i would have to think that if i was laying on the beach and a bottle washed up that the ONLY possible reason i was there would be working as a maid at some swanky resort in the tropics. so basically, this scenario sucks ass.
i clean for a living, the disgusting crusty remains of dirty dishes, unspeakable toilets, endless pet hair, constant stuff everywhere, every day. it’s like not leaving home. it’s like picking up everyone’s bath towels and putting the toilet paper ONTO the dispenser- about thirty times a week and it’s wiping ramen noodle spice packet dust and coffee residue from six or seven counters weekly. countless shoes and pillows put in their correct places, endless crevices to be vacuumed, cobwebs galore, constantly and all week. so, it might seem that moving all of this “fun” to someplace seaside or tropical might be nice.
i imagine, i’m there in my hawaiian print shirt and turquoise cotton work pants, wandering the beach side cabanas, cleaning up after honeymooners and spoiled people that don’t know how much i’d like to break one of the resorts hurricane glasses and shank them with it. these lovey dovey couples don’t realize just HOW CLOSE they are to me bashing them in the head with the bar’s novelty coconut shells. they are making out and dropping drink umbrellas, cherry stems and condom wrappers all over the place for me to clean up.
i can hear them giggling and grunting and groaning, not hidden by the bamboo “privacy screens” as i fold the seven thousandth bleached beach towel into yet another fucking swan. i pick up trays of half eaten strawberries and pretend these jerks aren’t sucking each other’s faces like an octopus sucks mollusks from their shells. i walk quiety by leathery brown tourists snapping their fingers for more champagne and fruit platters, squirting each other with cocoa butter and KY like NO ONE has to clean that crap up. i replace the newly folded swan towel next to a dry-humping, drunk couple that are feeding each other chunks of pineapple, and the couple immediately picks up the towel to sop the runny juice from their faces, giggling, only to then drop it to the ground to possibly later to use a rag for their “love juices.” yuck.
the heat is getting to me as well as the squeals and ecstatic giggling, so i wander away from the cabanas and notice trash in the water. i walk towards it expecting more condom wrappers or even the usual bikini bottom and realize that it’s just a bottle. from as far away as i am, i can’t tell if it’s an empty bottle of lube or booze; either way, as “Housekeeping”, it’s my damn job to pick up litter like i’m some golden garbageman in paradise.
i make my way through the honey colored sand, littered with bits of shells, ground up pieces of old hotel guests’ credit cards, and porsche glass, and stop to pick up the bottle, ready to chuck into the jewel encrusted trash bucket i’m carrying.
“what’s this, i ask to myself, “a cliche’d message in a bottle? who’da thunk? how novel!” i glance around nervously before i open the dirty old bacardi bottle, wondering what hotel protocol is for “lost beach articles.” i chomp-pull out the crammed in cork with my teeth like a pirate, uncaring what people might say if they saw. i pull out the rolled up note and park myself on a nearby lounge chair, figuring it will be some gag from one of the local kids. as jaded as i am, i’m still excitedly curious and unroll the note, expecting a Target receipt, an expired Dunkin Donut coupon or at best, a menu from Polly’s Tropicano Pizza Hut.
i slowly read the note, and then read it again, this time, out loud, not believing the scrawly inky words that are in front of me. it is a will. “Last Will and Testament of Sir Bubbaloo DePaulo“, the island’s richest resident and he has written that he will bestow the entire island along with all of his riches and money to the finder of this note. !!!! i cannot believe it!!! some luck for once! i dance through the sand, kicking up waves lapping my feet. i am ecstatic! i turn and head towards one of the vacationers that is yelling at me for more Rum Runners and dump the ice bucket right on his pretentious asshole head.
“FUCK THIS SHIT! I’M RICH! and i am OUT OF HERE!” i yell to his startled and sputtering wife, who just happens to be the color of a bucket of extra crispy KFC. i tear off my uniform, hideous turquoise scrub bottoms and all, leaving me in just my hole-y zebra print underpants and matching ill-fitting bra to run like hell back to the hotel. i can’t believe my luck, my new fantastic life is about to begin!
“I OWN THIS FUCKING ISLAND, YOU DIPSHIT OVERPRIVELEDGED SNOTTY ASSHOLES! so get the FUCK off my beach and get real jobs!” laughing, i grab a pitcher of pina coladas off of serving tray and chug the whole damn thing!
i jubilantly run and run—- (A SPLASH!) a bucket of ice water is dumped onto my head, snapping me back to reality.
“Hey! Lady? are you okay? ” someone asks.
i look around and see that i’m laying in the sand, probably drunk off the pitcher of pina coladas. no matter, I’M RICH and drunk on the pina coladas from the ISLAND THAT I OWN, mother fuckers!!!! a circle of people are gathered and staring at me as if i was a rabid animal and worried that i might strike again.
i look down and someone hands me a towel to cover up my nonsensical and unsexy zebra print under-garments. i start to yell at everyone to get away from the new queen of the island when my boss wanders up, looking super pissed.
he starts yelling at me in his broken english “Mister Morales say you make fun of wife and dump ice on head. You are fired, yoong lady! get OUT!”
i pull myself up and start to yell at him about the newsflash he obviously missed, about me being the new SUPREME RULER of the island, when i reach up to touch a horrible swelling spot on my forehead. looking down i notice a bacardi bottle, the note missing, just as a plate of crab claws, shrimp tails and lemon wedges rains down onto my head, courtesy of Ms. Bucket of KFC, Extra Crispy. cocktail sauce oozes down the side of my face as my coworker explains to me that i suffered some sort of heatstroke and flipped out on Mr Morales and his fried chicken-colored wife, so he cracked me in the head with a bacardi bottle and i passed out.
soooooooooo apparently, i guess, it’s back to cleaning toilets in pittsburgh, no thanks to Sir Bubbaloo DePaulo, which may or may not be the name of my friend’s pomeranian and NOT the richest man on an island somewhere.