Dave wasn't surprised. Being a writer, you put your mental health in harm's way. He was a small man with a cowlick. His features were fine and his psyche was fragile. His skin was pale, his hair red as a carrot. He'd lost sensible career goals somewhere along the way, and now he worked nights at the front desk of the Sea Basket Guesthouse on Duval Street because, during slack times, it was okay for him to write his short stories. And it was because he could write at his job, that he endured working side by side with a front desk reservationist named Debbie who butchered the English language and sucked her teeth making noises like a rhino's anus. He'd winced whenever she spoke, and found her annoying speech affecting his ability to write. He'd thought about quitting. But Dr K said, "Quit? You ARE an idiot! Here, right under your nose, you've got a perfect opportunity to mine character pay-dirt!"

So she appeared in his story as "Debbie, the rabbit- faced woman with a pea for a brain. Debbie — from, you know, California! 'I love Internet dating, you know. Like, e-mail with, like... you know, attachments! You know how everyone's into crystals. Well, I'm into rocks — all kinds of rocks. You know, stones? I put nail polish and... plastic flowers and stuff on them... you know, herbs! But," she said, laughing hysterically now at what she'd just said like a tipsy chicken, "I'm like a dope addict... addicted to my GameBoy!" And here she'd laugh till she bent double, laughing hardest for things that weren't remotely funny and never getting the point on those that were."

Sitting at the Green Parrot bar with a cool rag on his cheek, well into his third Margarita, Dave knew he was asking for trouble being here. He should be out in his little boat editing his story among the mangroves and yellowtail snapper, away from the pressure of having failed to live up to industry standards for writing. Here at the Green Parrot, Hemingway's name symbolized all the fame he, Dave Davis, would never have. And his friends didn't help matters, droning on with their Hemingway this and Hemingway that! He knew he was going to lose it even before he barked: "Could you... just... shut up with the Hemingway thing... for ten minutes?

His friends weren't shocked because he'd done this before — on Hemingway's birthday. They shrugged and checked their watches. "Ten minutes! We can do that," they said and went back to their Margaritas.

Dave was immediately ashamed of himself. It's not like he couldn't manage life situations that annoyed him... like with Debbie. And with Glady... Christ, Glady looked like his grandmother, but she annoyed him... annoyed him so much his teeth hurt. She'd be sitting at the bar and she'd bring out this little hand-mirror. And she'd stare into it, contorting her mouth, wiping lipstick off her teeth, slowly... ever so slowly, like some old monkey. It used to drive Dave up a wall. But again, Dr K saw the problem... and advised him, just like with Debbie: study Glady's character. And now, Glady was part of his story.

Glady asked herself, "Can somebody tell me why writers are such pains in the asses. I mean, Christ Jesus, what's Dave got to complain about? It's not like he's sleeping with us under the Cow Key Bridge. I mean, the guy's got an apartment. Sure, it's hot. It's the goddamn tropics, Baby Cakes! You don't like it... get a sled dog... move your ass to Alaska! Up there with Nanuk! Get out of the kitchen if you can't find the oven... or the ice box or whatever the hell you're looking for... in there. Christ, I hate it when I'm sailing along like that and my goddamn brain just runs out of words... Wouldn't happen to H Ross Perot! No way! One-liners — "sassier than a two-tongued muskrat in a fur coat!', he'd say something like that. Made you think."

Glady opened her bag and pulled out her tiny white plastic hand-mirror, the one Papa had given her nearly fifty years ago. In it, her skin was always young like when she and Papa had been lovers, before drinking had enlarged and discolored the pores on her nose. But the margaritas were kind too, gave her soft memories... Just close her eyes and... there was Papa, grinning at her. They were fishing out on blue waters with schools of iridescent creatures, and when Papa raised his arm to remove his shirt, the sparkles turned in unison like a great flashing ribbon. He grinned and kicked off his shorts. He was naked as he dove in the water. She could see the strawberry red heat blotches on his keester! And when they were back again on shore, he'd sit with that big striped cat of his, Fritz, in his lap. If only she could have made him happy as that cat did.

Glady lowered her mirror. Dave was staring. It wasn't uncommon for her to come back and find someone waiting. If it was Shine, swaying behind the bar, he only had that one good eye and he wasn't any good at holding you with it. So, it wouldn't matter if she'd been "away" because he rambled on and on anyway about fighting and said the same thing you already heard ten times about Papa and Iron Baby and all the dead ones. It seemed okay to him if only your clothes or your skin listened. For anyone else, she'd wake up and ask, "Hot enough for you?"

