There is a petite woman in a wheelchair by the name of Pillar. A mild mannered matriarch, she sits at a table in our dining room, nearby, unconcerned at my recurring impetuosity. I’ve been known to exclaim that there is a Hemingway character by that name, isn’t there? But the question lay flat on the air, without an viable answer. I cannot summon Hemingway for authoritative proof.

They say Hemingway shot himself with his own gun. He’s absolutely gone now. He was known to drink a lot of alcohol, where he would sit on his second story porch and burn the midnight oil. Maybe Hemingway would go sit outside and write, a manual typewriter banging away, with a gun on his table. I heard the man was usually in Cuba, drunk off his gourd.

It’s said that he was a regular real estate tycoon, down there in Cuba. He lost it all when Fidel Castro took over. I don’t mean to pick on Mr. Hemingway, you understand. I happen to be one of his biggest fans. It just upsets me to think a master writer shot himself down. I’ve even used a manual typewriter somewhat. Using one of those things is like driving a truck.

I heard that one would never get anything they want if they take their own life.

I’ve wondered where I heard the name, Pillar? Was it a Gregory Peck movie or what? I don’t have the video, or wise reader, either one. I am still stumped and bereft of a definitive answer. Having neither document or video, I’m in no position to develop my character, or give her life or breath to enjoy it with. I wonder whether Hemingway’s daughter feels awkward, now that Daddy’s not around.

My other option here, is to let Pillar be, and take a different tack for a story altogether.

The issue to be addressed here, is whatever happened to my library? I had Hemingway, Fitzgerald and S. Lewis. I was hoarding them for rereading purposes later. You need to know that T. Dreiser becomes tedium after one volume. Here I derailed again, considering specific volumes, rather than considering the whole, as I ought to do, by default. Ah heck. I want to.

I’m only indulging myself to consider a few volumes before I get down to business. I’ll get down to business presently. I had some really nice classics to consider. The thing that propels this plane down the runway, is not the volumes themselves at all. It is the entirety of volumes that remains behind, when I consider that whole, as an entity to behold.

There were, in fact, eight separate and distinct bookcases of my books, when last I saw them.

I got confused, innocently enough, while I did my level best to take my medicine on a regular basis. I took my medicine, not knowing whether it was day or night, morning or night. I apparently OD’d, regularly enough to kill me, for appropriately two months time. I lost my use of speech while I was an inpatient in rehab, and apparently could not speak intelligibly, for another two months.

It was unnerving.

There was this man who called himself landlord, who demanded I get into an Ambulance and go to a hospital, under threat of immediate eviction, which is against the law, I think. The guy scared me half to death, and off to the hospital I went. All my earthly possessions were in that apartment, and there I was, afraid to go back. Therefore, I never went back to my apartment.

I was so scared of that landlord, afraid to talk to him at all. I was not interested in going anywhere near the man. Forfeit were every last item in my two bedroom apartment. Forfeit were my Hemingway, Fitzgerald and S. Lewis I suppose. Even T. Dreiser was gone, I guess. I was powerless to remove my things to a storage facility. Powerless, when I’d lose all my things, to make arrangements.

The powers that be had sent me to rehab, for them to be on hand if I went into shock. I think I spent two months in rehab, with someone watching that I would not pass away. I hear there’s two consequences for OD’ing on psych meds that I managed to avoid. The one would be going stock raving mad, irrevocably. I’ve seen over the edge, and don’t want to go back.

The other possibility would be to go into a state of shock, for having too many psych meds at once. Nonetheless, my conscience remains clear. I did not make an attempt against my own life. It’s something, in spite of all the threats I once made over the many years, that I worked out my spiritual health, long beforehand. I was not trying to tempt the fates or any other such nonsense.

Anyway, there was this girl who had my apartment key, as well as my car key. You should have seen the condition of my car, when my POA got to it. The girl threaten my life, in so many words, to get enough money to feed her heroin habit. She said she’d take my life, just to see what she could get from my will. She was willing to commit murder to gain access to my money.

One of the all time greats among storytellers kicks the bucket, and I survive an overdose. Go figure. I know Ernest Hemingway is easily going down as a great master. I’ve got experience on a manual typewriter, an electric typewriter, a slave word processor, and a high powered laptop. I don’t believe for an instant that all the experience or storytelling makes me anything.

I’m cowed in the shadow of one great man, of the myriad of sufferers I’ve had the privilege of turning the pages to read. Would that I gain a measure of his greatness. I’m humbled at Mr Ernest Hemingway, even considering the idea that he might actually be gone below. May he enjoy the finest spirits where he is, and not be left simmering in Hell, without the slightest relief at hand.


About geostan51

I'm a wordsmith and a craftsman. I've been known to hand crochet just about anything escept granny squares. I've got about twenty titles in my name on the Kindle Store at Amazon.com.
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