Hemmingway

Hemingway just walked into the bar.  I know he’s supposed to be dead and all, but I wouldn’t expect a little thing like death to stop a man like Hemingway from getting a beer at Molly’s.  He barely steps through the door, Panama hat, white jacket across his shoulders, cane in hand, he takes the place in and waits for someone to acknowledge him before he walks in.  He acts surprised for a second, probably surprised to be alive and ambles over to the bar.  Whatcha got young man?  What you lookin’ for?  Beer, draft, you pick.  The bartender pulls him a pint of Blue Moon, puts it in front of him, spills a sip down the side, foam forming and disappearing down the side of the glass.  The bartender places a napkin down next to the beer, placing the beer on top of it.  Hemingway, now distracted with all the memories, patches, hats, pictures above and around the bar, while the bartender stands before him, waiting, not wanting to distract him, but needing the money for the beer.  Without looking, Hemingway reaches down for the beer, absently puts it up to his mouth, and takes a deep swallow.  Never averting his eyes from his examination of the artifacts, puts the beer back exactly where it was, reaches into his jacket and pulls out a bill, laying it on the counter.  His mouth opens as if to speak, but it just hangs open.  The bartender stops his movement to the cash register.  He wants to hear what Hemingway has to say. He then realizes Hemingway isn’t going to say anything. He continues his movement to the cash register, punches numbers, and with a ching puts the bill in and extracts Hemingway’s change.  He places it in front of him, still waiting for some acknowledgment.  Hemingway closes his mouth, picks up the beer and heads deeper into the bar, eyes looking through all the objects that surround him.  He finds a stool in a back corner, sits down, placing his beer before him.  Hemingway settles in, folding his jacket and placing it on the stool next to him.  He lifts the beer to his lips, this time acknowledging the tasty beverage and salutes the bartender with the beer, a smile and a nod of the head coming from the bartender.  Hemingway’s eyes return to the artifacts that encircle him.  His eyes now become as sharp as razors, slicing into and beyond these simple objects into what lies behind them.  His hand moves up to his chin, massaging the thoughts forming in his mind.  Hemingway takes off his hat, placing it on the table next to his beer.  He methodically rolls up this sleeves, eyes still penetrating the history around him.  Hemingway’s eyes then start to alternate between external examination and internal calculation, his eyes moving up and to the left, then to the right.  I can almost see an idea form on his brow as it wrinkles up, his hand back on his chin.  His eyes suddenly widen and his mouth drops open to say ahhh, but no sound comes out.  He hunches over a tablet that has appeared in front of him, pen already in his hand.  The pen touches the paper as he begins scribbling, laughing to himself silently.  As his figure becomes faint he looks up at me and gives a knowing smile and a wink.  He goes back to his task and is gone.