop at the bottom of the hill; he knew there was plenty in his bong, on the ledge above. Without excess care, he began the ascent, cursing the others and their families, vowing never to return. He had no idea how true his promise was, for in his agitation, he lost his grip, tumbled a few feet down the path, and without recognizing the irony of anticlimax, plummeted into the hot lava below.

     Meanwhile, back at the camp, the Professor and Skipper hoisted the corpse of Howell and placed it over the nicely roaring bonfire. They carefully set it down, then realized in horror that it had spent two days at sea, dressed in his finest clothes, and was thoroughly saturated with water. Rather than burning, it cracked like a cask, spilled water in a rush, and extinguished this fire which they now wanted.
     "We have only one more hope," announced the Professor. "We might be able to build a raft and paddle out to the ship."
     "Of course!" Skipper agreed. "Why didn't I think of that?" (The Professor had an idea why but didn't say it.) "Mary Anne, will you help us?"
     "Yes, yes!"
     The three salvaged what they could of Howell's raft, dumping his body in the soggy ashes, and strapping fresh planks from the Minnow to their new boat. Ginger merely sat on the chair, weeping and scratching the peeling skin from her bald head, while Mrs. Howell sprawled on the sand beside her, smelling like a wart and staring into the pile of vomitus she had expelled; one thread of saliva still connected it to her lip. The poignancy of the tragedy struck the movie star so thoroughly then, that she pushed Mrs. Howell's face into the mess and Mrs. Howell did not struggle, though she did choke a few times. It was not long before she stopped breathing entirely. The others did not notice, even when Ginger muttered, "Bitch."
     When they had assembled the best raft they could, they quickly dragged it to the shore nearest the stopped ship, but found it was not big enough to carry three people. The Professor promised to send help back for Mary Anne-- oh, and the others, sure-- but it would be best if he and the Skipper ventured out first. Reluctantly, bitterly, Mary Anne admitted that this made sense. She bid them farewell.
     Paddling as hard as they could, they expended a great deal of energy going in circles before synchronizing and finding a way to work together. Eventually, they began moving toward the distant vessel.
     It was farther than they had anticipated, and after two hours of difficult struggling, they were only three-quarters of the way toward their goal. The sun was beating down upon them, and its reflection blinded them from below as well. The heat was unbearable, so without ceremony, the Skipper clutched his chest above his heart, grunted in agony and died as he fell into the ocean. The Professor kept paddling.
     He seemed to make better time alone, but perhaps he was delirious was distress, thirst and heatstroke. But he was relieved when he reached the giant ship and called out for anyone on board to notice him.
     Two men looked over the railing at him and spoke in a language he did not understand. He tried to explain his situation, but his tongue was as foreign to them as their swarthy complexions were to him. The last thing the Professor saw was the muzzles of their guns rising over the railing as they sprayed him with bullets. The last thing they needed was a witness.

     Mary Anne felt sure that the others would not come back for her. When Gilligan did not return at sunset, she began to feel truly alone. The sight of Lovey, drowned in her own sick, didn't bother her much, nor did Howell's rotting corpse in the fire pit. Ginger was sitting alone by the lagoon, so Mary Anne molded together all her courage into her heart, and went to apologize.
     She tried to justify it by saying, "I've been under a lot of stress, lately. And it is my time of the month."
     "I understand," consoled Ginger.
     "I do love you."
     Ginger responded, but Mary Anne was too busy staring in horrible fascination at her scars to hear what she said. It might have been, "I love you too," it might have been, "I know," it might very well have been, "No you don't, you don't even know me." It didn't matter.
     "Your scars will heal," Mary Anne said, as much to salve her own wounds as Ginger's. "And your hair will grow back."
     "I'm glad to have you back," Ginger answered, and moved closer. "We don't need those sweaty men."
     They kissed, and went down until the sun went down.