Instead of getting away from thinking about it, I accidentally planted the obsession in my white friends Buck and John, who'd returned from Dominical as I was sitting in my hot little office, writing about my experiences researching these Costa Rican prostitutes. When Buck and John stepped out of the dirty blue Astro Van, I hoped they might save me from myself, pull me out of the ridiculous space I'd been exploring while they were gone from the village. But as I shook their hands, unable to stop talking about hookers, they listened with encouraging ears. As I prattled, a white mass emerged from the van; some girl they'd brought with them from Dominical. I hadn't met her before, and I couldn't tell what she thought of all my unstoppable babble about stealing that hooker's underwear off her clothesline and then realizing it was a little girl's T-Shirt. This new girl smiled as I vented all these stories I had been dying to tell, but she didn't really laugh, so I ended my ramble by making sure they all knew, "But, I didn't have sex with any of them." And then I shut up and held it in, which was surprisingly hard. It felt healthy to abandon the computer and crash the un-populated jungle beach with Buck and John and this new girl, though she didn't talk much. The water was huge and white and unfriendly but, as the girl stayed sunning by herself on the beach, Buck and John and I took on the water, being scraped and stung, pushed and sucked under, in the company of a dog named Chester. Chester is a huge white stray who lives on the jungle beach. Other than trying to steal our shoes and bury them, he is very friendly. He stayed in the water with us for hours; four paws going and going in the rough waves, taking him farther out than I am willing to swim, paddling and paddling for an hour-and-a-half with not one pause; pure fucking stamina. He was ourt friend for the day, and we were so happy to have him there with us, in all his unconditional loyalty, that it gave me a brilliant idea. "We should start a business here on the beach," I suggested. "Where we rent out big loyal dogs, by the hour, to lonely tourists." "Beach buddies!" John agreed, as a big, loud wave took us all under. When we emerged coughing up salt, Chester shook the water out of his eyes and ears, and then just waded there, head bobbing like the rest of us, listening to our plan. I suggested, "The slogan for our dog rental place could be, 'Lonely? Have we got the bitch for you!'" "Costa Rica really needs that," Buck yelled over the surf, "A dog whorehouse!" And at that mention of whores, Chester was forgotten in a fresh wave of hooker talk. For me there's always an obsession. If not, there might be emptiness. It's a family tradition. I don't know what kinds of obsessions she had before I was born, but since I've known her, my mom has had seashell collecting, then parrot collecting, then BINGO. For me there was The Incredible Hulk, then Raiders of the Lost Ark, then pro-wrestling, then fishing, then that girl in high school, then music, then that girl in college, then that other girl in college, then pot, then that woman I met after college, and now there is writing. I am merely a more thoughtful and elegant version of mom. But despite the uncomfortable stomach it gave me to think of this as we swam, when we returned to the cabinas, and the white girl took a bus to some other village, we were left alone with our rotten ideas and the rotten mouths they come out of. That night at El Rancho, the bar where I first met John and Buck, and where I'd spent 20 nights in a row with them until they left for Dominical, we were drunk as I pointed out all the hookers in the room, to the awe of John and Buck, who had no idea. I had learned a lot while they were gone. Since he'd been in Costa Rica, John had also heard the line, "They're all hookers," but had been unable to understand it. Like me, he'd been wondering, Well, where the hell are they then? But while he was gone, I'd learned a lot of Spanish and made friends with a lot of locals, and I'd found the hookers. Most of the hookers in the village are not traditional streetwalkers. They hang at the bars, waiting for free drinks, and if you can make them laugh enough, and get them drunk enough, they will have sex with you for free because, like everyone else, they like sex, but since they live in Costa Rica they're allowed to like it and they don't have men looking down on them for it. And so, if they're already drunk, and you can't speak Spanish well enough to make them laugh, they will skip the formalities and go to bed with you for $15, because money is always good, and sex is almost always fun, even with strangers. This is what I learned while Buck and John were exploring the honky surf community