Envy
Mary Ann sits in the girls' hut, listening to Ginger. The actress's voice rambles on, and her words cause Mary Ann to slump.
"Really, Mary Ann, having so many boyfriends isn't as much fun as you might think. For a start, I'm always forgetting their names. There was one time I was out with Bill and I called him Gustav by mistake. And I can never remember if it's Gordon that has the gold tooth or Charles. And Eric has roving hands like you wouldn't believe. And Victor is always staring at my..." Ginger pauses for breath and indicates her chest area, "...you know. Meanwhile, going out for dinner with Douglas is like watching someone mix cement, and Geoffrey blows cigar smoke in my face when he talks. Then there are the sports stars, more interested in their own game play than anything I have to say, and the Hollywood film producers, always trying to get me into their offices for 'private auditions'. Really, you're not missing anything." Ginger lifts the hand mirror to her face and returns to her primping, making sure that her little speech hasn't smudged her lipstick or caused her mascara to clog. She bounces her thick, lustrous flame-red tresses in the palm of her hand, turning her head this way and that. Never taking her eyes off herself.
"Which do you think is my best side?" she asks, lifting her chin and studying her jawline.
"The left," says Mary Ann. Always the left. Ginger won't accept any other answer.
"I think so, too." The actress smiles with satisfaction.
Mary Ann sighs and gets up. There's laundry to do. There's always laundry to do. And cooking, and cleaning and washing. She vaguely wonders how she ended up with the role of camp nurturer. Because it comes naturally to me, she realises. Because I assume the submissive role. Because I want to see people happy and content and well-fed. Because there was always someone at home that needed looking after. Because it's who I am.
Mary Ann thinks about her own ex-boyfriends. She can count them on one hand. Goodness, she can count them on one finger! Horace wasn't even her boyfriend, and now, because of that silly radio announcement, all the other castaways knew she'd invented their romance just because she was jealous of Ginger.
Imagine having so many boyfriends that you can't even remember all their names!
There were boys in Winfield, of course there were. Cute boys. Farmhands, with broad shoulders and tanned arms. There was a boy who worked in the hardware store- a tousled headed blond boy with a smattering of freckles across his nose and a deadly attractive aw-shucks grin. Rocky, his name was. She'd blush when she saw him, but he had never shown any interest in her beyond amiable friendship. At the age of eighteen he'd left Winfield and moved to California. Someone said San Francisco. He had always looked like someone who should be living on the coast.
Ginger attracted men effortlessly. She shimmied and sashayed and pouted and giggled and lowered her eyelashes like Marilyn Monroe. Men seemed to like the suggestion of naughty innocence. It brought out all sorts of animal instincts, she guessed. She didn't want to think too hard about what kind of instincts, because it always made her squirm and feel just a little bit scared. How could Ginger not be afraid of what a man might do when he was in that frame of mind? Sometimes it was as though she was encouraging it. Even here. Stranded on this island with the same people every day, she'd make a play for any of the men if she thought it would get her what she wanted. The amount of times Mary Ann had watched poor Skipper blush and grin and act like a helpless schoolboy as Ginger wound her arms around him. Teased him. Tickled the top of his head. The poor man had to know there was nothing in it, but he lapped up her attentions. It did nothing to damage his friendship with her. The Professor too, had been known to cast one or two subtle glances in Ginger's direction when she sauntered past in her clingy gold dress, her rear view just as enticing (perhaps even more so) as her front. And Gilligan. Even though he didn't like it, Ginger could still reduce the first mate to a stammering, quivering wreck whenever she approached, flaunting herself in front of him, tying him in knots. Making him knock himself out on the nearest tree or bamboo support.
Ginger cast her line and reeled them in and played with them and let them go, and for the most part they loved it. All those hapless visitors. Mary Ann suddenly shuddered at the thought of cosying up to the Japanese sailor, or that awful man who tried to win money by pretending he was here all alone. These weren't attractive men in the least. But Ginger could make them feel ten feet tall and what's more, she could look as though she was enjoying it.
Little girlie. That's what the painter Dubov had called her, Mary Ann. "Little girlie!"
Perhaps that was all she was destined to be. A little girlie, cooking and cleaning and washing everyone's clothes. The men looked at her all right- when she was approaching them with some dinner.
She sighs again. That's enough self-pity, Mary Ann. You've got laundry to do.
The Professor comes up with some loony contraptions at the best of times, but the pedal-powered washtub is a Godsend. It's the closest thing to an automated laundromat Mary Ann has ever seen. As she piles in all the dirty clothes, towels and bedsheets, Gilligan appears to help her. He normally rides the bamboo bicycle to rotate the tub back and forth. She has to admit that the Professor's inventions do make daily chores fun. She'd rather watch Gilligan pedal the bamboo bicycle out in the open sunshine than watch Ginger admiring her own reflection in the hut all day.
Gilligan climbs aboard the bicycle and starts pumping his legs, around and around and around. He looks so enthusiastic, his face split by a wide grin, his dark hair flopping over his eyes. He looks like he's entered a race, the Tour de France. He pedals furiously and the tub whooshes back and forth, back and forth. The laundry heaves around inside. It'll be spotless at this rate.
When Mary Ann thinks about it, Gilligan is always around to help her. He turns up just when she needs him. It's as though her schedule is wired into his brain and he knows when it's laundry time, cleaning time, cooking time, and he certainly knows when it's eating time.
She remembers how he was on the fateful three hour tour. In and out of the galley bringing drinks and refreshments for the passengers, meeting the Howells' incessant demands without complaint, then up and down to the helm to make sure the Skipper was okay. He never stopped, but he had a smile on his face the whole time, and whenever he passed Mary Ann he tipped his hat and gave her a look that said here we go again. No rest for the wicked.
Mary Ann realises that in his own way, Gilligan is a nurturer too. Just like she is.
Ginger has a million boyfriends, but I'll bet not one of them is as special to her as Gilligan is to me. And in a way, I guess I ought to feel sorry for her.
"Mary Ann, why are you looking at me like that?" says Gilligan, his blue eyes peering intently at her, feet still a blur on the pedals.
"Oh, I guess I was just thinking how lucky I am," Mary Ann replies, laughing at his look of instant confusion.
