It wasn’t enough
that PR spread the word that she and Ken were Splitsville. Not that they had
ever been married, though God knows she’d played the bride bit about three kazillion
times. All part of the image makeover, to be the girl/woman every female could
identify with, aspire to be like. (As if! Could anyone on the planet have her
measurements without extensive surgical modification?) But this – this was
going too far. Over the edge, even! Considering she was a girl who had her own
shoe store, was never far from a frilly four-poster bed, whose closet was
bigger than some apartments in Queens – well, how did they expect her to pull
this off? I mean, really. Barbie? On Survivor?
Oh well. Like
everything else, she’d keep a smile on her perky face (did she have a choice?)
and jump in, upturned-nose-first. Wasn’t
that her credo? Enthusiasm every day? A can-do attitude in any given situation?
She was Barbie, after all. And Barbie might not be the newest toy on the shelf,
but she was no quitter.
“Bring it on!” she
told the PR guys, and packed her light blue sneakers, her pink sneakers, and
some basic pink pumps (you can’t go anywhere without them!) in her trunk, with
15 color-coordinated sets of shorts and tops, plus her safari hat. Oh, and she
thought she better take along her yellow slicker and matching galoshes and rain
hat. Just in case.
With the space she
saved in not having to pack any sunscreen or bug spray (one of the perks of having
been plasticized), she figured she’d have room for maybe an extra pair of
tennis shoes, a couple of cute nighties, and, of course, bikinis. Itsy-bitsy
teeny-weenie ones, yes, even polka dot. She had the perfect bod. There was no
reason not to show it off, was there?
She decided to
throw in her exercise shorts and running-bra top, along with her matching wrist
bands – she didn’t need to work out, but she’d look really good running along
the beach at sunset, her legs stretching longer than the horizon.
What she didn’t
guess at was that she was not to be unique among the competitors, not the only
one whose face was stamped indelibly on her vinyl head, who had no use for
toiletries because she never sweat. When she landed on the island, she was
stunned when greeted on the white sands by none other than the dolls in the
Barbie line – Teresa, Midge, Christie, Alan, Kayla, Steven, and – Ken! The
producers thought their recent split would create compelling tension for the
audience.
“Surprise!” they
all yelled, and it certainly was. (Barbie was always being surprised; she had
the attention span of a gnat.)
“What are you doing
here?” Barbie was not clear – maybe they’d just come to see her off, wish her
luck? But she didn’t see any balloons or party hats.
“We’re all on
Survivor! Won’t this be fun?” Midge squealed. But her voice hinted at some
other kind of fun, the kind that usually ended with someone’s feelings hurt.
As the sand beneath
her shifted, Barbie tried to forget that Midge had been the first to try to
steal her toy thunder. Manufactured to be a best friend to Barbie, she’d taken
liberties in an introductory marketing campaign in which Barbie was placed
behind her in ads, even on store shelves. Barbie had quashed that like a bad
rumor.
Alan twirled a
beach ball. “They said it would ‘level the playing field,’ whatever that means.
I say we get started with a game of beach volleyball!”
Kayla and Christie
clapped and giggled. “Okay!”
Steven stepped up. “No,
I think we have to do these tests first, like the script says.” He turned
toward the cameraman. “Isn’t that right?” He walked too close to the lens; on
screen, the blurred flowers of his Hawaiian shirt obstructing the others from
view. The producer waved him away, his face angry.
“Okay, okay! I’ll
ask this other guy.” He walked behind the lighting and sound equipment where
the camera could not follow. After hushed, terse instructions from someone on
set, he rejoined the group, saying, “Sorry! I was just checking!”
Ken kicked at the
sand dejectedly.
Barbie marched
toward him.
“Hi, Barbie. It’s
good to see you.”
“You, too, Ken. You
look great.”
He looked away. “That’s
how they made me.”
After a moment of
awkward silence, Barbie said, “I’m sorry we have to compete against each other.
I intend to do my best, and play fair. Before we get started, I want to say
good luck.” She turned to the group. “To everyone! May the best Barbie win! Uh
– you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, we know,”
Midge said in a voice that snarled on her lips so her smile nearly twisted out
of shape.
Barbie ignored her.
“Well! I’d better get settled in! Where do we sleep?”
Vinyl heads turned
toward one another. Steven asked, “Didn’t they brief you at all, Barbie?”
“Sure, they gave me
some papers on the airplane. But the clouds outside my window were just like
cotton balls! So fluffy and pretty! Then I started to read, but I fell asleep
after the first page.”
Midge snickered.
Theresa said, “This
isn’t like a resort, Barbie.”
Barbie turned her
wide blue eyes inland, where palm trees swayed in the breeze, seagulls glided
above their heads.
“It sure looks like
one! Except there’s no hotel.”
Christie said, “We
have to set up our own shelters. It’s all part of the competition.”
“Shelters? Okay,
then – I’ll help you set up yours, then you can help me.”
“No, Barbie,” said
Theresa. “We can’t work together as a team. The whole point is for us to do
things on our own.”
“Gosh, that’s no
fun!”
“No, gosh, it
isn’t,” Midge echoed.
“I wish I’d brought
my Winnebago. That has such a nice bed, and a dinette, and even a pool!”
Ken held up one
unbending arm. “Tomorrow night, we’ll have a meeting to decide who’ll be voted
off the island.”
“People have to
leave?” Barbie was incredulous.
“By the group’s
decision,” Steven said.