Dave looked confused. "Yeah, it's hot." he said.

Shine, the bartender, slid margaritas, one for Dave, one for Glady. "It's on me," the ex-boxer said, moistening his tongue where it sat like a garden slug between missing front teeth. Oh, he'd been something, all right, when he was young... had a body carved in heaven. And though nearly forty pounds lighter than Papa, he'd been the Big Man's sparring partner. "Yes sir! I give away forty pounds to the gentleman and he still respect Mr Shine!"

Shine moved well for a man over eighty. He could turn his head with ease. No stiffness! No arthritis! He could shadow-box and ride the muscle memory into times past. During Hemingway events, he'd often be asked to show off his stuff. That's when he'd lose himself back there, his yellow-brown eyes cloudy, heavy with storm. His friends had learned to get out of his way, then, when he'd duck under the remembered anchor ropes defining Papa's back yard boxing ring. And each time he found his way back to that grassy arena, his skin covered now with goose flesh — There was Ernie, big and shiny as a Buick, lumbering, grinning all those little white teeth, punching hard with his meat-loaf hands inside fishy gloves. Papa could hand out pain. And he could take it too. All was manly and good.

"Hemingway's ruining my life." mumbled Dave, fishing a letter out of his shorts pocket. He thrust it at Dr K, who read it aloud:

"Dear Mr. Davis, Your work is of a most unusual nature. Unfortunately, as with most unusual writing, there is a limited market. We are, however, always looking for writers with name recognition. Is there any connection between you and Ernest Hemingway? Did you grow up on his street? Work on his old typewriter? Any connection? Do you see where we're going with this? We would give serious consideration to representing you if you could change your name to Robert Hemingway. You already live in Key West. We think enough collateral sales would make it worth both our whiles. We're a team here at G&B, dedicated to literature. We're all team players. Think it over and let us know where you fit in. Sincerely, Bob Rothstein and Sam Catella — Gorilla and Baboon Publishing House.

PS: What about a beard?"

And when Glady said, "They got a Hemingway sandwich this week at Burger King," Dr K felt compelled to put his arm around Dave's shoulders. "The man was famous. You can't expect people aren't going to cash in on that!" he said.

"But it's so transparent!" said Dave, "Predictability is the pleasure of idiots... Goddamn bookstores! Everybody knows Barnes and Noble got the whole thing sewn up! All the famous authors' names on the covers raised up in shiny gold and silver! And here I am, writing for no-one at a guest house front desk."

Feeling bad for his friend, Dr K said: "Listen, I've been sitting on this idea for a book for ten years now. Hell, I'm never going to do anything with it. Maybe you can use it!"

Dave groaned.

"No, really, you're going to like this one," Dr K said, "A thriller, starring a six-toed cat. The cat's aloof, beholden to no one. He's like a real cat — sniffs out his culprit... POW! He pounces. Toys with him like a mouse before turning him over to the cops!"

"Everybody loves cats. You're right about that." agreed Glady.

Dave knew his friends were only trying to help. And the fact they were probably right only made him more miserable. He looked at Dr K and was reminded of his attempts to capture the old doctor's character. Dave had written:

"His was no ordinary butt. It was enormous. It was two twenty- ton loads of sand. It was an elephant's ass. It formed a piedmont, a broad base for a wide Serengeti back sloping upward through gullies of narrow shoulders and highland backbones. His neck and lower head triangulated to a kind fleshy face with a long narrow nose. And high above the ice blue eyes, the man's hair drifted like timeless clouds of snow-white wisdom."

Just then Palmer Squeeze entered the Green Parrot bar. He'd been recently appointed head of Key West tourism, the sixth to take the job in four years. He was uniquely qualified, having graduated Monroe County Community College's six-week tourism dynamics program in the top fifty. There were fifty-two students. More to the point, his mother was sister to the mayor. And every day, now, it was becoming more apparent to Palmer he'd gotten himself into a lose-lose situation.. It could be buying pencils for the office or making a major policy decision, it didn't matter. Those board members with new money wanted Palmer do exactly the opposite of what the old island power people wanted him to do. As Hemingway days approached, Palmer Squeeze, who was already thinning on top, had begun finding clumps of his hair in his bed. To make up for the loss, he'd begun pulling hair from the back of his head to the front of his scalp, holding it down with spit. Work-related tension caused him to over-eat. His love handles were becoming swollen and jiggled like breasts. He pulled a stool to the bar, took a deep breath, and said, "I don't know how much more of this I can take! Here, read this," he said thrusting a letter at Dr K.

