Dan Trout shakes the fish from the end of his crude spear into an ersatz sack made from an old teeshirt. “Originally they gave me the spear because of my name,” he says, his face a mask of concentration. As he peers down through the shallow water to the smooth rocks of the shore he spots another fish and freezes, his arm poised, spear steady. When he strikes he moves with a quickness belied by his considerable girth, and the fish doesn’t stand a chance. The Information Technologist from an Internet-based bank in Atlanta adds the fish to the day’s catch, and peers into his sack, counting them up. “That makes nine,” he says. “This was a joke at first, for them. But my dad used to take us spear fishing when I was a kid. I’ve gotten good at it.”

Three episodes into the Prime Time reality show “Overboard: Nowhere” the disparate cast has already used up the small store of food they scavenged from the ship that brought them here, now capsized. Today’s episode finds them forced to hunt and forage for sustenance, and viewers watch as the cast tests its mettle in one of the harshest environments yet encountered on such a show. The past four years have seen Reality Television explode in popularity in both national and international markets, in part because it provides viewers with a voyeuristic escape from their own problems, but also because the shows are enticingly cheap for networks to produce.

Unfortunately, but not unpredictably, the market has reached a saturation point that makes product differentiation a challenging prospect. “Overboard: Nowhere” Executive Producer at Twentyfour Media Jasraj Tasneem responds, “Failure to differentiate is death in this industry. There’s a symbiotic relationship between the content producers–that’s us–and the advertisers. Consumers need to be able to identify our product as something desirable so they know where to go when they want more. That’s how we keep advertisers, and so it becomes our primary challenge to build that association.”

As far as the programs go, this challenge translates directly into dramatic escalation. In an effort to keep viewers tuned in, the producers of “Overboard: Nowhere” devised a show that raises the stakes for their cast in several ways. Associate Producer Julien Krause: “First of all, unlike the other reality-style shows you may have seen, we haven’t told our guys where they are, and in fact, most of the production process is highly compartmentalized, so that no single individual staff member sees the entire picture.” Culture shock and dissociation foster alliances and rivalries, a mainstay of the format. But “Overboard: Nowhere” only begins there. Krause leans forward in his Aeron chair and rests his chin on his steepled fingers, “Some things are apparent about the island immediately, like that is has no trees. You could hear some of our guys commenting on that even as they were swimming to shore after we sunk their ship. But other things are less apparent, such as the fact that the small fish they’re eating are only there during mating season, which has just ended. And then there’s the cast itself.”

The nine people who make up the cast of “Overboard: Nowhere” include a white supremacist, the eccentric recluse and chess grandmaster Bobby Fischer, a Taiwanese snuff pornographer, and former presidential candidate Michael Dukakis. Hardly the ideal candidates for life on a desolate tropical island, we watch as these individuals face very real trials and tribulations. The show foregoes the artificial competitions seen so often on other reality-based programs, favoring instead the very real goal of mental and physical survival.

“I can see my ribs,” says Sarah Bonner in episode 5, examining her bare, sun-reddened torso with concern. A hotel desk clerk from Baton Rouge, Bonner joined the cast based on the original premise, which concerned the relationships among the crew of a ship bound for the Caribbean. “I don’t even like fish, usually,” she says facing the mounted camera during her video diary segment. “But I’d sure kill for one now.” Indeed, the last fish was eaten during episode 4, but they’ve all but vanished since the weather changed. “We sent Dan out again though, so hopefully we’ll have something by supper. He’s a good guy, I think. Even though he’s, you know. Gee aye why? But I guess we’re all children of the Lord, even still.”

While Dan Trout hunts for fish on the other end of the island, Bobby Fischer seems to have retreated deep into a cave, pornographer Guy Chen is amassing a collection of succulent plant leaves, and Michael Dukakis, now a professor at Northeastern University, is arguing with Jessie Bearden about campfire maintenance. “If you stoke it like that, if you keep agitating it, you’re just going to burn through all of our fuel. I suggest you allow it to smoulder.” Dukakis is standing over her, his palms open in suggestion. But Bearden doesn’t hide her spite as she looks up and barks, “Why in hell should I listen to you for? You talk white but you ain’t even white.” Dukakis just rolls his eyes.

Episode 6 finds the company seriously emaciated, but worrying over a giant manta ray that Trout speared just off the coast, and then dragged for nearly a mile. Trout speaks in voiceover as we watch them saw through gristly flaps of flesh with sharpened rocks. “Yeah, they’re kind of reverential to me because I’ve been the only one who can use the spear to catch anything bigger than inchworms. I kinda dig that, but I’m getting tired of Sarah’s fawning. And I also know who the bad guy’s gonna be when I can’t find any more fish. There’s just nothing out there these days.”

