Almost immediately personalities began to take form, and straightaway, half the people on my tribe started rubbing me the wrong way. Maybe I was just cranky. Usually I had more patience dealing with idiots, but I’d had a rough day and wasn’t feeling real charitable. So when yoga lady commented for the twentieth time about the meditation sessions she planned to run on the beach every morning, I thought I might kick her in her perfectly toned shins.
Worse still was the self-absorbed, unemployed actor, Bobby, who peeled off his shirt to reveal sparkling pecs, and then proceeded to outline every single workout he had done to get every single one of those muscles. He’d only traveled about halfway down his body when I glanced at puke girl… the poor, sweaty little thing. She was not taking this hike well. Her breathing was so labored that there was this wheezy whistle emitting from her nose, and her body was hanging dangerously low to the ground. I half expected her to start walking on all fours.
She must have sensed me staring. Her mascara-smeared eyes met mine and she shook her head, obviously embarrassed by her Cro-Magnon man posture. I smiled at her sympathetically. What else could I do? She was a shit show. I couldn’t imagine her lasting more than a day out here.
Bobby continued his nauseating monologue on weight lifting and protein powder. The cave dweller lifted her weary head. Somehow she found the strength to flick her eyes in Bobby’s direction, roll them dramatically, then put her finger in her mouth and – you guessed it – fake-barf. Surprised that she would gothereso soon after actually goingtheremade me laugh out loud. Who would have predicted that the knuckle dragger who’d blown chunks on me only an hour earlier would end up being the least offensive person on my tribe?
TV Confessional
“I mean, it’s not the first time a girl has thrown up on me.”
—Kyle
12
Kenzie: The Island Of Misfit Toys
Icould not havefelt sicker if I tried. The sticky heat had zapped me of the only energy I had left in my depleted body. Having purged all necessary nutrients in my earlier escapades, I was stumbling through the thick foliage, arms swinging limply in front of me, like a zombie fromThe Walking Dead. And if that weren’t bad enough, I’d come under heavy attack from the shivers. The fine little hairs on my arms and legs stood at attention. Sweat drizzled out of every pore in my body; in fact, I was convinced those little suckers had multiplied by the billions just for today. The quivers made my teeth knock together so violently that I feared they would crumble in my mouth. Oh, yeah, that would really complete the whole apocalyptic vibe I had going on.
I purposefully avoided all eye contact with the other tribe members so as not to alert them to the fact that I was in a rapid state of decline. I needed water badly. I needed rest. What I did not need was for Shaggy to observe me doing the zombie shuffle or flash me that pathetic pity smile of his.
Ishould be the one consolinghim. Every time I looked in his direction, I felt a tightness in my chest. I wanted to properly apologize, but I wasn’t sure if he would allow me get close enough to do so. And I didn’t blame him one bit. He had three stitches in his arm because of me. I’d always had a weak stomach, but Shaggy was its first real casualty.
I heard the rest of the tribe cheering, and I raised my weighty head to discover that I was trekking through the tropical forest alone. Using the carefree sounds the human people were making as a beacon, I gathered my last remaining strength and dragged myself across the finish line, literally collapsing in front of my indifferent teammates.
So for the second time in a day, the medical team was called to my side. While everyone else was busily setting up camp, I was being treated for dehydration and heat exhaustion. The rest of my tribe mates had no doubt already written me off as dead, and really, who could blame them? My antics, up to this point, had not painted me in the best light. Kicking me out at the first opportunity would seem a no brainer. There was just no coming back from this humiliation.
It took about an hour and a gallon of water, but I was finally starting to feel mortal again. My skin had returned to its natural sickly pale color, and my overactive sweat glands had decided to take a well-deserved rest. Although my stomach still hurt a bit, the helpful doctor assured me that my earlier violent vomiting spell was most likely the cause of that particular ailment. At least my abs had gotten a good workout.
Once the medical team left, I sat in the shade a few minutes longer, gazing longingly out at the clear blue ocean and wondering what color it would turn once I dipped my rank body into it. But there was no time for that now. Somehow I had to turn around the worst first impression in the history of first impressions. I wasn’t sure if it was remotely possible, but I had to try. Not only would my embarrassment be complete if I were the first to go, but also I would miss out on a chance at the money. And if there was one thing worth fighting for, it was that.