Barbie wasn’t
liking any of this, but didn’t want to discourage anyone.
***
In the morning, the
group had their first competition – climbing the jagged rock face of a cliff.
One by one they attempted to scale it, and one by one they fell. Barbie found it
tough, but the unnatural slant of her feet allowed her to wedge into crevices
where the men’s feet wouldn’t go. She managed to climb the highest of anyone,
but just as she triumphantly reached toward the top, there was a zipping, a
whir of rope through metal. Her harness disengaged, and she tumbled into the
rocks below. A wave of mumbled concern was broken by snickering. Barbie’s hand
rose unsteadily from the rocks, and she dragged herself up. Her bendable legs
were bizarrely splayed, so she banged her calves back into alignment. Barbie’s
indomitable spirit triumphed, despite the dent in her back.
At tribal council,
she was saddened when Kayla and Alan were voted off the island. This endeared
her to the crew, and to the audience in TV land.
In the next competition,
each had to walk across a crude rope bridge before the fire burned through,
sending them into the flames. Others slipped but grabbed the handrail ropes to
keep from falling into the fire. Barbie went last. An ember rose and landed in
the middle of the single rope that comprised the footbridge. She hurried, but
just as she passed over it, the bottom rope snapped in two. She held onto the
handrail ropes, shimmied along until one fell, as if untied. Barbie swung to
the remaining rope, and, hanging upside down, she inched toward the finish
line. The ends of her hair singed black against the flames. After falling to
the ground on the other side, she patted the embers out. The crew cheered. She
waved at the camera, her eyes bright, smile unwavering, smoke curling from her
hair.
Barbie protested at
the next tribal council when Steven and Christie were given a ticket back to
the mainland. This gained her even greater support. The network execs were
ecstatic that the ratings had gone through the thatched roof.
Next came the
rafting competition, through Class 5 whitewater – the roughest of all – in
inflatable boats. Barbie giggled as her raft slid down the jagged river. Ken
used his paddle to steer clear of rocks, and swooshed past her. Barbie dug her
oars into the water, too, but the boat’s sides were leaking air and she was soon
sitting on a sheet of plastic with nothing to hold it afloat. Midge floated by
just as Barbie was knocked off the deflated raft by a rush of water. She was
pushed downstream by whitewater, past the safety rope where the others had put
in, and over falls that made Niagara look like a trickle. The production crew
held its collective breath, watching for a sign of her singed yellow-blond hair
through the mists below. On shore, the others leaned forward, strained to see.
“I’m okay!” her
tiny, far-off voice echoed. Then there she was, afloat as if out for an
afternoon of sun and fun. When she rejoined the group, her hair was a rat’s
nest. Midge offered to fix it, and chopped most of it off. She told Barbie she
looked like a punk rocker. Barbie wished she could cry, just this once. In a
wobbly voice she thanked Midge, stumbled to her shelter to lie down, and stared
at the palm leaf ceiling. (What else could she do? She had no eyelids, after all.)
At the final tribal
council, Ken and Theresa got the boot. Barbie gasped, said it wasn’t fair.
Now only she and
Midge remained.
Ken held an orchid.
“This is for the winner.”
Barbie and Midge’s
heads pivoted toward each other, then back to Ken.
“Each of you has
skills necessary for survival. You each showed great endurance and
determination. In the end, though, the votes were overwhelmingly for…” he slid
the orchid behind Barbie’s ear. “Barbie.”
“What?” Midge
snatched the orchid from Barbie’s choppy hair. “No way! This belongs to me!”
She ran beyond the firelight, and into the darkness. Barbie gasped when Midge screamed;
her voice echoed eerily in the night.
“The producers
figured she’d do that. They were waiting with a fishing net. Sounds like they
caught her.”
The screeching grew
more distant, as if Midge were being hauled away.
“I hope she’s all
right.”
Barbie’s sympathy
toward such a sore loser almost drew tears from the crew.
“She’s fine. Here.”
Ken pulled a bigger, more exquisite orchid from behind his back.
“Oh, Ken! This
should go to someone beautiful. Not me.” Her choppy hair, dented back, still
slightly off-kilter legs made Barbie feel like a toy refugee.
“You are more
beautiful now than ever, Barbie. The viewers’ votes prove that. You’re a hero
to them.”
The camera zoomed
in to her still-perky, if somewhat lopsided, face, then went to commercial.
***
She stood on the
beach, looking at the island behind her. The helicopter’s whirling blades urged
her inside, along with her publicist. “Come on, Barbie! We have lots to talk
about.”
She climbed in, but
part of her would stay on that island forever. She was a different Barbie, a
new Barbie.
“Sales have been
through the roof. There was a huge demand for a Survivor Barbie, so we’ve come
up with a new line.” He held up a Barbie doll – it looked like it had gone
through the trash compactor. It looked like her.
“But…”
He held up a doll
with choppy blond hair tipped with black.
“Here’s Rope Walk Barbie, and here’s Rock Climb Barbie…”
Each doll looked as
if some little girl’s older, nasty brother had gotten hold of it. Barbie’s
laugh was borderline hysterical.
Her publicist
continued. “Little girls all over the world are begging for these. Girls who
never wanted Barbies before want these.”
“But – why?”
“Simple. They can
relate to you now. They’re not perfect, and neither are you.”
She looked out the
window.
The island was a
brown and green oval set in wide blue aquamarine. It looked just as it did when
she was arriving. Yet now, she’d consider it the place of her birth.
(2005)