I hope someone reads this note and can rescue me from the fix I’m in.

Here, briefly, is my situation. Unfortunately, I have no idea where I am or how long I’ve been here. I’m on a small mound of sand somewhere in a large body of water. I’m surrounded by fish bones and empty coconut shells. There’s usually a palm tree here, too, but sometimes it disappears for no apparent reason, then returns mysteriously.

It’s the same with people. They appear suddenly, exchange a few words, usually humorous in nature, and then they’re gone. My visitors have included other castaways, sharks, talking animals, insurance salesmen, and, once, a psychiatrist.

I’m usually dressed in ragged clothing. This also changes, though. At one point I found myself decked out uncomfortably in winter wear from L. L. Bean.

The only thing that’s consistent here seems to be the weather. Every day is hot and humid. The sun beats down unmercifully and I’m thankful for the days when my palm tree is there to provide a bit of shade. Somehow, I survive on the occasional fish or coconut. One day, I found myself sitting at a table, complete with a linen tablecloth and a small potted palm. The waiter never came.

This is all pretty maddening, but the worst part is this:
Every sentence spoken here—even every unuttered thought—is followed by ghostly laughter. I don’t know where this laughter comes from. It seems to emanate from some distant, invisible place beyond the sky and sea.

How I would love to get away from here. I dream of being in other places: in an office, for instance, sitting behind a big desk smoking a cigar, or exchanging bon mots with a beautiful woman over Martinis in an upscale bar, or chatting with other people at a cocktail party, or even just sitting somewhere in a big easy chair, staring into space.

Damn! There’s that creepy laughter again.
