tell me about the time you met Ernest Hemingway, sure, i was a fencer, prodigy, too strong? he had heard about my riposte skills, fighter, he was, you could tell, mostly with staccato sentences, had a bottle, always tucked into his sports jacket, whisky of whatever sort, we were in alicante, long copper top bar, anyway, he was curious, listened well, slurred his words, still wanted to learn, i was young, impressed with his name, hemingway, like a british rainstorm, a small torment, wet human, sad inquisitive eyes, could you sense how he would end? this was a few years before ketchum, before, well, you know, and no, i couldn’t surmise, it was the 50’s, eisenhower, golf, before sylvia plath, anyway, i thought he’d live forever, i guess he kinda did.
Daniel W. Polk 