of Dominical, and this is what we talked about all fucking night on our first night back at El Rancho. There were even some guys in the bar who had just hitchhiked from Canada all the way to Central America, and had some of the most amazing stories we could have ever heard, but it didn't detour the topic at hand. These guys were in a fucking Zapatista rally, and all John and Buck and I could talk about was hookers, hookers, hookers. And hookers. There are times when I'll just talk and talk about one fucking subject so much that I swear it's rubbing the inside of my mouth raw. My jaw was aching but I still kept on, giving into the obsessive parts. And as I talked too much, I felt it consuming me. With every word I felt more like The Fly; watching as the good side and the bad side fused together, and all the while knowing the bad would win. As the blurry night went on and we drank and talked more, I began to annoy myself, but couldn't stop from turning into a giddy, self-conscious, mess of mildly-evil enthusiasm. It was hard to focus (because Heinekens are 60cents in Costa Rica) as Buck and John looked around the bar and I explained to them what was what and who was for rent. I pointed out the older hooker, the teacher with the missing tooth. She sat with a giant, balding gray gringo who was calling her a "piece of ass" to her face because she didn't understand English. She forced a smile but didn't look happy. I pointed out the super-skinny girl who would be a runway model in The U.S. or France, but that my Tico friends insanely refer to as "The Ugly One," because they like nothing more than giant asses. And there was also the Semi-Professional, whom I'd found out the night before, was Orlando's sister. The night before, at the same bar, when I was by myself without Buck and John, I'd asked Orlando himself, "So, what's the deal with your sister? She's cute." I didn't allude to prostitution. "She like a sex very much." Orlando said in English, nodding. I blushed. "She's always with those old gringos though." I said. He simply nodded again and responded, "They have money." The next night, as I sat pointing out all the hookers to Buck and John, I noticed that Orlando's sister, The Semi-Professional, was finally alone. But before I had a chance to act, Orlando came over to our table and leaned into my ear. "My sister very drunk right now," he said, pointing at her across the bar. "Now is good time to go talk to her." But before I could even rise, a fat, old gringo saddled up next to her and she began to smile and talk with him. "Oop, you missed it." Orlando said, standing beside me as I sat in defeat. "What about that girl over there?" I asked, pointing to the skinny runway model. "The ugly one?" He asked. I laughed, "Yeah, we white guys think she's gorgeous. What's up with her?" Without answering, Orlando walked across the bar to her. I saw them talking but couldn't hear. He pointed at me. She looked over, but didn't smile. In a minute, he returned. "She have sex for 5,000 colones." Orlando said. "Oh geez," I faked it, "I didn't know she was a prostitute. I don't wanna…" Before I could finish, Orlando patted me on the back, laughing at me, and walked off to hit on a big fat white girl. The next night I pointed out the runway model and told them her price. "You're fucking kidding me!" Buck yelled loud, staring at her. "She's amazing!" We all nodded. Later, when we were all too drunk to entertain the idea of sex, I walked to the bathroom to pee, in preparation for the stumble home. On the way to the restroom, I caught the eye of the teacher/hooker with the missing tooth, and the eye was watery. Her old gray gringo was rubbing her ass, and yelling, spitting on himself, stinking drunk. As I wondered how such and old dude could get it up at all, much less when his blood was thin with alcohol, she rose and walked over to me at the entrance of the john. I wanted to ask her how she felt about the old guy but didn't have the Spanish for such questions. So, instead I took her hand and fumbled trying to ask her, simply, if she was O.K. "Si, si, esta bien." She said. Staring at me with the watery eyes. She's only about 30, but she looked very old. I asked her if she was sure and she repeated, "Si, esta bien." "O.K." I said, though I didn't believe her. As I began walking away into the bathroom, halfway through, "Buenos noches," she grabbed my hand hard and jerked me back to her, staring into me like, 'Please don't let this happen.' "Lo siento," I said, "No tengo dinero." I'm sorry, I don't have money. She nodded, forcing a smile and staring at me as she waltzed back to the drunk old gringo, who grabbed her like he owned her, when really, he was only renting.
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