'Lost On Treasure Island' by Steve Friedman

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Thanks to Candace Bushnell’s beloved Carrie Bradshaw, the world knows what it’s like to be a single gal living in the Big Apple. Thanks to Steve Friedman’s candid new memoir, Lost On Treasure Island, which details his early years in the land of the quick and the mean, we now know how the other half lives.

If you’re expecting a cliché tale of a small town boy conquering the “big, bad city,” you’ll definitely be left disappointed. Sure, that’s how it begins: young, naïve, delusional and hypochondriacal Friedman leaves St. Louis for New York after he is offered a senior editor position at GQ. He’s dressed to impress and ready to take on the world in his pursuit of literary greatness.

But there’s not much room for creativity in the grooming section he’s in charge of. When he’s given legitimate features to write, the countless hours he devotes to his manuscripts are overlooked, his efforts ruthlessly ridiculed. He can never live down the time he once used the word “garb” in conversation. And the only way he can get into his boss’ good graces is to “make [his work] meaner” which Friedman does, at the expense of looking like a total jerk to people he genuinely connects with while on assignment, including celebrities Mary Louise Parker and John Tesh.

All this while living in a cockroach-infested apartment that serves brown tap water; getting acclimated to the natives’ “charming” (read: rude, uncaring) behavior; and trying to reassure his poor father back home that he made the right decision and is happy with his new life. No wonder Friedman develops rashes, has chronic stomach aches, can’t sleep, and dreams of savage dogs chasing him. Can you blame him?

Now throw into the mix his search for a mate, and you have the ultimate recipe for disaster. Friedman seems to be a magnet for every emotionally disturbed and unavailable woman that sets foot in this great writhing metropolis. From PR reps to fitness experts, aspiring actresses to desperate waitresses, Friedman meets and sleeps with more women than I can keep track of. The majority you foresee as trouble, like Bridget, the drunk, separated mother of an autistic son she’s in denial about, and blames Steve for (in addition to all the problems in her life) all because he doesn’t love her enough. And when he ignores the warning signs and decides to commit to her, he finds her in bed with his best friend just when he’s about to propose. But then there are a few like Candy, the health editor for Elle who accepts him for who he is, but with whom he breaks up with because she has the audacity to ask him to help her with the dishes after she goes to the trouble of cooking him a romantic Valentine’s Day dinner. (It’s during these sections that I wonder if that brown tap water destroyed his remaining brain cells.)

Also numerous are his never-ending attempts to turn his life around, which are inspiring, but just as exhausting to follow. There’s this chaotic swirl of exercise regimens, special diets, spiritual retreats and therapy sessions - you name it, he tries it, strays away from it, returns to it and so on. Yet after each cycle, nothing ever changes because Friedman never fails to find a way to sabotage himself.

Eventually he quits his job at GQ to become a freelancer, which means he stays in his apartment eating ice cream and watching X-rated films as his savings dwindle, his waistline expands and his literary dreams get lost in the ruins of a past life. There is still a revolving door of women entering his life, several great candidates for Mrs. Friedman at first glance, but all subconsciously intent on taking the remaining pieces of his heart, strewing them aimlessly across Manhattan. Somewhere along the way though, our anti-hero discovers the underlying cause of this dysfunction – fear. He’s finally tired of running away from life.

At times you can’t help but laugh at Friedman’s plight – his effortless prose tickles the funny bone while also tugging at your heart strings. It’s hard not to feel sorry for the guy, even when he brings a lot of things on himself. It’s heartbreaking to watch his career ambitions get stifled because of demographics, profits and the need for sensationalism. It’s devastating to see him reach out for human connection only to find people are fake and phony. It’s even more infuriating that there’s always some obstacle looming in the distance, biding its time to knock him back down again.

Friedman is no different from any of us, he’s just managed to channel his setbacks in a clever way that can digest and learn from. Through his frantic but hilarious experiences, he’s showing us what it’s like to grow up and survive in the real world, navigating both the good and the bad times. It’s not a manifesto of how to achieve success and rise above the rubble, but rather a realistic account of the endless surprises life offers and a promise of better things to come.

Nothing short of a journey that takes readers to hell and back, Lost On Treasure Island is a brutally honest look into the soul of a man brave enough to share his battle with demons within and without. I can only hope Mary Louise Parker and John Tesh (among others) were personally delivered copies of this terrific read, and now know the truth…