Translated by: Megan McDowell
My sister is going out with a guy who got famous for being on a reality show in the United States. She met him at the cafe where she works in L.A., where she’s lived since 2002, when she told me she couldn’t take it here anymore and left. She waited on him the same way she did all her customers, and after the guy left, her coworkers started jumping up and down around her, and one of them said “Didn’t you recognise him? That was Ozzy, from Survivor.” She had never seen the show (me either), except for a few random episodes from the first season, so she didn’t understand at the time what the whole deal with Survivor was about, or why the girls she worked with could be so excited about someone as gross as an ex-reality show contestant.
Ozzy came back the next day, and my sister would have liked to wait on him the same way she waited on all her customers, but that day she couldn’t help but comment on the book about sharks that he was flipping through. It was one she knew very well: I had given her that book on her fifteenth birthday (a bookseller had told me it was a classic, one with hard facts that was suited to aficionados, and it had soon become her favourite and the first of a collection of twenty titles on the subject). My sister told me it had moved her to see that someone else in the world had that book, that one in particular, and that her emotion had nothing to do with the fact that the someone in question was Ozzy from Survivor, because Survivor meant nothing to her. And then I thought of an article I’d read in a magazine: Ricky Martin’s kids only recently realized, now that they’re almost seven years old, who their father “is:” “You’re Ricky Martin?” they asked him in astonishment after watching a show for the first time from the audience and not from the side of the stage.
So, my sister had nothing to say about Ozzy from Survivor, but she did talk a lot about Ozzy the boy who went to the cafe almost every day and whom she found irresistible: cute, with a kind face, simple and very sweet. Little by little, and in spite of both of their shyness, they had sought out coincidences and excuses to see each other when she got off work.
Starting then, everything my sister told me about him made me think they were made for each other, especially because they both held life goals that were quite achievable, which made them prone to happiness.
One day, my sister told me she was in love. Utterly in love, she said. “And him?” I asked worriedly, because love was a state that tended to leave her overly vulnerable. She told me that only when the feeling is reciprocal can one be in love and be serene at the same time. And then I remembered that love can also turn her a little sappy.
I had googled “Ozzy” and “Survivor” the first time she mentioned him to me. I looked at his photos to get an idea of what he looked like, and I read a few articles and the comments on some forums to try to find out what kind of person he was (I knew my sister would never do a thing like that, and it seemed like a waste not to take advantage of the fact that he was very well-known). I got a little worried imagining my sister —the way she is, so candid sometimes— in the life of someone who was almost famous.
Right away I found out that Ozzy wasn’t just any contestant, but was quite a popular character on the show; most of the fans had opinions about him. And the strangest thing: almost all of them had the same impression of him, though some people took certain characteristics as virtues and were for him, and others, for the very same reasons, were against him.
In that quick search I also found out that Ozzy was really named Oscar, that he’d been born in Guanajuato, Mexico, and that he hadn’t been on one season of the show, but three. It seems that after his first time he’d turned into a kind of star contestant, a favourite among the fans, who voted for him every time the producers decided to bring back old “castaways” for a new and special season. So, after his first appearance on Survivor: Cook Islands, he came back for Survivor Micronesia: Fans vs. Favourites, and later he was on Survivor: South Pacific.
The show’s grand prize, which goes to one winner among twenty participants, is a million dollars. Ozzy never won, and only once did he make it to the final round, although in the other seasons he was part of the “jury” (the group of the last seven participants expelled, who vote to choose the winner). Twice, his first and last time, he won the prize of a hundred thousand dollars for “Survivor Favourite:” the only one awarded according to an audience vote. It would seem that Ozzy was the ultimate expression of the survivor, and viewers voted for him because he was a full-on Robinson who could climb trees like a monkey, hold his breath underwater for three minutes, and harpoon fish that weighed over a kilo. Plus, he won all the physical tests the participants had to undergo in order to win “immunity” or “rewards.” That’s how he managed to advance far in the game, but it seemed his lack of malice, his arrogance, and his inability to manipulate the others and head off a betrayal always left him shy of the grand prize. Of course, all this was what, to his fans, made him the game’s true “moral winner.” For his detractors, it was what made him an athletic and brainless wimp. Survivor awakens grand passions in United States audiences, and people for or against Ozzy (or any other more or less striking character), would use these expressions and others even more enthusiastic or cruel.
There had been a couple of times when I’d tried to get my sister to talk to me about Ozzy and his experience on the program, and especially to find out what he thought about his inability to win the million, but she had refused to talk about the Ozzy of Survivor. In fact, over time she began to call him Oscar. She wasn’t interested in anything that had to do with his time on TV. She even seemed to feel a certain aversion to that part of him, though she would never openly admit it.
