Tired of the gringo bar, and the cowardly inertia that draws me there every night and day when it’s time to drink beer, I forced myself to straggle down the road to a bar out into the jungle where Alana lives. There I met a tall southern guy and his hula hoop. I heard his smooth autistic Southern accent from across the empty bar; the kind of voice where sometimes you think it’s the inflection of slow, simple and perfect wisdom, and sometimes you wonder if it’s not. But in his case, major publishing houses and probably even some undergraduate Literature classes attest to the wisdom behind the syrup.

Alana had told me about him though she didn’t realize he was Milton Chapman. She had no idea that I owned two of his books and that I’d brought one with me as inspiration while I work (or don’t work) on my fiction during this interval of waiting for her. She merely said he was, "A big, nice white man who is also from Florida and also a writer and also a red-head.” She didn’t remember his name but she told me to look out for him, that he and I would get along. It's like that here; everyone gringo I've been told to look out for here has landed in my lap. And afer that I see the same people everywhere until eventually it will be like a big high school. But when I saw Milton Chapman, before I even realized who he was, I was caught, from across the bar, in the familiar bog of his deep Florida accent, and he had my innate trust, even though I am constantly being told not to trust anyone here. Later on, he even reiterated that himself.

"I like your accent,” I yelled across. "You are from Florida. You are a writer.” He didn’t seem surprised. Actually, he seemed ready to be annoyed, like it happened all the time. But he brightened when I said, "Alana told me to look out for a big white guy from Florida.” Then he aimed light blue eyes at me and paid attention. I dug through my bright red bag for a copy of my book to give him and I slid it across the bar.

It halted in front of him and he looked down at it but didn’t touch it. Then he looked at the sexy Tica bartendress; through her thin white tank top there was a picture of Tweety bird on her bra. It attracted attention. The southern guy looked almost ready to not want to talk again, but then he turned back, slid the book to me and smiled and said, "Alana is sexy.” And it felt like a compliment, so I thanked him.

"Oh, you’re her new gringo boyfriend.” He said, and it didn’t bother me when he said it they way it had when the owner of the gringo bar accused me of the same. "Watch out for hielo.” He added.

"Dude, what the fuck does that word mean, hielo.” I felt comfortable asking him and he laughed.

"Well, I don’t speak any Spanish, but hielo means ‘ice,’…and I guess it also means ‘Alana’s mom.’” His speech was slow and deliberate like the days here. Listening to him felt like sitting in a class on how to deal with the pace here, or like watching the fascinating, patient scratching of that dog. He continued, "That’s what they call her. But I’m just repeating what I’ve heard; I’ve never seen Alana’s mom, don’t know nothing about her. I only met Alana one time…right before she left. I just hear that her mom’s hard and cold. There are only a couple hundred people here. They all talk. It's nice to meet you. Alana's sexy.”

I wasn’t mad that he knew everything. I felt like this guy could help me out.

"Can I move over by you?” I asked.

"Hell yeah,” came forth from him and I picked up my bag and moved over.

Up close I noticed that he had blood draining from the middle of his lip like he’d been in a fight. Under the light, I also saw that he had red hair and that was when I realized that it was Milton Chapman. My insides shuddered. Amazing! I was also giddy at the thought that, between him and me and Raphael and all of Alana’s sisters (who I still hadn’t seen), there were now enough redheads in Costa Rica to start an army! Costa Rica has never had an army!

Trying not to let on I said, "So, you’re a writer?”

"I don’t want to talk about writing at all. That’s why I’m here. To get away from that.” It was a stern command.

"O.K.” I said, feeling like a foolish, uncouth student; I was trying to escape the world to concentrate on writing and my heroes were trying to escape it. It was a reminder of my lack of success. I changed the subject gladly. "What happened to your lip man?” I asked him.

"Uh…too much sun I guess.” He said, not enthused with this new topic either. It was hard to drag words from him. But that was what I liked about his writing too; few words. So I steered back to what he seemed to want to talk about, and what I wanted advice from him on anyway, especially now since I realized that this guy'd helped form my world view since college.

I said, "Yeah, Alana’s mom’s not happy with me at all. She hasn’t acknowledged me at all yet.”

"I hear she’s a big gal.” He drawled, smiling finally.

"Oh my god man, you haven't seen her: she’s a monster, it’s very scary, she could not only kill me, she could swallow me, eat the evidence. Easy.” We both laughed and I wished I had his laugh. His laugh was wide. Grand. It lit him up, his hair glowed, he glowed, reminding me of Raphael. I really missed Raphael.

