Miserable Elephant

"Are you married?", Ernest Hemingway asked the bartender as he poured him another double bourbon. The famous middle-aged novelist had been sitting there alone opposite this fresh-faced twenty-something for about ten minutes, and the two men, both at very different stages in their lives, were sharing the quiet ambience and soft amber lighting of the lobby bar inside the Sherry-Netherland hotel.

It was May, 1950 and Hemingway was only in New York for a few days, travelling with his wife Mary and on route to Europe. Having just completed the manuscript for his upcoming novel, Across The River and into the Trees, he still needed to sign the paperwork that Charles Scribner’s Sons were going to be presenting him with shortly.

"Yes.", the bartender responded openly. "Just recently, actually. About six months ago.”

"Here in New York?", Ernest asked, trying to get a read on the young man.

"Queens. Manhattan weddings are too damned expensive.", the bartender qualified. Grinning gently, he added "I'm proud to say, that my wife, she's expecting our first child. Toward the end of the summer."

Ernest understood the loving expression that drove the bartender to share such details with an effective stranger. He smiled back, simply, without the complex array of social artifices he had masterfully constructed over the years, or at least using whatever power he could find to suddenly strip away all the bullshit, and replied. "Congratulations. Pour yourself one. On me."

The bartender, an avid reader, knew very well who it was that was offering to buy him a drink and poured himself a bourbon, but only a single shot. Ernest raised his glass first, and the bartender, clearly delighted by the entire situation, quickly raised his, making doubly sure not to break eye contact with Papa as they clinked glasses and each took a sip.

Ernest stared into his glass for a moment, observing the chaos of the patterns on the surface of the slow swirling liquor, lit perfectly by the various lampshades in the vicinity. "If I had to guess, judging by your own youthful appearance, you wife must be quite young also?"

"She's twenty.", the bartender replied, not thinking anything of the question.

But Ernest’s mind flooded back in an instant to 1948 and a young poet he first met in Italy. Her name was Adrianna Ivanchich and she was only eighteen then, but Ernest had fallen in love with her in the three-fifths of a second that neuroscientists have been known to claim is all the time necessary for such chemical reactions to occur. He decided to share. "I know twenty. Do you know what twenty is? It's a summer's day in Italy. In Venice."

"I've never been.", the bartender leaned in like an inquisitive puppy. "Oh it's beautiful.”, Ernest’s eyes lit up with the same magic he found in the swirling shades of bourbon a moment ago. “To be young and... in Venice”.

The golden hues of his disposition suddenly gave way, not flatly, still with the smoothness of a sine curve, but they gave way all the same, and everything seemed to transform. Suddenly Ernest was alone and cold and blue again. He poured what was left of the bourbon down his own throat and then gently placed the the glass on the bar, almost as if not wanting to make any sound. “Do you know what an ectopic pregnancy is?", Ernest asked.

"No, I can't say I do.", replied the bartender.

"My wife... she...”, Ernest struggled. He had three sons he loved very much. Each a young man of his own now. But Mary’s miscarriage almost four years prior had left a surprise wound. Women had always been such a powerful force throughout his life. Perhaps a daughter of his own would have brought him a joy he never knew. Or at least, it would’ve been something to write about. Whatever this was, he decided to put a immediate stop to the proceedings. “Never mind.”

But the bartender had read the moment, and in an instant, one could tell that whatever pain Ernest was experiencing was one the bartender was familiar with. "This is our second baby, actually. My wife, she fell pregnant when she was eighteen and had a boy. But he died in his sleep. I found him lying there in his crib one day, after having just returned from the store. I had bought a pair of baby shoes."

Ernest was stunned. A miscarriage was painful. Tiny coffins were another level of cosmic cruelty. "I'm terribly sorry to hear that."

"I didn't realise they made coffins his size.", the bartender said weakly.

Ernest sprang into action like an ambulance driver. "I know fighters. And I can tell, you've got the makings of a champion. Your wife too, I'm sure of it. The strong attracts the strong."

"Thank you.", the bartender said as he wrought a smile out of the pained expression in his young face. He then poured Ernest another double, quickly cleared his own glass from the bar and began wiping down the surface with a cloth.

Ernest sat quietly and sipped his bourbon, watching the bartender work. After a moment, the bartender walked away down towards the opposite end of the bar to tend to another patron who had arrived. After a moment, Ernest removed from his jacket pocket a little black book and a pen. Placing the book down on the bar, he opened the book to a blank page. He wrote, "For sale: baby shoes, never worn.", and promptly closed the book before putting it back into his jacket pocket.

“Charlie is arriving soon.”, said Mary who had magically appeared behind Ernest. Ernest turned upon his stool and looked at his wife. She had never been more beautiful to him than in this moment. It was strange. Like the swirling of the bourbon in his glass, she too was a beautiful kind of chaos, one he could not live without. Mary, sensing a familiar kind of movement within her husband, looked back at him with the same loving energy. Like two galaxies kissing one another. “Let’s go. We must make sure we have we have enough champagne.”, Ernest said as he rose from his seat.

The two walked leisurely as they passed out of the lobby bar and made their way toward the elevator. “What do you think about them short-changing me five thousand on the upfront fee?”, he asked his wife. She responded gently, but not unlike a sweet mother having to repeat herself to a stubborn child. “Ernest, we talked about this. Twenty thousand is enough. You’ll be fine Papa. And besides, they’re giving you fifteen percent.”

Ernest loved hearing her advice, perhaps because he loved her voice so much more, but he couldn’t let it go. “I just wasn’t expecting twenty thousand. I should fight for more.” Mary looked at him. “You don’t always have to fight Ernest. Put your gloves away. Charlie loves you. We all do.” Ernest looked at her and accepted the notion. After a moment, he extended his arm around her and gently pulled her towards him. In truth, he took a step forward to meet her halfway. And they kissed.