Free Vacation Therapy by Lance Zarimba Page A

you could use a break from it."
    I wiped my brow and felt my skin tingle with the sweat. Maybe a look at the clipboard was in order. The sheet for the jungle cruise only had two guys signed up for this afternoon.
    Gary noticed my gaze. “Good choice, the jungle cruise. It takes off at two o'clock. Probably the best time to be out of the sun.” His eyebrows raised in anticipation. “Come on, it'll be fun."
    "Why not?” I picked up the pen and bent over to sign up for the trip. Quickly, I wrote my name down and then asked, “I thought this trip was free."
    "It is."
    "If it's free, why do I have to put my room number down?"
    Gary took a deep breath and exhaled. “It just keeps track of how many people use the services. It's not our rule, it's the resort's."
    I wrote my room number in the blank, but for some reason, it bothered me.
    "Good. All you have to do is be in the parking lot in front of the hotel fifteen minutes before the trip, and the shuttle will take you to the boat."
    "Thanks.” I smiled and went in search of lunch.
    A banquet of chicken, hot dogs, fish, spaghetti, mashed potatoes, rice, corn, salad, and fruit lined the buffet table. Several swimsuit-clad men trickled through the line, picked at the serving dishes, and placed small blobs of food on their plates.
    I flipped a chicken breast and scooped a pile of mashed potatoes on my plate, but nothing else looked appetizing. Trying to avoid the sun for a few minutes, I chose a table inside the cabana. All the doors and windows were closed on the seaside in an attempt to prevent the wind from blowing the food across the room.
    A minute after I sat down, sweat dripped along my brow, down my nose, and landed in my mashed potatoes. My temperature perception had been fooled by the ocean's breeze. It had cooled the air, making the beach's temperature comfortable, but in this enclosed space, it had little effect. The thick humidity threatened to drown me.
    Sitting in the shade and out of the breeze, I felt the real temperature. Sweat broke out over my body, and the hot, humid air clung to my skin. No wonder the sand had been so hot to walk on barefoot. It must be over a hundred degrees in the shade. What would it be like in the sun without the breeze?
    Looking around the pool area and hoping John had gone to take a nap or something, I watched the men mill around the pool. A long line stood at the bar, waiting for a cool drink. Geoff still bartended. He nodded in my direction when he noticed me looking.
    I picked at the chicken with my fork, but it refused to pull apart. I stabbed the entire piece and took a bite out of it. The chicken was overcooked, tough, and dry. I chewed and chewed, and forced it down with a hard swallow. Maybe the mashed potatoes. After one bite, I knew this meal was going to be dry and tasteless. Hopefully, supper would be better. It couldn't get any worse, could it?
    Before running back to the room, I found Sergio, still cutting hair, and took my camera back. Our room was hot and humid, so I turned on the air conditioner. The fan clicked and hummed and, eventually, cool air started to blow, cold enough to send shivers across my tender skin. I stood there for a minute, bathing in the refreshing breeze. This room was going to feel great after the afternoon in the sun.
    The digital clock read one-thirty. I turned on the television. Flipping through the channels, I found four stations, two with Mexican soap operas, and HBO and CNN in Spanish. Not much to choose from. My high school had only offered French, so these channels did nothing for me. CNN's storm watch bulletin flashed on the screen, but I clicked the remote back to HBO. The movie Death Becomes Her was playing. Goldie Hawn, not in her own voice, rattled off something in Spanish, and I didn't understand a single word. I turned off the set, picked up my camera, and looked into the mirror. My beet red face was slowly turning pink, but it seemed to glow in contrast to my yellow shirt. I