"This is some great work you’ve been doing," my creative writing adviser was telling me.

His name was Justin and he had published a collection of short stories and a book of poetry. He supported himself by teaching college. I admired his ability to live with such a heavy beard.

"Thanks," I said.

I don’t know if his praise was authentic. It was possible he was excited about my work due to the fact I had volunteered to read. I’d done it at Liz’s behest. Where was she?

"Enjoying the afternoon session?"

"Since all the pressure is off."

"I have you assigned to group four."

I looked at the numbered table. The quiet man who refused to read sat hunched over what I assumed was a manuscript.

"Okay," I said. "Is it a group of two?"

"No, the others aren’t back from lunch yet."

"Maybe they went to the park."

"That’s very possible," he said. "That’s been happening a lot this year."

I went to the table for group four. I took a seat and poured myself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.

"Sam Johnson," he extended his hand.

"Jake Avellanos."

A recognition crossed his face.

"Have you given more than your life for your country? Are you writing the 50 Years Of Misrule? How’s Antonio?"

I smiled at him, confused.

"That’s not a penname," he said.

"No."

I noticed a heavy college ring on his hand. The paper he was reading didn’t look like fiction. No dialogue.

"I enjoyed your reading this morning."

"Thank you," I said.

"Very entertaining," he said, "and very lively, like your work for Street Speech."

"Oh, a reader?"

"Critic," he corrected.

"Oh."

"I teach literature, Russian and American, and literary theory. Last year I taught a class in which we followed narratives in news. I used some of your work."

"Oh," I nodded. "I wasn’t aware I was being taught."

He smiled.

"It was an elective course for the journalism majors. I was trying to show them how narratives get fragmented and stories get lost in the media and press all in the name of sales figures and the details that shock. Your work was particularly helpful."

"Glad to be of service."

He didn’t seem to notice my change in attitude.

"Most of the students liked it. I was trying to imbue a sense of responsibility to the narrative in them before they run out and get their first jobs at the Backwater Times. Too much is lost and too many decisions are made on the basis of news reporting that doesn’t even approach coherency."

I nodded.

"Why are you here?"

"I write a lot of criticism," he said. "I pick a work and a methodology and apply my brilliance. Lately, I’ve become concerned that I’ve forgotten how the writer works. So I came here to sort of immerse myself in the concerns of the writer and try do some writing myself."

"Have you?"

"I’ve done a few articles on Justin."

"No fiction?"

"How can you write fiction at a theme park resort? No, I read his most recent book on the way down in the plane and just found some of the most abhorrent problems," he shook his head. "His characters. His men are all impotent, his women are so lack-luster–they’re so dry on the page, sex is out of the question–and his gay males are so stereotypical and good…God, it’s like he got his sense of class and gender relations from the fifties and is constantly in the process of making them PC. I just wrote this paper all about it. I don’t think the man has clue as to what he is doing or what American fiction needs at this point in time. It’s a Travesty!"

"I haven’t read his most recent book," I lied. "Only some of the short stories."

"Great fiction must be written in Russia. It’s only there that…"

He started speaking in Russian, a language I cannot transcribe. It was then that I left the table. You may make of the encounter what you will. My cousin Drew is currently pursuing an advanced degree. Should I hold out more hope for him?

The afternoon Vietnam session featured a speaker who was the last man out. Covert Ops CIA agent who explained the hierarchy of the CIA to us, the role and function in the government and the world and the function it served in Laos. He talked in-depth about a secret war, about pacts made with resistance leaders. About how in the last days, a leader murdered his whole family and himself to avoid being taken prisoner. He had written three books on the subject. His code-name was Donkey Kong and he owned half the rights to the video game of the same name.

Adam and I listened attentively. I was still proud of my reading that morning. My crime scene discovery also made me proud though I no longer had the earring. I listened attentively. Were they keeping records of me? Keeping lists of what I attended. Making transcripts of what I said privately to Adam. After hearing the speaker I believed anything was possible in the microscopic world of the hotel. It was easy to locate me except at night. It was easy to bug our room. Was I being ridiculous? Toward the end of the session the code-name Donkey Kong had become belligerent.

"Where are you going, Jake?"

--I know that little pissant. He was a real–

I was leaving early, during the question and answer session. I was unnerved.

"I can’t take it anymore."

--We were protecting America over in Nam. I was doing my best as a good American.

"What?"

--I got screwed by that guy, but he died somewhere down in South America back in the late eighties. I mention it in my new book, Code Name Jackass…

"My fiction session became the dialectical discourse in the dialogic imagination of the blah blah and this guy is freaking me out."

--We had lists of all the head commies… "What?" "Never mind. I’ve had enough panels for one day."

I rested serenely on the water, a giant Pluto float served as my bed. My feet enjoyed submersion, my body the wistful cool air of the Floridian twilight. I was alone. It was the dinner hour, but I wasn’t hungry. I enjoyed being in this state of public isolation.

Liz appeared in a red mini-kini, a swim outfit that covered only her genitals and nipples. It seemed to cling to her skin. No straps, the bottoms only reached underneath her nether regions, her hips bare. I consciously thought of literary criticism to combat the ache of my erection.

"I’ve been looking for you," she said. "Adam told me where you were."

I was speechless. I couldn’t stop staring. She smiled and laughed at me and then entered the water. She swam over to me and climbed onto the float, snuggling against me. She kissed me. Her sweat breath entered my lungs. I instinctively curled my arm around her to keep from sliding off the float or overturning it. The flesh my hand gripped felt foreign, it was supposed to have a strap running across it.

She fondled my cock through my green swimsuit, boxers.

"It still behaves correctly," she said and kissed me again.

I ran my tongue across my lips. Her lips tasted of wine.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Danielle gave her reading today and one of the organizers of the conference displayed an interest in her article. We all went out to lunch and talked about publication. They talked. I drank. But I’m fine, that was awhile ago."

"You look fine," I said and squeezed the bare flesh. "Where did you get this?"

"Oh, Marsha. She gave me a bunch of stuff, wait till you see."

"Marsha?"

"She thinks we’re together, so I got passes for the festivities on the other side of the hotel and I got this complimentary, there was a demonstration by the company."

"I thought these came out in the eighties," I said.

"They did and were part of a venture by a playmate, but it didn’t work out in America so this company is making another go at it."

"Maybe it worked in Russia?"

"Their women are supposed to be uninhibited, right?"

"Something like that. Do you want to get a late dinner in a little while?"

She adjusted herself to be more comfortable, draped her leg across my leg and put her head on my chest and then sighed.

"Yeah," she said. "They messed up my order at lunch so that would be great."

"What happened?"

"They dropped it. So they had to make it again and then Danielle wanted to get back in time for the afternoon sessions so I had to rush. Having lunch out was a nice idea though."

I squeezed the flesh again. She traced circles in my stomach with her index finger. I watched the smoky blue sky turn a darker ash color, the sun faded into a stream of orange. The search lights of the theme park began to dance against the backdrop and the miniature flags of many nations flapped muscularly above our heads.