They ride the bus out to the far end of the island. Elbow to elbow, hip to hip, a nasal cocktail of sweat tinged cologne and room temperature sack lunches. An arid breeze blows through the open windows, while they look out at nothing. A tin can space-time shuttle through desert scrub as far as the eye can see. When they hit the outer stretch of beach hotels, the driver shifts into low gear and eases onto the hidden access road, making sure to stay out of sight and mind. These workers must remain an abstraction. People that present themselves only when their services are required then quickly blend into the blur of scenery on the periphery of every idyllic vacation photo.
At the hotel bar a man loosens the buttons on his linen shirt, cuffs his sleeves, and thinks about the heat for what seems like the first time since arriving in this place. He watches the bartender expertly prepare a tray of eight different vibrant colored drinks. His eyes follow when the waitress picks up the drinks with a smile and carries them to a beachfront table. The waitress sets the drinks down with care while the customers revel in their inane conversation, waving her off as soon as the drinks land on the table. He turns back to the bar and sips his ice cold beer. He takes a deep salt air breath that feels like nothing but the American ideal of freedom; the comfort of being served. The joy of being seen.
Tomorrow the faces will change but the picture will be the same. A purple sunset framed by palm trees, copied onto glossy paper, and shelved at the local curio shop as a postcard memory of the place everyone swore they saw.