So I fixed my attention on the other players, trying to figure out the complex dynamics that had been rapidly evolving during the hour I’d been sprawled out in the throes of death. Clearly, the alpha players were already firmly in control of the camp, and I needed to get back on my feet and prove to them I wasn’t the puke-spewing death walker they’d all taken me for.
I allowed myself the time to really observe the other eight players on my tribe. It became clear that a strong sub-group of five had already formed, and it had a leader in the form of Gene, a retired Division One football coach. He was boisterous and domineering, and for reasons I could not yet understand, the others had fallen in line behind him. I rubbed my temples as his voice penetrated my weakened immune system. Did no one else hear the man? Was I the only one who wanted to gag him with duct tape?
Fingers snapped in front of my face. Startled, I blinked in rapid reply.
“You all right there, girly?”
It was the gray-haired lady with the long pigtails and denim overalls. I remembered my stunned reaction to seeing her for the first time. Her style was unique, to say the least. I’d always held the belief that at a certain age – like ten – pigtails and overalls were a fashion no-no. But then what did I know? I lived in a place where a Walmart twenty miles away was the main clothing source for young and old. Maybe her farmer look was all the rage in the big cities, and I just hadn’t gotten the memo. Still, she was the first person to show even the slightest concern for me, and I was grateful.
“Yes, I’m feeling so much better,” I said, forcing a healthy, happy smile.
“Oh… well, good for you,” she replied, with clear disappointment in her voice. She then patted my shoulder and walked away. Okay. So much for concern!
My eyes caught the giant of a man, Carl. I remembered him quite vividly from the boat ride. He wasn’t one of those forgettable types. The man had to be pushing seven feet tall, and his close-cropped ginger hair was offset by thousands of tiny freckles. This was a person who you didn’t just glance at if you saw him out in public, you stopped and stared – maybe even took a covert picture as he passed by. And it wasn’t just his exceptional height that set him apart but his impossibly broad shoulders. If you slapped some green paint on the guy, he could totally pass for the Hulk.
And what I could tell from first impressions, Carl even had the temperament of the green-hued monster. He was impatient and gruff and seemed exceedingly annoyed with Gene, who had taken to micromanaging the lodging project. I could understand his annoyance. Carl seemed to be the only one who had a clue how to build a shelter, and yet, he was still forced to take direction from a loudmouth who probably hadn’t built a thing in his entire life.
Knowing my love for people watching, I could see myself becoming overly invested in Carl. He was just that enjoyable to observe. The guy had that whole Grumpy Cat face going on. I wondered if, much like the cat, there might be a sweet center beneath his cantankerous surface.
I had no such illusions about Gene. He was transparent in his dealings with others. There was no furry little kitty living inside Gene. He ate loser fluff-balls for breakfast. This was the stereotypical man’s man who spoke in sports metaphors and called females ‘little ladies.’ Gene, with his silver hair, blue eyes, and a stunning golden tan, was in his early sixties and in impeccable shape. Certainly he had run circles around me today, and I was forty years younger.
We were informed several times by the man himself how successful he had been in his coaching career. And from what I gathered, Gene really, really liked winning. I mean, I was rather fond of it myself, but it wasn’t the main focus of my life. In the few hours I’d spent with Gene, winning was all he’d talked about. So important was that character trait to the man that he diligently began building his team of winners the minute we hit the beach. Carl, of course, was at the top of his list. And Summer came in a close second.
What to say about the yoga instructor? Summer appeared to be in her early forties, but possessed the most rockin’ bod on the island. And I knew that because the minute she stepped foot on the beach she stripped down to the barely legal limit, and every male eyeball bulged in admiration. I imagined the editors would have a field day with her screen time. No doubt little black boxes would be blocking out Summer’s sensitive bits on television sets across America.
In addition, I felt it would be a travesty not to mention Summer’s noteworthy backside. I’d never been one to admire other women’s booties, but Summer’s was just that spot on! Perky, rounded, and impossibly toned, I’d venture a bet that she didn’t carry an ounce of cellulite on that impressive rump.