It was more or less around when she started to call him Oscar that I decided it was time to watch Survivor.
I couldn’t travel—with my salary, I couldn’t even think about buying a ticket to the United States. But the fact that he had spent so many hours on TV being “himself” on a reality show gave me the chance learn about the man my sister was spending more and more time with; to see him in action, as it were. The last few times my sister and I had talked, he had been there. He didn’t say anything or show himself on Skype, but I knew he was there. One time my sister asked him to turn down the TV; another time, laughing, she told him to be still (maybe he was tickling her); and the last time, I saw one of his hands as it passed quickly in front of the camera to grab some papers from the desk.
Anytime I caught a glimpse of what was happening near my sister (not because she told me directly, but from some other clue), I grew more anxious about the distance that separated us. After all, I had never seen or set foot in those places she talked to me from. I’d never been to the café where she worked, or the apartment she rented with her coworkers, or the school where she was studying pastry-making (my sister had always had a great flair for cooking, and she’d decided to turn that natural disposition into a more official, and hopefully more lucrative, activity). I think the Ozzy on Survivor had something to do with my sister signing up at a prestigious cooking school and being so conscientious with her classes; she’d always been reluctant when it came to academic schedules and study goals (it had been a pitched battle to get her to finish high school). I’m sure he was the one who paid her enrollment fee, and even her monthly tuition. My sister denied it all, but she was a terrible liar. She went into detail to make her story more credible—she gave so many details that at some point, one of them would always give her away. Maybe because my primary instinct was to protect her, I never let her know when I’d caught her in a lie. And when she got a scholarship from the cooking school (one they would never have given to an immigrant whose papers weren’t in order), it was no exception. What I did was congratulate her, and start to think that if Ozzy was doing these things for her it was because the relationship was getting very serious. I also thought that a marriage proposal must be near. He would buy her a ring, get down on his knee during some romantic dinner, and very soon they would be fiancées. It was strange how the Yankees had that idea of three steps so engrained: dating, engagement, marriage. And although Ozzy had been born in Mexico, he’d spent his whole life in the U.S., and surely those habits were now part of him as well.
It wasn’t easy to get my hands on a decent-quality copy of the entire season of Ozzy’s debut: Survivor: Cook Islands.
The season starts off with the twenty participants and the show’s host on a ship. The contestants have limited time to jump overboard with the rafts they have to row out to the desert islands where they’ll spend the next thirty-nine days. As they do this, the host explains that this is the first time that the four starting tribes are of different ethnicities. Ozzy is part of the Latino tribe. There is also an African-American tribe, an Asian American one, and a Caucasian one.
That season was filmed between June and August of 2006, and Ozzy eight years younger was a boy with short, curly hair, olive skin, and agile body, who almost never smiled and spoke little, though very soon he was at the head of his tribe. One of his three companions, on watching him climb a palm tree to get coconuts, commented that he felt like he was watching something from The Jungle Book. “I thought it was Mowgli going up a tree.” He was also good at fishing using what they called a Hawaiian harpoon, oversaw the construction of their hut (made of bamboo and palm leaves), and designed a trap to hunt wild chickens. But his companions didn’t trust him completely; they couldn’t explain why, but they didn’t trust him. I think it must have been because Ozzy didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, he took himself and everything he did very seriously. He seemed obsessed by winning every challenge, and he was self-sufficient to the point it was irritating.
I thought it would take me at least a week to watch that season’s fourteen episodes. But my curiosity and the dynamic of the program itself (perfectly designed to generate tension and intrigue) impelled me to spend all day Saturday at home. By two in the morning I’d seen everything, all the way through the post-finale reunion. On top of an excruciating headache, I had a pretty clear idea of what Ozzy’s fans had seen in him.
Some aspirin and a good night’s sleep got me to Sunday recovered and more interested than ever in talking to my sister’s famous boyfriend. I wanted to find out how he’d felt after he lost the grand prize with a vote of only four against five (the winner was Yul, a lawyer of Korean descent who dominated the game from the social point of view). The grand finale (which is when the jury’s votes are counted and the winner is announced) was filmed on a CBS set in New York, where the season’s twenty contestants were all gathered, now recovered from the dirt, hunger and injuries that physically ravage all the participants. They, the public, and the host all had general questions about how or why this or that had happened, but they all had one big question for Ozzy: how was it possible that a city boy, over twenty years old, Mexican and (at the time) working as a waiter, seemed to have been born to live and survive on a desert island? Ozzy, serious as always, listened to the question without changing his expression, and gave the one answer no one expected, one nobody knew what to do with: “I’ve always read a lot,” he said. I clapped. Sitting there, alone in my living room in front of the laptop where young Ozzy was talking about his first love—Robinson Crusoe—and how ever since he was little he’d fantasized about being abandoned on a desert island, I clapped.
