Pretty Plastic Island

By TheJudddman

My name is Santiago, and it was about 10 years ago that I had lived (and mostly worked) on the island of Santa Perdonala.

I barely remember much of my childhood, but aside from the memories of a drunk father whose face was a blur leaving me on this island, I certainly remember that this place would never be my home even after living there for most of my young life.

Santa Perdonala was a resort island first and foremost, and everything was designed to look as natural as possible, like a real place, even though most islands like it did not have clean water and air-conditioning despite abiding to the aesthetics of clay houses and brick roads. Many of the “citizens” on the island aren’t actually native and if asked, they will either tell you that they had lived there their entire lives or will give a grand backstory about their arrival to the place while endlessly singing its praises. Everyone here is given a script so as to provide a comfortable narrative to the resort-goers, having them think that Santa Perdonala is a beautiful place, rich in culture and lively in its soul, when in reality, it’s goods and crafts were handmade not by a grandmother or resident but by a child working his parents’ debt off in sweltering heat making clothes surrounded in a circle with other children his age.

I, of course, was one of these children, and I remember the day, distinctly, that I became a man.

I was an older kid, working in the sewing circle surrounded by other kids of varying ages, some teens and some pre-teens. The house we were in had clay walls and windows that were holes in those walls with cloth shutters. The ten of us only had one small bathroom to use and we slept in bunks in a room down the hall from the main room we worked in.

We all made the same thing. A bright blue button up shirt with intricate Perdonalan Swirls and crosses sewn onto the back and sides. We did it all by hand and if we pricked ourselves on the needles and got blood on the shirt, we would have to throw it away and start over from the beginning, supplemented by a whack from a carpet beater.

I was working, sweaty and tired as usual, when Jose, our “handler” walked in.

He was a man of fair skin, much lighter than the caramel brown of the children he watched over. He had a thick set of eyebrows, slicked back hair and a strong jaw with minor stubble. He was wearing the same shirt we were making and had just come back off of being a tour guide for vacationers. He always stood up straight and had a proud look on his face that would occasionally switch to a drunken half-smile when entering the house.

“Santi!” He called, nodding at me to follow him.

And so I did.

We walked over onto the balcony. Halved clay walls make the railings and a multi-colored carpet with geometric designs lines the sun-beaten floor.

Jose took his sunglasses off, lit a cigarette, and slumped down into the white, rusted, wrought-iron chair. He waved his hand, inviting me to sit in the other chair.

He rested his elbow on the table, the arm with the cigarette in it, furrowed his brow slightly.

“Santi, my boy”. He took a puff of his cigarette. “I got a job for you.”

It was always like Jose to cut to the chase. He never cared what anyone had to think of him. Admirable, but done in the wrong ways.

He continued, “One of the bar workers jumped ship and left the island, and I need you to take his place for a night, yeah?”

This was extremely new to me. I did occasionally get out of the house to do odd jobs, but those mostly consisted of cleaning houses or taking out trash. I was hesitant to do this. I’d be serving drinks to drunk foreigners, possibly getting berated by them and leaving it without any pay, leaving me more miserable than I usually am.

I tried to refuse.

“Um, Mr. Jose?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure there aren’t any free adults that can do this?”

His gaze grew serious. He stared at me, no, through me.

“You refusing?”

I faltered. Like an idiot.

“Well, no sir, but I’m wondering if I’m the right guy for the job. Isn’t there someone more…experienced?”

He stared at me, gave me a softer look. He reached over the table and put his arm around me.

“Awwww, Santi!” a quick puff and exhale of smoke. “You always struck me as the humble sort. You need more confidence, man!”

Avoiding the question. Typical Jose. He pulled back, inhaling as he did.

“Lemme tell ya, Santiago. It's a big scary world, and we both know I can’t house you forever. I think you ought to learn some people skills, before I have to send you out there. Can’t have the world eat you alive, you know?”

“Well, alright.”

“On board then? Nice. You know I can’t do it without ya.”

“Wait, no…I mean-”

“Santi…”, he puffed on his cigarette. “I’m sure you are aware of the only other option. You know what’s gonna happen if you don’t do this right?”

I looked down, defeated. “Yes sir…”

“Seven o’clock. Tomorrow. I’ll give you a uniform and you’ll bring out drinks till the place closes or a new guy can take over for you.”

He snuffed out his cigarette under his boot and got up to leave.

“Wait, sir.”

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t I too young for this? I’m only sixteen.”

He turned and leaned on the doorway with his hands in his pocket. The ends of his mouth curved upward to a subtle smile.

“You’re the oldest kid here Santi. You got some whiskers on you already.”

“True.”

“Besides, you look old enough. It's not like they need to know, yeah?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good Kid. Now back to work.”

He didn’t even hold the door open for me as I followed him downstairs.

“Oh right. Santi?”

“Yes, Mr. Jose?”

“You remember where you are really from, right?”

“No, sir.”

“Attaboy. Don’t.”

As I sat back down to continue working I noticed a small red dot on my pants. I looked up and noticed that I had pricked myself on the thumb with the needle before I talked with Jose. I was currently grabbing the shirt with the thumb and forefinger of my pricked hand, leaving a wine-red stain on the shirt.

That was the last straw. 

As the old woman in the corner went to get the carpet beater, I realized just how fed up I was with everything. I had spent the entirety of my life living a lie.

But I had no choice but to. It was a sickeningly perfect situation. A boy with a family who didn’t want him left to slave away making shirts for weak, rich men, with no knowledge to know who he was, no room to examine, to think, no room to fight for who he is, because doesn’t know who he is.

I saw someone I wasn’t happy with in the mirror as my fellow children and I lined up to brush our teeth. I made a promise to myself that tomorrow, I had to do something. I didn’t know what that something was but it had to happen, because if it didn’t, it would leave me to rot here, choking on a truth I never knew and never got to tell.

I’ll tell them what I know. That’s it.

I could convince someone to adopt me. Find an official and share what I know about this whole operation. Get drunk and spill everything out. I know it seems like wishful thinking, but that’s how desperate it made me.

And so I, Santiago Hernandez, would spend the next few years of my life hatching a plan to escape.

I would lead an honest life, away from a land of lies.