Dr K read aloud:"Dear Palmer, You certainly pulled the wool over everyone's eyes here on this commission. Don't get a swelled head — you're dealing with a bunch of idiots. But I see right through you! When we hired you, over the objections of many whom I think you consider your friends (They're not!) you promised you'd re-invent Hemingway days. Well, Einstein? Where's the beef? Listen to me, my friend! I'm going to hold your feet in the fire! Do you understand me? Deliver or you're going be out selling conch fritters from your bicycle again with no health insurance to pay for the Prozac you're going to need! And don't bother your poor mother about this. She's having enough trouble getting used to that idiot rabbit-faced girlfriend of yours. Signed, Thomas Truit, Mayor of Key West."

Squeeze nervously twisted his hair and added more spit.

"So, Palmer, what are these new ideas?" asked Dr K.

"Okay. See, I figured if I expanded the look-alike contests and I advertised we'd be having an American Revolutionary look-alike contest — you know, Minutemen, Paul Revere, George Washington — folks would like that."

"Sounds good to me," Said Dr K.

"Yeah, well, unfortunately the printer... of course, he's trying to blame me, but I know it was him. Anyway, SOMEBODY left out the word 'American', so on the website and the brochure it reads 'Revolutionary look-alike contest'!" And as Palmer Squeeze said this, two rifle-toting, bandoleered, head-banded men kicked open the door of the Green Parrot. They wore primitive tattoos and had ragged beards. One was tall and pock-marked, a ringer for Ché Guevera. The other resembled Fidel Castro. They spoke rapid Spanish as they ordered Tequila and toasted, "Death to all stinking bourgeoiseee!" Then they stared at Squeeze until he mumbled, "Power to the people." The revolutionaries roared with laughter. They wiped their noses on their hands, sneered at everyone, wiped their noses with their hands, and gulped back their tequila. Then they slapped a few Mexican pesos on the bar, got up and left. Shine looked suspiciously at the money, but said nothing as Squeeze mumbled he'd take care of it.

"How many of these 'revolutionaries' did you get signed up?" asked Dr K.

"Counting Mao and what's his name... the half-bearded Palestinian?

"Arafat?" asked Dr K.

"Yeah, Arafat. Counting Arafat, eight," said Squeeze.

"You know, you could have come up with something for women and had a lot less trouble," said Glady.

"Well, as a matter of fact I did just that!" said Squeeze, brightening. "I included the Merciful Mothers look-alike competition." But he and everyone at the Green Parrot gasped as two Mother Theresa look-alikes minced to the bar and climbed their bar stools. Dr K took a mental picture, noting the masculinity of these merciful ladies' hips. He saw beard shadow showing through their make-up. Their voices were masculine. The phony Mother Teresas ordered aqua-vit straight up. They talked loudly, finally toasting: "To Mahatma Ghandi! A small man with a large member!" Then they proceeded to count out a pile of rupee notes from their purses. Squeeze thumbed his chest and nodded his head to Shine.

"This is not gonna make mustard." said Squeeze. "And, the worst is, I have not gotten one — not one — entry for what I thought was going to be the killer event, the Mother Theresa Merciful short story competition. You people are always asking how come we don't do something positive, something family-oriented for once?" He turned angrily to Dave. "So, what's with you writers, anyway? Christ, here's your golden opportunity! But, no. What do you do? Nothing! You stay home and sit on your pens! What the Hell do you guys want, anyway?"

"Well, for starters, some decent prizes! You know, having a twenty-dollar entry fee and your first prize a fountain pen and your runner-up getting a copy of 'Old Man and the Sea'... that's going to limit the number and quality of your entries," said Dave. "Hell, literature is dying, and you're committee's out there sticking a pen up its ass! Your committee's not going to stop until literature is dead, are you?"

