I became more and more convinced of how similar Austin and I were. Even though I wasn’t looking for insights in the wine, I had dreams that someday, in a year or two, something would happen that would change my life – I’d write a bestseller, win a million in the lottery, or have a rich uncle leave me an inheritance.
But as the years went by, no miracles happened. I was too lazy to change anything myself – there was no reason to, I was generally happy with everything, although it was not easy to admit.
I had never been lucky in the lottery; and if I had rich relatives somewhere, they used their money for themselves or left it for their favorite cats.
As for the book, I always found more important things to do. Sometimes I thought I was a great scribbler, who could handle any subject, but sometimes I felt like a complete jerk, unable to write a single word.
I was constantly distracted by little things in life, or I invented my own activities to amuse myself. Work on the manuscript was delayed again and again, and the happy future never came. It wasn’t even an easy way; it was a vicious circle.
It seems that Austin, his paintings and the hermitage at the “Mangrove Hotel” should have inspired me to take decisive action, but I kept coming back to the question that always blocked my way – who needs it, especially here, among the dead?
Austin is fine; he has a favorite pastime – painting. As for Randy, he has a million different things to do. Besides being a nightclub manager, he runs a chain of brothels and motorbikes rentals, where he harasses the customers with his nagging, and he often goes to the gym and to the stadium. “Do you think I care about sports?” he once said to me. “Dude, I don’t care, and neither does anybody else who sweats in the gym or on the treadmills. They just have no place to put their energy; and frankly, they’re there for sex. They don’t care about their health. If you really care about your physique, you don’t go on steroids and eat cake after a run. No, I’m not going to let the nice ladies and dumb-ass jocks shake out the fat for nothing; we have to be able to make the best of it.”
I bet he did. His mediator was always at the ready. I doubt he ever rested. And considering Randy had lived on the Island for a quarter of a century, how much debt did he have to have to work so hard?
“Randy is not and never has been in debt,” Austin surprised me. “He’s too practical for that. The boy grew up poor. As far as I know, his mother didn’t even give him a pocket money, and his father left when he was two and disappeared. It was rumored that he was a man with a criminal record, a card cheat. So it wasn’t easy for little Randy. To help his mother somehow, from the age of twelve he took all kinds of jobs – walking neighbor’s dogs for pay, delivering newspapers, and in the evenings after school mopping floors at the cafe where his mother worked as a waitress. This boy had no childhood.”
“That explains a lot,” I exclaimed. “How did he get here?” “It was stupid,” Austin said hesitantly. “Actually, Randy can’t stand to be reminded of that, not everyone is lucky enough to die a Darwin Award-worthy death.” “Austin, stop talking in riddles!” I was really excited. “Please, continue.” “Well, at the age of thirty after working as a loader, a car washer, and a truck driver, our bearded man realized that only fools work for a pittance. Maybe it was his father’s bad blood, but Randy was addicted to roulette. Sometimes he was lucky, sometimes not, but one day, after he had lost all his money, he went outside and saw a Coke machine. He was thirsty, but like I said, he didn't have a penny in his pocket, so he decided to get Coca-Cola for free and kicked the machine. And do you know what happened? The damn thing fell on the poor guy!”
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“Oops!” I shook my head. “That was really ridiculous. But why didn’t he age in a quarter of a century?”
“The dead don’t age,” Austin said. “But that’s not the point. Now you know why he didn’t care about the White Room and any of those waking dreams. Randy immediately agreed to make a deal with The Shadow. That’s why he gets to leave the Island and we don’t.”
I was so shocked that I didn’t believe him at first: “If this is true, why doesn’t he leave, then?” “He wants to make all the money in the world.” Austin grinned. “Everyone has their weaknesses. You think he lives in the Imperial Hotel where you saw him, but no, Randy lives in the White Room, or rather sleeps in it, so he doesn’t have to spend money on rent.” “But you said that it is impossible to go back to the White Room.” “He can. ‘They’ know he won’t leave without the Golden Ticket.
“What the hell is that?” “Do you believe in the lottery?” “I do.” “Well, I’m not judging you. There’s a mouse in almost all of us that’s greedy for free cheese. The Island also has its own instant win game. Mondays, one of Randy’s jobs is to hand out lottery tickets. He’s a Wish Master.”
“Wait,” I got nervous. “Is Randy the good wizard?” “Are you kidding me? But he really does fulfill the most cherished wishes we all have. For example, I dreamed of fame. Randy wanted money, which he thought would buy him freedom. So when The Shadow hinted in the White Room that working for ‘them’ would make him rich, he didn’t hesitate. No one on the Island pumps as much energy out of people as he does. He’s already pretty rich, but he’s still hoping to get the Golden Ticket and hit the big jackpot before he leaves. Legend has it that the Golden Ticket finds its own owner, but if Randy can trick him or her, he gets everything the lucky person has.”
“I do not understand how he’s going to do that,” I interrupted the artist. “Randy can’t play the lottery himself, can he?” “No, of course not, the tickets are drawn by others; but in exchange for their innermost desire, he can take the most valuable thing they have.” “Is it life?” “He has little interest in other people’s lives per se. But the fact is most people have nothing but life. Randy could take their mind, their health, their love, but first, that’s so rare these days, and second, all he wants is money. That’s why he only looks for customers in expensive hotels.” “Can only the rich draw the Golden Ticket?” “I don’t know,” Austin replied, and then added after thinking about it: “Honestly, I think the Golden Ticket is a myth. In all the years I’ve been here, no one has ever found it.”
On the way home, I thought about what I had in common with Randy and Austin. Why do I despise Randy in my heart, think he’s a crook and a liar, but at the same time I enjoy his company because it’s fun to be with him. And he doesn’t mind chatting with me when he has a free minute. It’s not like that with Austin. I’m interested in him too. He’s not a rascal, and I’ve learned a lot about the Island from him; but he hardly talks to anyone, doesn’t look for friends, lives alone, and that doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. One has completely renounced luxury, the other only thinks about it; but both are devoted to their pursuits.
What about me? What do I want? I could like Austin, lock myself in a cabin and write, but life in a palace beckons. But I don’t want to step on people, like Randy does. The eternal dilemma: I can afford one thing, but I don’t want it, I want the other, but I can’t afford it yet. So I adapt, I make do with what I have. It is said that over the years we become like the people around us. Everyone we have ever been close to, everything we have seen or heard or read – all of this somehow affects us and leaves its mark. And then, imperceptibly, we begin to speak in words that are not our own, to copy other people’s facial expressions and gestures, and even appropriating other people’s dreams.
But why does this happen? Why can’t we remain ourselves as we change? I don’t want to be like Randy or Austin, I have my own way. But I guess I’m off course and stuck. I’m torn between two paths, doing all kinds of nonsense, and all I can think about at night is how to get out of here, seeing escape as my only salvation. There must be a way off this damn Island!
To be continued