Pam Morse is a yoga instructor, and she’s sniffing at a piece of the manta ray’s fin. “God, it’s so briny,” she says. “And aren’t rays intelligent? I heard they like to play with humans. That means they’re smart, right?”

Pornographer Guy Chen and Bobby Fischer have struck up an unlikely friendship, and merely laugh in response as they rib each other. “Whatever, guys!” Pam snorts. “I’m supposed to be vegan, okay?”

Executive Producer Jasraj Tasneem: “Look, it is more than just a vehicle for diet cola. We see this show as a lesson in social anthropology,” he says over video of Morse performing deep tissue massage on Dukakis’ hirsute back. “And the question is, how far will a person go? We have a controlled environment in which to explore that very question, and the fact is the FCC is far more lenient for documentaries, which, technically, this is. Meaning that–bonus–we can show full frontal.”

Stirring controversy, episode 8 finds Chen incapacitated by foot infection, and battle lines are drawn over how best to deal with the additional burden. As tempers flare, Trout appears from the south end of the beach hauling a blood-soaked sheet of canvas. Gasps are heard as the payload comes into view for the first time: a massive porpoise. “I think he musta been sick,” says Dan Trout in voiceover, “because he was a pretty easy catch. I just had to keep sticking him.” Dukakis looks horrified, and Pam Morse falls to her knees weeping, “Oh, how could you,” she sobs. “Dolphins are intelligent!” Dan says, “It’s a porpoise,” and Morse shoots him a black look. An hour later the sun is setting, and through gaunt cheeks we see jaw muscles working through porpoise steaks. Guy Chen addresses the camera, “Yeah, I see it as victory. Of course I never have eaten a porpoise out in the real world, but I need to keep up my strength now, because of my foot problem.”

Amid public outcry, episode 9 opened with the cast–save for Pam Morse and Guy Chen–feasting on chimpanzees. “I don’t know where Trout got these little guys,” says Dukakis, “but right now I don’t really care.” He wipes the blood from his chin and then sucks the tender marrow from the end of a femur. Morse has yelled herself hoarse, but continues to try to appeal to the morality of her comrades. “Monkeys are intelligent!” she screeches. “You know that! You don’t eat monkeys!” Sarah Bonner interrupts her pleas, “Hey! You need to shut the [beep] up, honey. You afraid we got one of your relatives or something?” Trout moves between them, “Ladies, come on. We don’t know how long we’re going to be here, so we just have to get along and make do with what we have.” Later, Trout confides to his video diary: “I don’t know how much longer we’re going to last. I think Guy killed Bobby Fischer, and that’s how he screwed up his feet. One thing’s for sure though: I haven’t seen any more dolphins, and I don’t think I could catch another chimp.” As the evening bonfire dims to a ring of glowing embers, Guy Chen pulls off one of his toes, and begins to weep.

Episode 10 was only seen on the east coast, before it was pulled off the air entirely. “I’m not touching him,” says Jessie Bearden, casting a wary eye on the corpse of the snuff pornographer. “Looks a little bloated,” Professor Dukakis says prodding Chen’s chest. “Most likely it’s deathgas.” As Trout looks on with visible relief, Morse’s eyes are fixed on the body. “He died from natural causes, right?” she asks quietly. “Hey, it was natural causes, am I right?” She rubs her stomach.

Jasraj Tasneem doesn’t seem disappointed at his series sudden cancellation. “‘Overboard’ was a success at the end of the day. Just getting the show on the air was a success, a milestone. And we only shot the ten episodes, so it basically aired to the end, which we couldn’t have choreographed better. As far as whether the experience benefited the cast, the jury’s out. How can you quantify that? It’s hard to say, this isn’t a gameshow.” And what of monetary prizes? “Like I’ve said, it was a documentary, so there are no prizes per se. We paid their air fare home though. And funeral arrangements, that was all on us. The real question is about mindshare. Our advertisers made a tidy profit, and I think our customers–or viewers, if you prefer–I think they got some food for thought too. The narrative tells us about the human condition, and opens it up to question. Conversation is good. Controversy is good. Win win win situation here, as far as we’re concerned.”

What’s next for Twentyfour Media? Associate Producer Julian Krause has a thought that he runs by his partner. “Two words,” he says. “Mars. Hillbillies.” Tasneem’s eyebrows raise as he considers the notion. Krause continues, “Rednecks on the Red Planet. If we work our connections we might be able to snag some sponsorship and tag along with Bush’s Mars deal.” Tasneem is nodding, “Perfect timing, maybe for the Fall 2015 run. I know some conservatives in the space thing, ex-military. Damn fine angle too,” he says. “Let’s send out some feelers. After lunch.”

