Law Clerk on Gilligan's Island

Chapter 18- End of the Line

I've seen blue skies through the tears in my eyes.  And I realize, I'm going home.
-"The Rocky Horror Picture Show"

   It is time to leave.  The toilet is gone.

  On the other hand, what do I care?  It wasn't really my toilet.  I certainly wasn't planning to take it back to the states.  And if someone needed a commode badly enough to scoop four quarts of potting soil and weeds out of the bowl and heave the thing into the back of a truck, they're welcome to it.  Plus, a couple of big hunks of the base appear to have broken off in the process, meaning that anyone using the damn thing for its primary purpose is going to have to devote substantial attention to keeping their balance, thus depriving them of the full enjoyment of an otherwise relaxing experience. 

   More importantly, I'm taking this as an sign.  My time here is almost up, and I'm starting to get the sense that Destiny is telling me to get a move on.  

     Just after the toilet larceny, I came home one day to find a peculiar odor permeating my living room.  Not the ubiquitous mildewy funk that comes from living in a humid environment where nothing ever dries out, but the peculiar smell of rotting flesh.  I'd noticed it one night during the summer, and spent ten minutes prowling the backyard with a flashlight before finding the partial remains of a wild chicken that one of the local dogs had killed for a midnight snack.  But this odor was definitely coming from somewhere inside the house.  After a good hour or so of wandering the living room and kitchen trying to triangulate the source, sniffing away like a coke addict at Studio 54,  I was forced to give up.  I wrote it off as a dead rat  stuck between walls somewhere or wedged up in the rafters.  For the next three days, I made it a point to spend as much time as possible out of the house, consoling myself with the thought that in a tropical environment, the thing would decay quickly, and the odor would soon fade. 

    I took off on an overnight camping trip that weekend to the southern island of Peleliu, and when I returned, the smell had transcended the olfactory realm, now manifesting itself physically as a huge swarm of horseflies.   The scene could not have been coordinated any more precisely by a horror movie producer: dozens of big fat blobs whizzed around in small, dark clouds in the living room and kitchen, while others, presumably on their breaks, rested on the tables, countertops, walls, floor and window screens.  The only thing missing from the scene was blood oozing from the walls.

   "Screw this," I figured, covering my face with one hand and dashing around gathering up an armful of clothes and splitting for Stephanie's apartment.   "If Palau wants me out, I'm out."

   And then, just like that, I was out.  Within a week, the flies had mysteriously vanished as quickly as they had come, and I was able to return home to pack my bags and boxes.  And then it was time to leave.  I had my week of  celebrated "lasts"-- my last dive trip, my last bench memo, my last Rock Island pizza. 

    And then it was time to get on the plane.  Steph threw me a little going away party, and all of my friends gathered to bid me goodbye.   By 1:30 am, the crowd had dwindled down to Steph and I, and it was time to head off to the airport for my 2:40 am trip back to the the states-- back to "civilization." 

    During the 10 minute trip across the bridge to Airai, I contemplated the circularity of the whole experience.  I thought about how, almost exactly a year ago today, Steph was dropping me off at the airport in Houston.  Back then, I had no idea what I was getting into in Palau.  And now, here she was again sending me off, this time to Long Island, an environment as foreign to me now as Palau was then.

    2:20 am.  Final boarding call for Continental flight 953 to Guam.  I kiss my best friend for the past year goodbye and head out onto the tarmac towards the plane.  At the foot of the stairs, I turn around and take what is probably my last look at Palau ever.  Out there in the dark, over those hills, I spent one of the best years of my life.  But now it's time to go home. 

    22 hours later, I'm in New York again.

    I've been back from Palau for almost six months now.  A lot of the adjustments to life back in the bustle of the states were not as difficult to make as I had anticipated.  A year abroad is just not enough time to chase away the instinctive imprints of three decades of city life.  Yes, coming from the Palau Supreme Court, where the librarian shut off the lights and chased you out of your office at 4:30 every afternoon, my clerkship here in Federal Court on Long Island, where getting out of work at 7:30 pm after more than twelve hours of work has felt like a drag. 

    But at the same time, it's nice to be able to be able to resolve problems with airlines and magazine publishers by just picking up the phone and calling an 800 number instead of having to write a letter or e-mail  someone in the states to ask if they could take care of it for me.   And I guess, to the extent that I'm supposed to end this saga with an insightful commentary on the contrast of the two cultures, that's as good as I'm going to come up with. Going to Palau was consummating that escapist idea that everyone has, at one time or another, entertained.  I lived out the American fantasy of ditching the daily grind for life on a tropical island for a while.  And for a while, it was great. 

    But over time, I came to miss the very things that I was so glad to leave behind-- the ability to pick up the phone and get an issue resolved immediately rather than waiting for someone to get around to it;  the clamor of options and instant availability in a highly competitive commercial society;  the abundance of people and issues that ensure that every day will be different than the last.  It's easy to say you'd trade those things away for lazy evenings on the beach and endless weekends on the water, but it doesn't take long before you start to miss your old life.  Growing up on the mainland, these things get hard wired into you, and no matter how far away you go, you can't easily replace that programming.

  So now I'm back in the states.  Will I ever go back?   Who can say?  Three years after being rescued, Gilligan and the crew were back on the island, running a hotel.  Check back with me when my clerkship here is up.   But for now...

This chapter uploaded on February 26, 2000

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