At that moment I felt like calling my sister and for the first time just asking her to let me talk to Ozzy. I wanted to congratulate him for that answer, but I also wanted to ask him what other books had been important to him (in the end, I couldn’t help feeling Robinson Crusoe was a little obvious).
I was tired that night, but I decided the next time we talked I would tell my sister it was high time she introduced me to her boyfriend (“I just want to get to know him a little,” I would tell her).
I found the complete season Micronesia: Fans vs. Favorites (Ozzy’s second season) on YouTube.
For two days, when I came back from the school where I was subbing in a third-grade class, I sat down in front of my computer to watch the show. I felt completely trapped. It was the only thing I wanted to do, the only thing I could get myself to focus on. I had an opinion about Ozzy and about each of the participants, about every alliance, every elimination in all the tribal councils. I got excited about the challenges for rewards or immunity. The fans (a tribe of ten people who had never played before) struck me as naïve, inept, out of place. I waited anxiously for the moments when the cameras would return to the favorites tribe (Ozzy and nine other ex-participants), where even the most banal conversations had potential repercussions in how the game unfolded, and where everyone was extremely self-conscious and suspicious.
Friday night, I was finishing the finale, watching and rewinding to see Ozzy’s parts again, commenting on the two finalists before casting his vote for the winner of the million dollars, when the house phone rang. I knew it was my sister. Ever since I broke up with Germán, no one else calls the house at that hour. “Get online,” she said. She practically didn’t say hi, she just said “get online,” and hung up.
Lately we’d been chatting on Gmail, so I opened my inbox and sent her a message to let her know I was there. “On Skype,” she wrote. I didn’t like to use Skype. Sure, it was all much more comfortable and fluid than chatting; the problem came later. Ending a chat just meant typing “xo” or “xoxoxoxoxoxoxo,” or a little phrase like “I miss you” or “Love you” (it all depended on how our conversation had gone). Hanging up on Skype, saying “bye” to my sister who was right there on the screen, moving and raising the palm of her right hand to her lips to blow me the kiss she always said goodbye with—I was afraid of that moment. Cutting off communication and sitting in front of the black screen terrified me. In my head I’d built up the idea that it was like giving the world the chance to swallow her: on her end, the dark monitor turned into a giant mouth that opened up to swallow my sister, taking her away from me forever.
Once we were connected, as soon as my sister’s face appeared onscreen, I could tell she had been crying. I asked if she was all right. She smiled at me, a weak smile, and said: “They invited him back to the show.”
When good things happened to my sister, I was happy—very happy, even. But when the good news for some reason was cut short or turned against her, I was also happy then. And I was very ashamed of that. I knew it was pure envy of the worst kind, and also that it was the result of an idea I would never admit to anyone: I didn’t think there was any reason for things to go better for her than for me. At those moments I also realized that I was still resentful she had cut and run when things in the country were falling apart. I stayed, I thought sometimes, and enduring is more commendable than fleeing to a place where everything is easier.
There was no one in the world I loved more than my sister, and no other person awoke such low feelings of resentment and envy in me. I didn’t understand why that happened; I couldn’t forgive myself for it, and I tried hard to repress those feelings.
However, when I saw how disconsolate she was because CBS had invited Ozzy to be on a new season of Survivor, I felt that in some twisted way it was a rightful turn of events.
“It’s not so bad,” I told her. And she burst out crying the way she used to when we were little. After she’d calmed down, she explained that the season would be called Blood vs. Water and that each of the ex-participants chosen by the viewers had to compete alongside a loved one. Ozzy wanted my sister to go with him. “But you’re not a blood relative. You’re not even married to him,” was the only thing that occurred to me to say, trying to seem like I was in her corner. Apparently, for the producers of Survivor, “blood” and “loved ones” were the same thing. I do not agree.