Aunt Edna lived with us for several years while I was growing up. She was a forensics enthusiast before being a forensics enthusiast was cool, which it never was. While most kids had hopscotch squares in front of their houses, we had chalk outlines outside ours. The figures’ ghostly limbs were bent in all manners of unlikely angles, probably owing more to the fact of my aunt’s inability to draw than the diabolical nature of a given fictitious crime. Friends who came over were routinely subjected to lineups, and the doorknobs of our home were blackened with repeated fingerprint dustings. Photos in our family albums were interspersed with gruesome case study photos, details of gunshot wounds, and police sketches. Forensics became a way of life for my family, and after a time it became difficult to separate Aunt Edna’s hobby from our daily routines.

Most of the time Aunt Edna could be found measuring things: the arc of the door swing, the amount of milk left in the carton, which spectra tended to see more use in my crayon collection. Anything and everything was subject to quantification, because to her it all meant something, and that was especially important because she had lost so much. Dad tolerated her because it kept me occupied, and he even helped her to set up a lab in the basement in the area he’d always meant to set up his wet bar. Mom tolerated her because my Aunt Edna was her big sister, senior by nearly twenty years. Mom felt beholden to her because she didn’t really have anything else now but her forensics, and after her house burned down, and her husband along with it, she’d had nowhere else to go.

Of course, I was by her side whenever I wasn’t in school. We were inseparable, and she had use for the extra help. I assisted her in setting up cones around the refrigerator when she found its door ajar, and I drew circles around holes in the mortar to help her calculate projectile trajectories. I even got to go with her to the mortuary when she conducted psychological autopsies, and afterward we would eat sandwiches and pickles in cool rooms surrounded by quiet, reflective drawers.

I didn’t care if any of it was real or not, I just liked being a part of the mission. During school, my friends would return to class on Mondays with stories of parties they’d attended, or about their garage bands, or what video games they’d discovered at the arcade. In turn I would regale them with full and accurate accounts of the cases my Aunt Edna and I had closed during the weekend, and of the others that remained open. The rest of the time I found myself distracted by signs, clues, symptoms, and causes. I couldn’t help but see patterns in the bruises on the back of Donna P.’s neck during Geography, and could think of nothing else but precipitating factors and post-crime behaviors. Aunt Edna told me I had a knack for criminal profiling, but to me it was just a way to put off homework.

The day my parents phoned me at Junior Forensics Camp and told me that my Aunt had a pericardial tamponade I was excited, and said that I couldn’t wait to be home to see it. “No, sweetie,” my mother said, her sniffling turned to white noise by the phone, “it’s not… that’s not… I’m so sorry. Here’s Dad.”

I left camp early to attend Aunt Edna’s funeral. The doctors told me that she’d developed pericarditis caused by a sudden infection, and that she had not suffered long. I knew they were talking down to me, trying to console me, but I didn’t really care by then.

What I remember most about Aunt Edna’s funeral was the procession itself. Virginia winters still had a bite in those days, and that December was no exception. Dozens of slow-rolling tires packed the fresh snow, and bare branches hung low under the weight of the night’s accumulated ice. I sat in the back seat with my temple resting against the cool glass, and watched in disbelief as my Aunt’s hearse was suddenly swept away in an intersection by a big rig, which was itself traveling sideways. The hood of the long black vehicle became wedged under the trailer, and as the truck plowed into an old deli, snow began to drift down from the slate sky.

The fire that belched from the truck’s compromised fuel tank was almost fluorescent in the chill purple gloom of mid-morning. Snow melted in a circle around the accident, as if in reverence, and spectators formed a wide circle around that, just beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Friends and family looked on in horror as officers, shielding their eyes from the growing flames, tried to open the rear door of the hearse. But the vehicle’s frame had bent, and the door may as well have been welded shut.

A sense of desperation settled on the would-be funeral attendees as they witnessed the fire consuming the front of the hearse, but I felt surprisingly calm. My fingers were numb, but the pain was good. To me this all made sense in a way, not to sound morbid about it. In fact I was even able to summon a laugh as my mother, beyond hope, leaned to my father and said, “Well, cremation is noble too.” It was the look on dad’s face that made me laugh. My mother was the one with the macabre sense of humor.

For the first time I got to see the “jaws of life,” watched how firefighters applied it to the hearse, opening it like a tin can just to save the corpse of my Aunt. Meanwhile officers were setting up traffic cones, and, just beyond them, a small group of people were taking photos of the tracks in the snow, and marking key areas with flares. Crime scene investigators. My aunt would have loved it.

In the end we postponed the ceremony until the next day, and afterward I remember a crowded house, and food, and quiet words of consolation only barely slurred by spirits. Mom and Dad let me spend that night in Aunt Edna’s laboratory, bundled against the basement’s cold in a thick blanket. In the moon’s glow my eyes lit upon the instruments of my Aunt’s work, and stopped on a stick of chalk resting on a short stack of books. Later I dreamed in outlines, and of myself tracing around a world frozen into stillness so that I would remember it after it had moved on.