"Have you seen her brothers and sisters, they all have red hair, like us.” I pointed at my head and his face twisted into a question mark and I bent down a little and he looked into the part in my hair as if for fleas. I wished the Florida sun hadn’t drained my hair of so much of its vibrancy. I wondered how he’d maintained his. I stood up straight again and said, "Her syblings are all Costa Rican and they have red hair! You should see her brother, he’s beautiful.”

He inched away when I said ‘beautiful’ and suddenly I thought I’d sounded very gay. He was sturdy and looked like a man’s man but I assumed that, as a writer, he was sensitive, that he’d have a cross gender appreciation of beauty. But he just looked down on me for a second and said, "I’d like to see that.”

We were silent for a while until out of the silence he said, "You want to go smoke some grass?”

I agreed and we walked out the back of the bar, 10 feet down to the water. It was cool and nice out finally. He lit a joint and passed it to me and I saw his bloody lip in the moonlight shimmering like a silver dollar bait fish. If it weren’t Milton Chapman, I might not have put the joint in my mouth after it’d touched his open wound. But as it was, I was honored. Also, I hadn’t smoked in the six days since I’d been in Cost Rica. I hadn’t gone that long without weed in three years; I was ready. I would have almost sucked pot smoke from an AIDS infested vagina. Though every day and night here I’ve had beer, and every night I’d crept closer to my first Costa Rican drunk, I promised myself that I wouldn’t get fucked up without Alana. It’s too dangerous; I know nothing about anything here. I want to be safe. Plus, there’s no way I could speak Spanish if I was fucked up. But I had to get high, especially considering the person offering; Milton fucking Chapman! Though he wasn’t popular in America, I was a huge fan. It couldn’t believe I was smoking with him!

After a few hits I was ripped and I leaned against a sturdy tree and looked at the dark volcanoes and rainforest across the ocean as if for the first time. Maybe now I could write. I asked him vaguely, "So, any advice for me?”

He passed the cigarette and said, "Well, not about hielo.” He exhaled as he laughed. "But I’ve been here for three months and all I can say about Costa Rica is, don’t trust anything. And definitely not people."

I nodded. It was the 15th time I'd heard those words. He continued.

"This is not America. That seems like it’d be hard to forget, but you’ll forget it.” He pointed at my hand leaning against the tree bark and said, "Like that, right there: some kind of snake you ain’t never seen before could creep down that tree. Seriously. Right there; you forgot this wasn't America.”

I took my hand off and straightened up and suddenly felt very paranoid. "But it is America."

"Right, right. Just watch yourself. This isn’t America.” He reiterated. We finished the joint and walked back in.

When we were seated, I stared at the perfect square of the bar top; a high wooden mote around the Tica bartendress and her Tweety Bird bra in the middle. The layout reminded me of a game my mother used to love at the Florida State Fair, except in the center of that perfect square was a giant, flat roulette wheel in place of the Tica. Corresponding to each number on the wheel was a hole. The wheel was spun hard and then some carny would hold a small square box over the spinning wheel, open a door on the box, and a mouse would plop down into the whirlwind of numbers. Disoriented, the pink mouse scrambled and flailed against inertia until it found one of the holes and escaped from view. Someone would win something based on which hole the mouse found. That game used to give me nightmares.

Milton ordered another beer but the pot had hit me very hard and I wanted to leave. He picked up the hoola hoop he’d brought and announced to the Ticos at the bar and me, "O.K. Who wants to try?” And I saw that as my cue to leave.

"I’ll pass, I’m going to take off.” I said, standing up.

He spun to meet me. "Aw, man, don’t be a pussy.” When he said this his eyes were different. Underneath the new film of stoned there was now an obvious maniac, not necessarily a malicious one, it looked like fun. But dangerous fun. And I was high and wanted no part at the moment. But I wanted to make sure I’d have a second chance to hang with him.

"Yeah, I gotta go…” I said, stopping before I said his name, which he hadn't yet given me. So I asked him for it.

"It’s Jon,” he said

I almost laughed but instead asked, while trying not to sound gay, "Jon, will I see you again? I know no one here and I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

"I’m here every night!” He cackled, spinning his hula hoop around his freckled arm, his sun-split lip bleeding down his chin. He was a different person than before the pot. The Ticos looked on like they didn’t like his loud Southern laugh. The snake seemed to be coming down the tree. Or maybe I was just too high.