Gilligan naps.

I love sound.

 

 

The G sounds like an H. The I’s sound like E’s. The two L’s make a Y sound. For some reason, it ends with a sharp, short G sound. Heely-Hang. He imagines Ricardo Montalban calling out to him, in his rich, Torreon accent from across the dance floor at the Brown Derby.

Gilligan, or Heely-Hang, lie in his hammock, breathing in the cool night air. Listening. Intently. The tropical birds, the wind in the palms. Air blowing through the tips of cut bamboo making bottle like whistling sounds. Trickling of the small waterfall flowing into the lagoon.  The sound of the small waves caressing the sand a quarter mile away. His ears becoming more sensitized and started to pick out more sounds. The coo of Ginger’s heart shaped mouth lightly snoring. The arrhythmic sound of the Skipper’s snoring. Grasping for breath like a man with a sack of rocks tied to his feet in an Amsterdam canal. The branch scratching on the side of the hut similar to schizophrenic teacher dragging her overgrown toe nails on a chalkboard in the bathroom. He could hear his blood scooting through his veins. Gilligan started to sweat, his skin started to crawl. As he drug his own overgrown finger nails over his own semi hairless chest, it sounded like a rake on the sidewalk and had the same smell. Scraping metal on concrete and rotting, musty dead leaf smell like his grandpas hair. His toe nails peeling off the skin of his opposing shin like a carrot with a dull peeler, bumpy and rusty. His heart beat, painfully pulsing against his rib cage. Large purple bruises forming and growing with each dull thud. His eyes are bulging making a stretching sound like a balloon wrapping around a dog’s face, always on the verge of popping. All that is happening starts to speed up. The birds sound more like cackling crows. His blood feels like bubbling mud. Skipper is choking on his own spittum. His focus turns toward the distant sound of agony. Mr. Howell, lying in his bed moaning. Suffering from his many ailments. Arthritis, gout, constipation. He has growths. Wounds that weep. The wounds beckon to him in a sickly, yellow wailing. From above, Gilligans body seems to have been taken over by something from a dark realm. He wriggles and wriths. Jerking hard, back and forth, up and down. He foams from in and around folds in his flesh. He fracture a few ribs and pinches a nerve in his back. The Island heroin has become too much for him. His day turned to night, his pleasure to pain, his boner to a bad case of diarrhea. Uncontrollably his body jumps up and runs straight out of the door, passing the communal table were the Professor, Ginger and Mrs. Howell are sitting, enjoying sweet coconut coffee in the early morning light. The Skipper emerges out of the hut, being awoken by Gilligan stepping on his face, stands wearily, rubbing his eyes in the doorway. All eyes trained on Gilligan as they watch him blast across the courtyard slamming full body length into a palm tree, knocking himself out cold, falling flat on his back. Hearty, bellowings of laughter are had by all including Mr. Howell who had been awakened by his own night terrors. Oh Gilligan! No more heroin for you! Ginger yells “More for me!” exclaims Mr. Howell which literally doubles the laughter from the gang.