The long evening ended at four a.m. Indy Writer opened the back sliding windows onto the black water that stretched out, as he soon would on one of two beds in his huge Florida hotel room. "This is a beautiful room." He said looking out over the beach the bungalows and the ocean. He turned around, surveyed the popcorn ceiling, the teal couch, the mauve lampshades, the large framed beach-scene painting not two feet from an actual beach, and he looked at me and Rick Loose and said, "you guys need to write a book."

It was the third time in five hours he'd suggested I write a book to achieve the perks of a, "famous author" as he referred to himself. But he's kidding, right? Within ten minutes off the plane he'd warned, "I'm pretty much always acting." When he bragged about eating hashcakes in Amsterdam with Zadie Smith, that was cool. When I responded, "I've never been to Amsterdam," and he answered, smiling, "You gotta write a book, buddy.": I assumed he was acting, considered him a drama brat, a theatre nerd; arrogant and dorky: all of which can be great. Or grating. 'We'll see,' I thought.

Sex Writer got off the plane wearing the plaid jacket that is his literary costume. It looks like an old-man's coat and does give him a distinguished, professorial feel from another era. But later in the evening, as he danced furiously, a genre-less dance, I read the word GAP on the gold inside pocket.

A squirrelly guy from Orlando met us at the airport to tape-interview Indy Writer for a radio program. Indy Writer and THE SQUIRREL walked ahead to tape the interview and Rick Loose kept up to listen. I straggled behind walking the length of the airport beside Sex Writer. He was quiet and has the profile of a bald eagle. What's left of his wispy hair is brushed back like he's admitting there's not much left to lose and I respect that.

Indy Writer's hair was pushed forward, with hair products, onto his receding hairline, which is still a lot better than mine will be in a few years, at his age. He wore a frumpy gray sweater and his beard had not yet reached stage 3 but his eyes were clear and exceptionally pretty. At one point in his interview he broke away from THE SQUIRREL and hung back to get next to me and ask softly: "Did you remember to bring that joint?"

"Yes."

He patted me on the shoulder. "Good boy," and ran back up to THE SQUIRREL and his microphone.

Rick and Indy Writer and THE SQUIRREL drove in one car and Sex Writer and I in my sister's car, which I'd borrowed for the occasion. Driving through Tampa with Sex Writer, there was silence in place of my tour. No 'That building is our historic…,' or 'See right there, that beautiful structure was…' Tampa's not for that. So we must talk. And I didn't want to talk about writing. And I didn't want to talk about myself. So we didn't really talk.

But before going to eat at Bella's Italian Café, we stopped at Kash N' Karry in Hyde Park. I often drive across town to shop, just to peep out the abundance sexy women who pay higher rent. There are so many and they all wash their hair every day, probably twice a day in some cases. I thought he might appreciate them, so I stopped there to use the ATM. He followed me in.

"Do you want to hear the weirdest story?" He asked as we entered the too-bright store. Here we go.

"Yeah, definitely." I usually pay to hear his stories.

At the ATM, under the blinding florescence, he told me a story involving a certain woman mothering him years ago, his recently writing a blurb for some woman's biography, and then finding out the woman who had mothered him was a transsexual, and also the author of the book, for which he had just written a blurb.

"Isn't that a weird coincidence?" I took my cash and thought how nice it was to have one of his stories ask 'so what do you think?' when it was over. We walked to the door, but while we still had the grocery store lighting I studied his chest hair exploding from the V of his shirt under his neck, like orange water from a sprinkler. That's going to happen to me some day, I thought.

We sat at a round table in Bella's, where I was fired from months ago: me, Rick Loose, Sex Writer, Indy Writer, THE SQUIRRELL and his microphone, pointed at Indy Writer, which Indy Writer loved. We'd been together an hour and I still wondered whether Indy Writer was kidding when he pontificated on the fulfilling nature of art and touring and gaining money and fame and leisure for the creation of something beautiful, and ended the soliloquy by saying: "You know, some friends of my wife and I said to us the other day, 'You guys really have perfect lives.' And I tend to agree with them." I looked to my tablemates and tried to read their hearts to see if theirs too were hoping Indy Writer was putting us on. We were on our second round.