My friend, whom I hate, just had his second book optioned, a fact that haunts me because “The Killness” is not a good book. And it’s not as good as his first book which, though it was spectacularly bad, was also optioned.

“So what?” he says, “All books are optioned these days.” Mine wasn’t. “They’ll probably just end up sitting on it anyway.” The book isn’t good for much else, but my disappointment stems from a larger question. Namely, why is banality not only accepted, but so consistently rewarded? I don’t put the question to him quite this way, but his explanation goes, “It’s got a compelling hook, and that’s what sells. Think about it: Peace, it turns out–peace among humans–is the result of a genetic defect from way back. A mutation at some point. And when modern scientists accidentally develop a cure for it, we’re all savages again! Killness. That’s totally pitchable.” Indeed, I might have said the same thing. “And it’s got style. It’s Crichtoney. Or no, it’s like… Dean Koontz meets George Romero.”

“No,” I say, “it’s not any of that.”

“Come on,” he says. “Look, you’re just anxious about your book being published. And no worries there–it will be. Mainstream potential!”

Mainstream potential? That’s not even a sentence. To me it sounds more like the prognosis of some terminal condition. It makes me nervous when people start speaking in quotable jargon. If I nodded and said, “Mass appeal!” my friend would kiss me on the lips, clearly.

No, if I’m anxious then maybe it’s because it’s taken me three months just to start on the last chapter of my own book. I reached a point where even thinking about getting back into it was enough to fill me with dread and revulsion. And not even the story per se, but the physical act of writing. Articulation is taxing. Sometimes just writing my name seems to be pushing the limit of my abilities. Take for example the writing of a check. I’ve found myself in a self-destructive thought spiral that goes like this: Begin to sign name. Realize that I thought about signing my name last time I signed my name, and the act of becoming conscious of the activity caused me not only to lose my place, but temporarily to lose the ability to write at all. Try not to think about it. Concentrate on finishing what I had begun. Squeeze pen in hand and make illegible marks on check. Neck muscles strain, and I raise my pen arm over my head and bring it down repeatedly on the table while making torn, hoarse woofs and swinging my head back and forth. Warden puts me in solitary.

Writing is an odd thing. Muses run hot and cold. Agents are fickle. I’ve never considered myself a writer except in contrast to other people–particularly those who find a way to succeed in spite of having burned all their bridges, hacked some bit of fluff inspired by the back of a cereal box, and had a tryst with their own agent’s wife. I guess I’m thinking about this one person in particular now.

When he told me that he’d been made an offer I had one of those moments where things stop and you’re suddenly at the center of the universe, and the audience is waiting to see what you’ll do so they’ll know whether to laugh or hide behind their hands. See, I knew this guy’s work. I knew it for what it was: logorrheic dandruff. And there we were standing on the sidewalk and he had the nerve to tell me that he was going to be published?

Later on, when I was by myself, I finally summoned the nerve to read the draft of “Jejune Moon” he’d given me. A quick scan reminded me how wretched it was, but I’d forgotten the exact flavor of wretchedness, or emotionally blocked it off. To be fair, it was conceivable that I’d missed something redeeming about the work, a small thread of satire perhaps, or a bit of self-referential sarcasm. Or maybe something so extremely subtle that it’s not actually there. An implied wit.

I opened to the first page, which was typed and formatted just like a real book, except the words were arranged in this manner:

“You know what? You can’t stand that you lost. You can’t believe that you lost and that I won. Well you’re going to have to believe it because its true. There can be only one winner here, and that is me, and that is more than you can handle. But you’ll have the next twenty years to get used to it. Not to get used to losing, but to get used to the way you have been put in your place so firmly, so decisively. Your loss will be with you like a child now, and when it finally leaves you in twenty years you’ll be left with nothing. And in a way you will miss the loss, because you are comfortable with it, and are quite familiar with it. Incestuously so. And you will miss the loss because, finally, it was all that you ever really had.”

The problem with this setup, other than the fact that it’s terrible in so many separate and unique ways, is that it’s never resolved. Never, never ever. Indeed, it’s never explained in any way whatsoever, not in this book or any other. We never learn who is being addressed, who is speaking, or what was won and what was lost. And most importantly, we can never come up with a reason to care one way or the other.

I told him later that I thought the loss concerned that of the reader who, after reading this opening, would never be able to care about anything that might follow. And that wasn’t really a loss, because there never really was a chain of events, as such. Oh sure there were paragraphs strung one right after another, but they were more like people shoved together on a subway train at rush hour. They didn’t know each other, didn’t really want to know each other, and couldn’t wait to be home. His paragraphs were vignettes from the uninteresting parts of other stories. I told him that if there was any karmic justice at all, after reading this offal the reader could take comfort in the fact that the next ten books he or she read would be brilliant. I felt righteous.

I don’t know why we’re still friends.