Picture it and Write: Working in Paradise
Hi there. This is my offering for this weeks picture it and write from Ermilia’s blog here. Once again the picture is not mine it is from the lovely Marisa Lyons an excellent writer who you should check out. Anyway; enjoy.
Working in paradise
People tend to have these notions about living in a resort like here, they think it must be just a constant celebration, like I was on a lifetime holiday. But the reality is I have to work just as hard as anyone else only I have to do it where everyone else doesn’t.
The sign on the pub I run; O’Reilly’s on the strip says that we close at 3AM every night. The reality is the most determined drinkers always orders giant rounds withing a minute of the bar stopping serving and then spend at least an hour afterwards finishing off their drinks and trying to coerce us into giving some more or god knows what else.
You add on cleaning off the night’s spilled beer, broken glass and vomit. It can be closer to 6 in the morning before I finally lock the doors and get to travel home. Dawn is usually starting to break when I get in my car and leave the resort town on the coast.
I don’t live nearby, couldn’t afford it. I live about ten miles inland, barely in the range of a jalopy older than I was. After such a long night I am seldom fit for anything but bed.
My home is small, but nicely built. There are trees in the garden with a swing that was there when I bought it. It looks lovely with the morning sun blazing from over the mountains. I always regret when I see it since I can contribute so little to it apart from the money I bring in, my wife is left to that mostly.
I remember a morning when I just closed the door to my car when I heard a squeal from outside. “Daddy!” shouted my son, Geoff, his four-year-old legs running down the the stairs, the family beagle in hot pursuit. I see him up and about so irregularly that I was a little taken aback. He wrapped himself around my leg and shouted again “You’re back!”
“Yes I am kiddo!” I ruffled the hair on his head bringing a soft giggle “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
“Just got up!” Geoff lied “Do you want to play on the swing?”
The bed was calling me but I found it hard to argue while I was being dragged over to the tree swing. I lifted him up and placed him gingerly on the wooden seat. “Push me! Push me!” he demanded so I started to shift the swing back and forth. Geoff laughed with joy, the noise filling the small garden as the sun slowly rose into the sky. I found it difficult to stay awake sometimes, my eyes starting to feel unbearably heavy, but that laugh, that infectious laugh kept me going that little bit longer. “Just one more push Daddy! Wheeeee!”
“What is all this then?” called the cavalry; my wife Jen from the front door “Your father had a tough night. He needs his sleep.” Geoff made a face as if prepared to argue but thought better of it. Instead he jumped back into my arms, kissed me on the cheek and whispered “Nite Daddy Love you!” He then calls the dog who had been waiting expectantly at my feet and runs off into the garden, searching for some excitement.
I am reluctant to let him go on mornings like that. As he is prepared to go like any boy of his age and see the wonders of the world. But I always argue that he needs me working more than that. “How was it love?” Jen asks; the look on my face tells her everything, the same as it always is.
As I head up to my small bedroom, the black-out blinds fully drawn I always try and take one final look at the sun. If I was with Geoff it would be hopefully a little higher but seldom by much. If I get a good day’s sleep it would we waning by the time I see it again. But then that is what is expected, to spend my time like a reveller, out of synch with the rest of my world, the price of working in paradise.