Cayo Hueso in November.

Its the only place I've been to where I ask for a "rum and ice" and the bartender doesn't look at you funny. On the rocks is a term when you want a dabble of reality.

The names of the places don't matter, and perhaps it might be a better idea to not tell of our friends down here.

There are three sides of Key West, and yes, believe me when I say it's true. The first is the one your uncle knows when he sips that margarita with his faded shirt he bought at Mallory Square. The cruise ships come and go, the tourists come and go, but when they're here, the bars are packed, the streets are lines, the music is roaring and the good times are had by all, perhaps because of the rules of engagement during a vacation far from home. Some leave with pictures, some with souveniers, others even leave behind their bar tabs and their virginity.

The second group is the people that work here. It's become a tourist town with the railroad and many of the people that work here have their own story. Some came down for the summer jobs ten years ago and never left, and others heard that working in paradise was better than living at home. They work in the daytime cleaning the bars from the night before, installing new toilets at the Hilton, and come nightfall, after the sun begins to go down, they work slinging drinks and waiting for a drunk tourist to stop staring at their chests. Life goes on like this and between the difficult hours in the pounding heat and humidity some can even afford the luxuries of fishing and drinking at a descent hour. They are great people, and each has a story of what brought them to Key West and where theyre headed after here...

The third, and perhaps the people we trade drinks with are a bit different and can't fall into eather category. Trucker is an old shrimp boat worker that lost his job when the bottom fell out of the market and wholesalers began farming shrimp overseas. Forty years later, a limp, a bum hand and a broken smile, you'd walk by Trucker without even noticing. Then there's the folks at a tiny bar that begin drinking at 7am. It's off the beaten path and perhaps you might even see the milk man stopping in on his way to work. Our friends do other things but sitting on the porch, blowing smoke watching the papaya grow is a favorite. Just sitting on the swing trading tales of how things have been. I'd love to tell you about the other people but perhaps it's better left to a conversation we might have with a cold beer, an afternoon or shit, maybe even at 7am over rum and ice.