I didn’t need to ask, I knew my sister had already told Ozzy she didn’t want to take part. The only thing I didn’t know was how he had reacted. “He’s furious,” said my sister, and she started to cry again. “He says it’s his favorite place in the world, that he’s happy there. It’s ridiculous, we’re talking about a TV show.” I tried to explain that surely he wasn’t referring to the program itself, but to the places where it was filmed (for the most part, idyllic Pacific islands), and where Ozzy seemed to really be in his element. “You don’t know him,” said my sister. And I went on insisting that she wasn’t going to know him completely either until she’d seen him climb trees, swim like a dolphin, and crack coconuts with a machete. Only then, I told her, would she realize that when he was doing all of that, he was happy. All those things made him happy, and so did the competition. Because when you were watching Ozzy compete, you weren’t watching a guy who was enjoying some exotic vacation; you saw, rather, an extremely competitive person fighting to win a game he knows he’s good at, but not unbeatable, and he can improve. “The program’s whole concept is his place in the world, understand?” I told her. “And maybe it’s a good idea for you to go with him. You two might even win.” There was silence. My sister stared at me. For a moment I thought the image was frozen—my house had a terrible internet connection. But then she blinked. “I hate you,” she told me. And at that moment she wasn’t looking at my image on her monitor, but right at the webcam, so I would feel her eyes meet mine. “I hate both of you,” she said, and hung up.
Black, silent screen. It took me a while to react. I couldn’t understand what had happened. This time, when I’d seen her crying like that, I’d managed to forget about everything and offer advice that was for her own good; I even felt proud I’d encouraged her to go on the program. After all, if they won it meant losing her completely. A boyfriend and a million dollars was enough to keep her from ever thinking about coming back. And deep down, I was always hoping my sister would want to come back. Then I thought that she wasn’t really understanding the situation, that she was making a serious mistake and I had to help her.
It took me all night, but I found what I needed. I put together a file with a compilation from YouTube that some fan had made with Ozzy’s best moments on the program, another one-minute video where Ozzy (interviewed shortly after being eliminated from Survivor: South Pacific) was saying to the camera how depressed it made him to have to return to his life, to the city, to everything he felt pulled him away from his truest self. There was also a third video in which, during his first season, Ozzy was celebrating having spent so long on the island with a shout of “treinta días, es increíble,” and he said it with a big, unexpected smile and in Spanish (he’d never spoken in Spanish on the program, and I knew he and my sister only spoke in English). The last video was one I’d compiled myself and consisted of several shots of Ozzy swimming, because that was the best of Ozzy. It was beautiful to see him swim. And it wasn’t a matter of admiring his technique, or speed, or stamina, it was simply exciting. It was like letting a slow, lazy housecat into an unknown yard and seeing how it instantly became a savage animal.
I saved the files as an attachment in a blank email and wrote in the subject: “Don’t miss this.” I sent the email and went to sleep. I felt satisfied with myself. I had overcome my lowest instincts and was again the person my sister deserved, someone who advised her for her own good and with a more generous goal: her happiness (and maybe even that of her “Oscar”).
I woke up around noon. It was Sunday. My inbox had an email from my sister. Not a reply to the one I’d sent, but a new one. I opened it and saw that it didn’t have text, either, but a video attached, untitled. I spent a while sitting in front of the computer without daring to open the file. I was afraid my sister hadn’t understood what I’d wanted to tell her with my message, and that now she was even angrier. For very little, she’d already told me “I hate you.” What was there after that?
I lit a cigarette and pressed play. The video opened with a sign that said “Reality Show,” and went on with several edited fragments from very homemade recordings. Ozzy now had very short hair and several kilos more than the boy on TV.
In all the shots, my sister is wearing clothes I’ve never seen. In all of them, one of them is filming the other or someone is filming the two of them in very domestic situations. A breakfast. The preparation of a welcome home sign for someone she never mentioned and who was coming home from somewhere I couldn’t say. A toast for something that was important to my sister about which I’d never heard anything. Ozzy opening his arms and smiling at the camera at the entrance to the cinema. Her with wet clothes acting angry while she threatened the camera with a bucket full of water. The two of them lying in a park on the grass, while a dog belonging to someone unknown went running over them and the two of them double up in laughter and kiss and wave at whoever is filming them. The two of them asleep, sharing the seat on a bus. The two of them very serious and elegant, walking in someone’s wedding party. The two of them in bed, her holding the camera aloft so she can get both their faces in close-up; neither of them speaks but they smile, they smile and breathe a little quickly and finally say something to each other that can’t be heard.
It’s been days since then and I haven’t heard from her again. I still haven’t replied. I’m tired of talking and understanding. What I did was change the photo in all my profiles, impossible she hasn’t seen. Now there’s an image of the big bonfire they make at the end of each episode of Survivor for the tribal council, the one when the participants decide which member of the tribe they will eliminate from the great game.
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