So, there was this time I ran into Ernest Hemingway.I walked
into my favorite bar, Jerry’
I know that’sa generic name, but Jerry loves the place, and it’sreally very classy. Anyway, so I walk into Jerry’s and
I go sit myself down at the bar and I see this fellowin a tweed jacket. I look up at his bulky frame and hisvoluminous mustache and something clicks in me. Thebartender asks me a question and I don
’t hear him.
“I’m sorry, sir, what’s the problem?”
asks thebartender, who I ignore.
re Ernest Hemingway! The writer!
Hemingway, or Papa, people have called him that,
let’s call him Papa, turn
s to me. He moves his wristback and forth in a free yet calculated motion,stirring his drink, sending it up and down and sloshingaround the sides.
“You know any other Ernest Hemingway?”
he asks, thenturns to face the bar again.