loner, lone wolf, lone hand--a person who avoids the company or assistance of others

hermit--a person who retires from society and lives in solitude; a recluse; an anchorite

THE ISLE OF TRANQUILITY, PART I

Well, here it is ten minutes 'til noon and she's still among the missing. Didn't even bother to cook me up some brunch before traipsing off on one of her infamous island jaunts. Damned if I'll ever comprehend that woman's mindset. It's like she's always late for an appointment she never had. You'd think three blessed months on this island would've altered such behavior. No matter ... I'll do enough relaxing for the both of us. First off I'll heat up some of those frozen waffles and wash 'em down with a pot of the stoutest Joe I can take. Second, I'll toss on a pair of swim trunks and kick back by the pool with an icy beverage and the last of Pop's many bestsellers. Funny, in a tragic sorta way, that it took a global catastrophe for me to get rightly acquainted with the crazy bastard's life's work. Whatever, I'm sure Pop is peering straight up from the fiery pits of hell with an expression of fatherly pride at the mere concept. Sadistic jackass ... long may you simmer in Satan's crockpot.

I was thinking of giving the Internet another shot, but why waste precious time and effort on such a hopelessly lost cause? No way it's been miraculously revived overnight ... same with the satellite TV and radio transmitter. Frozen solid as my waffles, no doubt--dead as the swollen ranks of wandering corpses that make up the world population these days. Ah, no big deal anyhow. I never cared much for the Web except for the occasional porn surf. TV sucked sewer fluid and the radio was a wasteland of crappy music and still crappier political babblings.

The fact is, I ain't at all ashamed to confess to feeling damn relieved at the whole turn of events. I'd been spouting off for years about making a permanent move to Pop's little island getaway and living the rest of my life on cold beer and processed foods. Other people's opinions be damned--what exactly is so wrong about living one's life in peaceful solitude? I could care less about said opinions--everyone possesses an asshole as well--but why shouldn't I, as an only child, enjoy the fruits of my father's labor? The only thing that kept me from making tracks years ago was Jenny and her passion for high-society living. She always felt the need to wear that mask of wealth ... to show off whatever new bauble or toy came into her greedy possession. Me, I never gave a rat's hairy hind leg about putting on airs. Never was my style to flaunt. Don't get me wrong ... I loved the unlimited supply of cash and all the artificial happiness it brought me ... but the status thing never meant squat. Besides, one who spends a large majority of his youth doing time in assorted rehabs finds it a bit difficult to feign a high level of class.

Jenny was always the actress while I played the part of bumbling stage hand. No doubt her friends always pondered, and more likely asked her outright, why she stayed with such a societal misfit as yours truly. To that I respond with two simple but extremely forceful words ... prenuptial agreement. Though admittedly I have to say there is a bond there, however threadbare. Twelve and a half years is a chunk of time, after all, especially amongst the blue-blood crowd. As far as Jen and me, there is a massive gray area between hate and love, mostly consisting of a thick, crusty layer of reluctant tolerance. The socialite and the boozy, drug-addled recluse--Howard freakin' Hughes and Madonna ... together forever. Who would have ever thunk it? Well, off to nuke some waffles, then to peruse the old man's vast library of meaningless but obviously lucrative words.