Sex Writer had said in an email a few weeks back, that he wouldn't be drinking this trip. But he seemed to have changed his mind, which he also said he'd do. I hoped he wasn't thinking he was expected to entertain us. I would feel that way in his position; not wanting to let your little fan down; wanting to be as crazy as you purport yourself to be in your books. The first time I wrote to him I told him how funny he was and he ended his reply with: "Sorry this wasn't a funny email." Tonight at the dinner table he apologized: "As soon as I finish this salad," He said, spreading his cloth napkin across his lap and ordering another beer. "I'll feel better and I'll liven up." And after two bottles of beer he began to blossom.

The two real writers discussed their resumes and we listened, genuinely interested. "I've never won any awards." Said Indy Writer, humbly, when Sex Writer mentioned his Guggenheim fellowship. Rick Loose said few words and I knew he was processing and storing information and shaking his head in amazement.

We left the restaurant with buzzes and they lit a joint in my sister's car on the way to the HUB. After several hits, Sex Writer became the articulate court jester with Indy Writer playing the straight man and heckling the newly born Sex Writer, "Well, sounds like someone's stoned." Indy Writer said. "This is great. With this guy around, that takes the pressure of me to be funny." When Sex Writer turned on, Indy Writer subsided.

Sex Writer raved out of his stoned gourd about how he'd gone to Jimmy Buffet's doctor about his baldness and the doctor had given him some illegally strong Rogaine and one night when he was drunk he felt suicidal and poured the entire bottle on his head trying to kill himself with it; soak his brain with toxic chemicals through his scalp. Sex Writer ranted from the back seat, "And it was like this cross of like mortality and vanity like I wanted to die but hopeful like I'd also had something to live for, like getting my hair back."

"That's the most Jewish thing I've ever heard." Said Indy Writer sitting next to me, staring out the window.

The four of us stumbled out of my sister's car down town, outside THE HUB. I felt very proud of our weather. Indy Writer had switched to a T-shirt but Sex Writer still sported his coat.

"Hey, you guys have to come see this." I broke off in the other direction, hoping they'd follow.

They all kvetched (Indy Writer taught me that word when I told him to quit complaining) about walking but stopped when they heard the sound, far away. The screeching. "Why are we going away from the bar?" Rick Loose asked.

"Trust me." The screeching was louder.

"What is that noise? Some sloppy parrot?" asked Sex Writer, full of funny arrogance.

"Close." The screeching stopped. Then started again. Blaring when we came underneath it.

I explained. "It's hawk sounds. They keep the vultures away so there's not this death knell circling this building. The city paid for it."

"It sounds like they put it there to keep the people away." Said Sex Writer. "Why were there vultures circling overhead?"

"Because there's a lot of zombies walking around downtown during the day. The living dead." I answered. We walked on to the bar.

Standing outside the HUB bathrooms, which provide the only light in the bar save the jukebox and television, Indy Writer took a sip of his Hub Scotch and all the features of his face grabbed for his nose because the most culturally superior residents of the most beautiful places on Earth cannot deny the unique potency of Hub drinks. Indy Writer announced his love of dive bars as he'd earlier announced that he was moving to Philadelphia because he wanted to live in a city where homeless people still built fires in garbage cans on the street. "Why'd you take us to that bad Italian restaurant when we coulda just came here to The Hub?" He asked. I took it as a compliment; 'Thanks for bringing me here. This is a cool place.' We toasted his being in Tampa as Sex Writer chatted up music critic and Jew, Stefanie Kalem.

Indy Writer talked more about his book. It had been hours, and though I still wasn't sick of them talking about themselves, I could tell I might be if the trend continued. Indy Writer staggered me at one point by referring to himself as, "extremely brilliant," and I had to turn away and look around for some grounding and I laughed but still felt like I needed to walk away or something and said, . "Let's move over there and try to sit down." And the posse, Rick Loose, Stefanie, Indy and Sex Writer, and some other girls Sex Writer had met, all followed me.

When we reached the other wall, I leaned next to Indy Writer with my ugly drink and asked: "So, extremely brilliant? You were saying?" I don't think he heard me. He started rapping. It was pretty damn good. We were finally loosening up and laughing and he was busting slow awkward verses and I suggested he try a cover of that one Big Pun song that has that one girl from the…

He stopped me. Got cold: "I know what I'm doing." He said. Silence except for background racket.

...stay tuned for the next chapter: it involves sword brandishing and it is very funny.