Barkley Bohner, Celebrity Philosopher

Chapter One

Part One

Just Your Normal Average White Guy, Metaphorically Speaking

The best place to hide a leaf is in a tree. My first attempt was a log cabin on a Norwegian fiord. I thought I had been pretty clever in procuring fake identity and various lines of credit under assumed names, but – let's face it – even out in the middle of nowhere, a black man in Norway is bound to attract attention.

Costa Rica was more like it. I easily settled into being the retired expat American, just your normal average white guy, metaphorically speaking.

"You will love it here," Wendy of Joe and Wendy from Belvedere, Ohio let me know. "Have you ever been to San Francisco? This is Tango."

"Bathtub!" squawked a big bird in a cage.

"Say hippopotamus," said Wendy. "I can't seem to get him to say hippopotamus."

The key to speaking Americanese, I learned over the years, is by responding to the last keyword in the last sentence. "Hippopotamus," I said on cue. "That's a large land mammal."

"You are so clever," Wendy beamed. "You remind me of that guy on TV, I can't remember the show. " 

"Bathtub!" squawked Tango.

Fortunately, I could retreat to my jungle patio. There, in my boxer shorts, I developed an evening routine of picking fresh mangoes, communing with the macaws and howler monkeys, pouring myself a cheap Argentinian wine, and gazing out into the Pacific sunset. Sometimes, I would bring out my laptop and tap into the almost reliable internet.

Everything was almost reliable out here, off the beaten track in Costa Rica, which was a pretty good arrangement, all things considered. In my case, there was the added bonus of not being dead. I always used to say that life is highly overrated. Okay, I take it back.

I settled back on my lounger and opened my laptop. An ad for tall man's apparel came up on the page.

Mmm, I thought. I am taller than average.

I clicked to another page. There was an ad for Earl Grey tea. Oh, oh, I thought. Earl Grey is my hot beverage of choice.

I clicked to another page. There was an ad requesting me to click to a site entitled "Musicians Who Hate Kenny G."

Don't get me started on Kenny G. Wendy of Joe and Wendy from Belvedere had once – with a great show of approval – ended a sentence with a dangling Kenny G keyword.

Kenny G, I had almost replied, frothing at the mouth. A disgrace to both the bass and treble clefs. A disgrace to three-four time, a disgrace to four-four time, to two-four time, cut time, and six-eight time. A disgrace to the key of B-flat major. A disgrace to the key of B-flat minor.

Fortunately, I caught myself. "G," I said with a pleasant smile. "The seventh letter of the alphabet."

For some reason, my response reminded Wendy of yet another character on yet another TV show she couldn't recall. "Bathtub!" squawked Tango.

Meanwhile, back in the present, over my mangoes and Pacific sunset:

I suddenly recalled how our web search habits are as unique and identifiable as a fingerprint. This is why Google was able to deliver freakishly personal ads, straight to my jungle patio, with the howler monkeys and macaws looking on. So here I was, in what I thought was my secure hideaway, effectively broadcasting my whereabouts to anyone who might be extraordinarily interested.

Leave it to me to attract the interest of the extraordinarily interested. Trust me, if Google knew how to reach such a person, then the people who were extraordinarily interested in me knew exactly the same thing. Fortunately, I was still alive when I made this realization. Six minutes later, I was at the waterfront flashing a wad of bills in front of Ignacio, sole proprietor of Jose's Almost Reliable Up and Down Helicopter Tours.