Thursday, Jul 24, 2008
I lived my own version of "Survivor" one winter in St. Thomas with a friend and three strangers.
Jun 13, 2000 | Forget "Gilligan's Island," "The Real World" and "Lord of the Flies." The CBS show "Survivor" reminds me of a more familiar social laboratory. A place where sadists with whistles force everyone else through team competitions, encouraging torment of the weak. A place where old people suck, where alliances are based on fear as much as affection and popularity feels like a life-and-death matter. I mean, of course, the Good Shipwreck High School.
The only good thing about adolescence is the body's discovery of sexual pleasure. But in high school, and on "Survivor," sex falls prey to the manipulation and fear governing everything else. The petri dish designed by CBS (the classy network!) is remarkably vicious and remarkably high school. Stocking the island with mostly young, cute, single people means that the oldsters -- the teachers, principal and parents -- will be voted off the island first (two down, one to go). Then the kids can start hooking up. It's as if CBS considers it foreplay to put tribal elders out on ice floes, just the thing to get the kids feeling all "Blue Lagoon."
The depressing thing is, CBS is probably right. Nobody's going to starve with a camera crew around, so the chits exchanged in "Survivor's" popularity-contest economy increasingly will be sex or the promise of sex. I'm guessing that's where the million-dollar grubbers will go from here, because I lived through a similar situation 15 years ago.
It was my first Boston winter, and I was young, stupid and cold enough to spend a week in St. Thomas with three strangers and my friend Hank. Two of the strangers were, it turned out, worse even than the unpleasant squabblers of "Survivor." One's mind naturally turns to bodily pleasures in the tropical sun, but Hank's friends Edmund and Gwen spoiled paradise with their avarice. They spent the week bartering sex as if it were a dwindling pile of coconuts.
Hank and I were greeted at St. Thomas' tiny, pastel airport by our host, Edmund; Buddy, a mild ex-wrestler who said nothing I can remember but was always pleasant; and Gwen, a 6-foot blond heiress whom Hank was dating. The four of them had shared a decadent adolescence in horse country north of Baltimore.
Edmund's parents owned the house we were staying in, but they were in Europe somewhere. The house had three bedrooms: one for Buddy, one for Hank and Gwen, and Edmund's. As the last and self-invited guest, I took the living room couch. Edmund, who was a gracious host in that bully-with-a-cigar way, insisted I take his bed. I insisted back. He out-insisted, and I thanked him and turned in.
Half an hour later, Edmund slid into bed next to me. I tried to sound asleep. He put his hand on the small of my back. I was silent for 10 seconds, debating, then said without turning my head, "Edmund, if you want your bed back, I said I'm happy to sleep on the couch."
"It's cool," he murmured in calming-a-dog tones, moving his hand in a little circle. I sighed noisily, swept up my clothes and stamped out to the living room couch. I hoped Edmund would feel ashamed when the others found me there in the morning.
No apparent shame, but he was cooler toward me after that. I became more polite. My rebuff made me aware of being in his debt, so I strove to be a great guest all week, cleaning up the house and picking up tabs in restaurants.
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