Jack stood behind the bar of the beach cantina for over a year now. He ran away from his corporate job one day saving himself from the latest ridiculous tidal wave of bureaucracy. Reports that no one ever read and projections that did not have a chance of ever being met. He reflected fondly on the spark of courage that hit him on that winter Friday afternoon. He e-mailed his resignation to his boss knowing he wouldn’t see it till Monday. His boss snuck out early every Friday for internal political drinks, despite the Friday deadlines he imposed on his subordinates.
Jack served the never ending tequila shots to this week’s tourists and operating as an unofficial travel agent. Every time he lifted his head from the latest customer his eyes caught the watercolor painting his boss painted; the glass now peppered with today’s spills and splatters. The painting was of fifteen or so melancholy figures stranded on wooden boats stuck in a murky swamp. Jack always felt it strange for a bar on a tropical beach full of red tinted party goers.