“No.”

“Whaddya mean, no? It says five dollars for a coconut.” You tap the hand-written sign, raising your voice. “Five dollars!”

The man holds up the bill, pointing to a tiny tear. “No. No good.”

“What the hell?” You really, really want to ditch, but you’re thirsty. The sun’s scorching, burning you worse than that picky prick. Totally ticked off, but you’re dying for fresh coconut water.

So you pluck another bill from your pocket, smooth it out with sweaty hands to show the coconut guy it’s not too wrinkled or ripped.

Nodding, he grasps his machete, cuts off the coconut’s crown, pokes in a paper straw, and makes the exchange.

You depart, thinking, “Pura Vida my ass” as you sip the translucent fluid from the hairy fruit.

You’ve read tons of travel sites cautioning slow service, weak water pressure, sulfury showers, biting bugs, overpriced Margaritas, plus influxes of McDonalds and KFCs.

But no warnings about ripped monetary notes. So what the fuck?

You trudge to the beach, sucking coconut juice through the flimsy straw, your brows furrowed, eyes down. How can a bill be worthless ‘cause of such a minor imperfection?

You consider yourself. Not an A student. Not a great athlete, artist, or musician. Not particularly funny, handsome, or clever. Just you, a guy who slaps salami slices on Kaiser rolls, pickle on the side, for minimum wage plus tips at The Big Apple Deli. Started saving years ago, stuffing birthday bucks from Grams in a coffee tin, buying used jeans at Second Time Around, eating cheap to save up for this off-season visit to Costa Rica, a dream since your kindergarten teacher returned from her honeymoon, tanned and glowing.

She brought all the kids tiny plastic iguanas with scaly backs, comb-like spines, sharp teeth: like prehistoric beasts.

She said she’d seen ‘em —real reptiles in Costa Rica, bigger than the puny six-inch salamanders you’d seen at the playground. Iguanas the size of large housecats sliding past her in the pool, glimmering blue or green or even orange in the sun. She described iguanas’ parietal eyes, dangling dewlaps, head-bobbing communications.

You were obsessed. A third eye! Changing colors! Rejuvenating their broken tails and teeth!

You brought the iguana figurine everywhere. Soon the toy iguana changed color too, with dirt clinging to the plastic, transforming from bright green to a dull gray.

Now, almost 30 years later, you’re finally on your fantasy vacation, ready to witness iguanas roaming freely, scurrying up trees, basking in sunshine. Dream come true til you met that judgy jerk hawking coconuts. Your thirst satisfied, rage resurfaces, so you pull back your arm and hurl the furry fruit.

Maybe the wind’s just right, maybe the coconut’s shaped just right, maybe your aim’s just right, ‘cause the coconut shoots from your hand, streaks past cresting waves, then plops into the salty sea. Your eyes bulge: Best damn throw of your life.

Adrenaline surging, you wad up the rejected fiver, wind up your arm again and release the balled bill into the air. It lands in a wave, floating back and forth, refusing to sink, like a buoy bobbing. Until the current pushes it back to you.

Sighing, you wade into the water, mid-thigh to grab the wad.

Throw it again.

The waves return it to you.

You’re ready to repeat the game, when you spot something, a purplish sandy circle with a floral-like design. Gently, you pick it up: a living sand dollar with symmetrical markings, almost like a star.

You’ve got the ripped bill in one hand, the circular sand dollar in another. Foam fingers your feet as you freeze, wondering. Then you flash back to yourself as a kindergarten kid, your plastic iguana pocketed while you learned letters and numbers, primary colors and paper cutting. What would that kid think of you now?

You remember how much that kindergartener wanted to visit Costa Rica. All the books you’d read about iguanas, volcanoes, cloud forests, coffee, and cocoa. Feet apart, hands out like the Scale of Justice, you weigh who you were with who you are.

Pushing the damp bill into your pocket, returning the sand dollar to the damp sand, you start to stroll the shoreline, eyes scanning trees above, searching for iguanas, yes, but truthfully something more.