Ode to Hemingway on the 50th anniversary of that death

More unfinished fiction. . .
           I am not, I think, a violent man.  I can, and do, on occasion, take part in light-hearted fraternal one-up-man-ship usually involving good quantities of alcohol, but more times than not limited to the standard and unimaginative—beer chugging, cards, snooker, or, that old stand by— the sword fight.  But, since my college days, when naively thinking it was the right thing to do, I pummeled Eddie C. black and blue for something he said to a less than comely girl whose name I have since forgotten (if, in fact, I ever knew it), I have channeled my aggressions to the odd boast or dare or arm wrestle.

            Channeled is perhaps the wrong word.  One I do not like and one that seems to imply a conscious effort.  My wife uses it often, probably on the advice of her well-intentioned, but less than helpful marriage counselor.  I say “her” because, as far as I am concerned, we have no need for counseling.  Seeing a counselor is, in my humble opinion, simply one of those “in” things to do.  It is difficult for me to envision what in the hell they, the counselor and my wife, talk about.   Caroline is a “no nonsense” mid-western girl, straight talking and right to the point—no heavy-handed abstractions for her, just tell it like it is.  I imagine poor Harry Dueck has trouble charging her, although, I am sure, there is due compensation in leaning back in his chair gazing at my wife reclining just short of seductively on his couch.  

Most likely though, Harry doesn’t use a couch, preferring a “business” approach, new age music, and a clean air policy.  Poor Harry, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.  Me, if I were a therapist, I’d have a dark cluttered office at the end of some dingy hall, dim lighting, overstuffed chairs, books strewn haphazardly about, and old Van Morrison tapes crooning in the background encouraging intimate talk—or, better, no talk at all.  

But Harry.  Harry is a different guy.  Nice guy.  Sincere.  Earnest.  A hard worker.   Good at what he does without getting too involved.  That’s the key— not getting involved.  That’s where I’d come apart, get lost in their lives, add to their entanglements, and send them off with bad advice.

            What Harry and Caroline talk about?  Gardening? Our friends?  Harry’s wife Beth?  Harry’s kids?  Caroline probably gives him advice.  The funny thing about Caroline is, even if she did have something to say, I doubt she’d confide—she’s just not that kind of woman.  Hell, for all I know they won’t even talk about last night other than to worry a bit about how I’m doing or to wonder what the hell came over me.  Harry will say it was the liquor and Caroline will just let it go at that.

            She knows me better though.

           

I don’t think I have any regrets, just an odd sort of uneasy feeling.  No, not unease— more like light-headedness—release.  Christ, John deserved it.   I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole damned bar was silently cheering me on hoping I’d spill more blood, leave more bruises, throw a few chairs.  Not that I don’t like John, he’s a likable enough guy; no, nothing on such a personal level.  Besides, I’m sure they’ve forgotten already—an event to be exclaimed over lending interest to an otherwise dull evening.

            That I managed to be the center of this little brawl is not, you understand, true to character.  I prefer a quieter kind of attention, you know, not-so-accidental glances held a moment too long risking just the slightest danger of betrayal.  That kind of thing.  I used to think Caroline indulged me in this.  In a sense she does, but she misunderstands.  She prefers what she, with emphasis, calls an honest approach—open flirtation.  She wants the guy across the room to confront her and tell her how beautiful she is (and they usually do).  Don’t get me wrong, I like this about Caroline, but, it’s not what I’m looking for.

            What I want?   I want to forget where I am, to reduce my existence to holding some woman’s gaze for as long as I can, to savor the moment, to hold on to the present as an ever possible future begging god to let that hand-worn ground-beaten pigskin ball hang in the air just a few seconds longer . . .  and then, you’ll never ask for anything again.

            Usually, about this time, Ed leans over and interrupts with something like, “Sure good to that dress isn’t she?” 

I was born July 9^th in a small mid-western town not that far from Iowa just seven days after Papa shot his brains out.  It started around seventeen.  I knew nothing about reincarnation, but it seemed a satisfying, quiet, economical idea, and seven days had a nice ring—enough time for the soul to pass through whatever dying and subsequent regenerative rites it must undergo before emerging (re-emerging) again in a suitable vessel.  

My then newly invented faith happily did not include for such troublesome ideas as pilgrimage or progression, nor even eventual union with god, but simply allowed that certain traits and modes of thought would continue with, and characterize, each soul regardless of its attendant home.  You must understand, this was not some sort of Shirley MacLaine trip; these imaginings were, I knew, little more than fancy, but, for years, I was able to let this notion pass in and out of my belief system, depending upon my need, with ease and with, I hoped, enough distance and humour to acknowledge that my fellow reincarnate Westerners, thanks to that great Dream, had too shared souls with only the very famous, the very notorious, the truly saintly, or the truly bad.