My Boss, the Chef, was a veteran scumbag, a staggering alcoholic who only got up only to place a few inventory orders and then fiddle in his office before retiring to his cabin on the hillside to drink himself into oblivion and fuck his pet hostess of the season. His main culinary techniques were to drink stolen beer, avoid the kitchen, and hope it didn't burn down around us. I realized at some point that was indeed my role, and demanded more money. This worked well, until we too often closed early to better spend the till at the titty bar in Selina...but I digress. The partnership between by superior and I was ended when, halfway through the summer season, his daughter showed up. She was older than me (twenty-five), and out adrift on her own. She was "taking a break" from college and asked her Dad for a job. He got her a spot as a cashier in the gift shop. A few days later a few of us got together and snuck into the hot-tub/pool house in the guest-area of the resort. We had done. Maybe order had been restored and I held out on sea for nothing, like these Japanese soldiers in South East Asia, long after WWII had ended. Maybe no other human was alive at all. Most likely, some kind of stone-age anarchy had developed and I would be slain and possibly eaten as soon as I came near land. That didn’t sound too tempting. I might need to risk checking the situation sooner or later, but I wouldn’t as long as I had enough food.Food. That was my big problem. I had everything I needed to survive for years: water, safety, energy and loads of vitamin pills. Food was my only problem. I had stored a lot on the yacht and had brought a bit with me during my flight, but, of course, it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t possibly be enough. How long should it last? Two years? Even ten years wouldn’t be enough as I had no desire to die in ten years. I had no illusion that civilization would have been restored, even then.Realistically, I had food for about one more year, maybe one and a.
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