The Island Experience

What a dumb title. But it’s what she wants. Who? My editor. It starts with a phone call.

The caller ID flashes her name. I hesitate, utter my favorite expression, “Oh, joy” (not really, but, well, you know the word). “Hi, what’s up?” I ask.

“Your time’s up,” she shouts. The panic in her voice pulsates through the wireless. It pierces my ear. “Deadline’s in two hours, and here I sit, staring at a blank page where only your name appears.”

“So?” I say.

“So? Is this all you can say? Why do you torment me like this? You’re always late with the articles. I have a magazine to publish. My job’s at stake.”

“Writer’s block, honey. I’m out of ideas. Got any suggestions?” I ask. Her rising blood pressure vibrates my cell phone. I picture her, squirming, sweating and ripping my picture to shreds. Sadism is sometimes a satisfying experience.

“Ok, ok, write something, anything. Try ‘The Island Experience’. It’ll please everyone. But give me some words, any words, make some sentences. Do it NOW! Or the only thing your name will be on is a granite headstone.” she says. I hear the hyena of hysteria, wailing in the wings.

“‘The Island Experience?’ Are you nuts? The subject is too subjective. Too many opinions, pros, cons. Who can say? One man’s meat is another man’s poison.”

“Whatever! Write something. Hurry.” I laugh. “Calm down, we’ll get there. Two hours is an eternity for a writer. Help me out with some ideas.”

“OK. The beach, everybody loves the beach,” she says.

“Of course, never thought of that. By ‘beach’ you mean the strips of sand that disappear in high tide and where parking is plentiful if you show up at 4:00 AM? Should I mention the boom boxes blasting out Jimmy Buffet ad nauseam? Or the football-tossing teens kicking sand on greased-up bodies? That what you had in mind?”

“No, no,” she says. “It’s not THAT bad. The beach is beautiful, picnics, nice people, lots of children, fun for the whole family. But she whispers, “Don’t mention the parking issue or teenagers.”

“Fun for the whole family, you say? That’s a joke. Nothing’s fun for the whole family. Have you ever had the Disney experience?” I mock her.

“You have a point. Leave that part out. Write about the sunshine. That’s a real draw.”

“Ah, yes, the sunshine, that broiling mass of celestial gas that scalds flesh, melts asphalt, fries skin, boils eyeballs and scorches tiny children who scream in restaurants and make dining experiences a living hell? Yes, now here’s a real island experience for sure.”

“Stop it, stop it, your neurosis are acting up again. Write about the beautiful marshes. They soothe people’s nerves, refresh their souls and revive their spirits.”

“Of course, the marshes. Lovely idea. Are you referring to the ubiquitous bug-infested golden reeds, breeding ground of gnats and into which small pets mysteriously vanish? Aren’t they why the Spanish, Jimmy Oglethorpe and the Wesley brothers fled the island? Am I on to something here?”

“You’re on to something, alright, on your way out!” I hear the high tide lapping just below her nose.

“How about I mention the outdoor sauna…humidity? It’s medicinal, makes us sweat. Sweating’s a good thing. It’s a substitute for exercise.” I feel the writer’s block lifting.

“Absolutely NOT,’ she shouts. “The Chamber and Visitor’s Bureau discourage that aspect of the coast.”

“Since when are you moonlighting for those masters of manipulation? I thought this was a fair and balanced magazine.”

“Shut up, get back to work. Ten minutes left. Write about the mossy oaks, the birds, the fishing, the flowers, the sunsets or the food. Don’t you have something nice to say about anything?”

“Listen, didn’t you hire me to write about absurdities, spoofs and farces? You want the lovely things of this island? Then consult Eugenia Price, or add more pictures of smiling locals. Look, I’m into hyperbole.”

“This conversation’s over! Five minutes…complete this or you’re toast. And please, write something nice for a change.”

“Did she just say ‘please?’” My cell curls up and dies. I grin. Enough anguish for today—she almost came unglued. Hope she recovers.

Guess we can’t keep it secret much longer. Come on down, cross the causeway, experience for yourself. Perhaps you’ll agree with us, “… (we) on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.”

What more can be said? Res ipsa loquitur.

Bud Hearn
May 28, 2013