11
Kyle: The Left Coast
Iwatchedthe needle poke through my skin. What the hell just happened? One minute everything was fine; and the next, the backs of my legs and shoes were covered in vomit and I was getting three stitches to close up a cut on my arm! I glowered at the offending female, who was looking everywhere but in my direction. She’d appeared so sweet and innocent with those big blue eyes and delicate ivory skin, but that was right before she morphed into Linda Blair fromThe Exorcistand spewed green vomit from her guts.
“Okay, so we’re just going to wrap this up and you’re good to go. We’ll keep an eye on it, and if you start to feel pain or swelling, let us know immediately,” the doctor said.
“What about my shoes?” I complained, looking down at my brand new Nikes with chunks of god knows what embedded in the laces. I knew it was petty of me to care, but I did.
“If that’s the worst you get on your shoes in 39 days, consider yourself lucky.”
Instantly several unpleasant images flashed before my eyes. Was I in over my head here? And then a more agreeable picture popped into my mind: me rolling down some European interstate in a luxury tour bus, kicking back, playing guitar, and eating Cheetos.
“You ready there, Kyle?” another staff member asked.
I nodded.
“We’ll just have you sit back down right over there.” And he pointed at the spot on the bench next toher!
“Um…I’m not sitting back there.”
“We cleaned it with bleach. I can assure you it’s safe,” one of the executive producers promised.
“The seat’s not what I’m worried about,” I said, and tossed Puke Girl an accusatory look. Her head hung in shame.
“We’ve already completed the majority of filming, so it’ll just take a couple more minutes. If you don’t go back to that spot, we’ll have to reshoot the entire bit.”
Several of the other cast members shot irritated glances in my direction, as if I were being completely unreasonable in my request not to sit in a spot that, only moments earlier, had been covered in a glob of throw up. When did this all become my fault? I was the goddamn victim here, but somehow the offender had all the sympathy.
The producer turned to the young woman and compassionately consoled her. “You all right there, sweetheart? You still feeling nauseous, or did you get it all out now?”
Oh, I’m pretty sure she got it all out!
“I’m better. I’m really sorry,” she apologized to the whole lot of us, still refusing eye contact with me. “I’m ready to continue now.”
“Kyle?” The man motioned for me to return to my seat. Feeling that I had no other option, I begrudgingly took my place beside my tormentor.
Thankfully, it only took twenty minutes to complete the filming, and then our boat was headed to shore. At one point, the remorseful girl leaned slightly over in my direction. Like a wuss, I flinched away. It would have been nice to remain calm, but I knew what she was capable of and was not about to give her the benefit of the doubt again.
“Relax. You’re safe,” she said, regret clear in her voice.
Flustered, I could think of no snappy reply so I just said, “Yeah, okay.”
She turned away and we didn’t speak again.
Marooned Rule #1
The contestants are separated into two teams called ‘tribes.’ These two tribes live on separate, isolated beaches and will have limited contact with one another.
All eighteen of us were ushered off the boat and onto dry land. Cameramen were everywhere. I glanced around at all the excited faces and wondered how long the euphoria would last. In a matter of days, our numbers would begin to dwindle, as we were picked off the show one by one.
The producers split us up based on geography: East versus West. That meant, of course, that our team consisted of the free spirit (me, apparently), the actor, Miss Nevada, the vegan yoga instructor, the seven-foot-tall red-headed logger, the Silicon Valley tech nerd, the Division One college football coach, one braless lady, and – wait for it – the barfer.
Glancing over at the East coast tribe, who were high-fiving their good fortune, it was easy to see that they had the brawns, what with their soldier, female bodybuilder, high-powered lawyer, and an assortment of other tough-looking people. Even their Harvard professor and male Broadway singer appeared more formidable than our weakest links.
Aside from our very own Paul Bunyan, us left-coasters were like those frou-frou lap dogs that you’d see being carried around in a name-brand purse, while the East coasters were like badass Rottweilers, frothing at the mouth. It wasn’t difficult to determine who had the upper hand in this uneven match up.
The two tribes were given maps to separate locations, and one look at the hand-drawn scribbling told me we were about to have a long, sweltering trek through the jungle to get to our beach. The nine of us took off through the labyrinth of tree limbs and dense bush, and in a matter of minutes, I was drenched in sweat, dying of thirst, and frantically swatting away Volkswagen-sized bugs. So far this really sucked! I was already missing my lazy, air-conditioned life.
