Lovey’s Secret Rival, part one

....singles karaoke...open bar....three-hour cruise…alarms...panic....life preserver...water….screams….

I come to on a beach. I am surrounded by a group of people. They are discussing what to do with me.

‘Given the rate at which we consume coconuts, an additional mouth would deplete our supply within a month.’

‘I wouldn’t feel safe with another man on the island. Especially such a grody one.’

‘I agree with Mary Ann. He looks like proper trash. Pure rubbish.’

This one, the older man, catches my attention. I’ve always been a sucker for an older man. And this one, refined, speaking with a Locust Valley lockjaw cadence, looking fabulous amongst a group who’ve obviously been stranded for some time.

‘Now hold on everyone.’ This is another older man, speaking like a leader, with his blue shirt still struggling to conceal his belly. Perhaps if he shared a few of his coconuts there wouldn’t be such a shortage. He goes on, ‘We’ve discussed the possibility of another castaway and developed our contingency.’

All their eyes shift from me to the scrawny, big-nosed fellow in the red shirt and dopey hat. He gulps like a bad actor.

The apparent leader continues, ‘A new castaway may stay if he can defeat Gilligan in a battle...to the death.’

The old bag hanging off my man says, ‘Ohhh, but he’s just got here. Shouldn’t we at least give him a meal and bath first?’

The group agrees and I’m escorted to a rudimentary shack made from bamboo and palm leaves. A very attractive redhead I’m sure I’ve seen somewhere brings me a pail of water, a rag made from a terrycloth shirt, and a bowl of coconut curry.

She says to me, ‘Oh, I hate that you have to fight. Good luck, darling.’

Before she leaves I ask, ‘Is that handsome ascot-wearing fellow a...you know, a friend of Dorothy?’

The redhead doesn’t understand. I don’t know how long they’ve been here. ‘Dorothy who?’

‘Nevermind.’

I eat, clean myself up, and look around the shack. There are several gadgets: the steering wheel of a boat made into a roulette wheel, a hot-air ballon basket, something that resembles a sewing machine. I’m beginning to think that life on this island isn’t too bad and, perhaps, episodically entertaining.

The smart one arrives and tells me it’s time. He leads me to a ring of torches on a different beach than the one I washed up on. The leader speaks to me. ‘Stranger. As per the rules of the island, no man may stay on the island unless he can defeat Gilligan in a battle to the death.’ The lanky, red shirted guy is apparently Gilligan and he stands across from me, his legs more wobbly than a Thanksgiving Jell-O salad. We are each give a bamboo spear and a buckler made from coconut husks.

The rest of the island’s inhabitants gather together on one side of the circle. I give the sugardaddy a wink and we smiles coyly before his eyes check to make sure the old hag isn’t looking. I feel good about my chances.

‘On my mark,’ says the leader, ‘Three, two, one…’

To be continued.