And as Dave spoke, his words... LITERATURE DEAD..! LITERATURE DEAD...! began to reverberate off the Green Parrot walls louder and louder. Tourists looked up from their drinks. And the juke box started playing Perry Como's "Oh my Papa, to me he was so wonderful." The music built to a deafening roar before a violent explosion. Vinyl 45s went flying, shattering against walls. And through a cloud of smoke and sparks, a huge grey and orange striped two hundred pound cat was blown across the floor up against the wall by Glady. She patted at spots on his fur which smouldered. Dazed, the cat looked up and said nervously, "Tell me it's not true! Cause if literature's dead, Papa's going to kill me!"

All day Palmer Squeeze couldn't get that scene with the cat out of his mind. He had loose ends to tie up before things really got going tonight, what with the Hemingway look-alike contest followed immediately by the announcement of the winner for Lorian Hemingway's Short Story competition. But, try as he might, he just couldn't get the cat out of his thoughts. How could he use this? What? A Hemingway's cat look-alike contest? No! God, please! No more look-alikes! He mentioned it to his girlfriend, Debbie, but she was no help, "Are you, like, weird or somethin'?" she'd asked. But he knew it was something good because he could feel his brain swelling feverish like it always did when something was rooting up there.

-000-

Hemingway look-alikes from across the entire country had been arriving all afternoon, as had writers and fans of Lorian Hemingway's Short Story Competition. Whose idea it was to have these two events on the same night? Probably Mayor Truitt trying to save a few bucks. When Squeeze suggested staggering the events, he'd been praised for his brilliance by Commissioners Curtis and Foyle. Then later he'd learned these assassins were the same ones trashing the idea behind his back.

The gathering of nearly three hundred in the Green Parrot was boisterous and cheerful. Glady, holding Papa's sedating dart pistol, was in charge of crowd control. Of course she hadn't loaded ancient gun and it hadn't been fired in forty-five years.

Squeeze was about to get things underway when a beer-soaked voice shouted from the crowd, "There ain't no real Goddamn writers anymore... just softies, and they all got tits!"

He could hear Debbie's voice in the crowd yelling, "Shut your ass face. Like, just shut up!" The Hemingway look-alike crowd belched out great red-faced guffaws like they always did at jokes involving female body parts. The writers in the crowd glanced nervously around the room. Some of them braved the inevitable "What are you looking at?" when they were caught snatching glances at the Hemingway look-alikes, gleaning material for short story characters.

"Okay, my friends, good to see you're all in high spirits. Welcome to Key West," said Squeeze covering his ears against the PA system feedback. "C'mon, let me hear you give yourselves a big cheer!" He'd learned this at the community college course, 'Crowds — friend or foe?' The crowd cheered and Squeeze continued with what he'd learned in his college crowd control course, "Okay. . and in the great Key West tradition I want everybody here to turn to his neighbor and give 'em a great big-ass hug." But, where it worked well with young people, the white-bearded men looked shocked and betrayed. Jokes about tits were one thing, but men hugging other men... well, okay, they'd all heard about this side of Key West, but... not us, mister! The cheering stopped. Men's body hairs, particularly those on backs and shoulders stood on end. Strong body odor permeated the air. The men inched apart. And no one hugged. Squeeze began to sweat. He patted his hair. "Okay, then! Moving right along, let's introduce the first of our three Ernest Hemingway look-alike finalists. A masonry foreman from Indiana. Let's have a big hand for... Brick Stevepipe! Fellas, let's hear it for Brick!" said Squeeze.

When Brick mounted the stage, Squeeze surprised the man by suddenly wrapping him in a sweaty 'hello' hug like he'd learned at the junior college. Brick reacted violently. He shoved Squeeze to the floor, dislodging Palmer's comb-over so that it stuck up behind his left ear. Squeeze turned his back to the crowd and tried to re-attach the clump with spit, but it wouldn't stay. Squeeze turned back to the crowd and cleared his throat nervously, saying, "Isn't he... er... something folks? And...Okay, who's next? Okay, yes... a fishing guide and professional sports fisherman from our own Florida Keys, 'Papa' John Bunt! Papa John, good to have you on board!" He could hear Debbie yelling in the crowd, but he couldn't see her.

Again, when the contestant came on stage, Squeeze attempted a hug. But, Papa John snapped into a defensive karate position and shouted something Japanese. Squeeze jumped back. The air conditioner roared, but seemed powerless against the thick heat and cigar smoke. The mood grew dangerous.

"Any monkey business and someone's gonna wake up with a radio transmitter stapled to his ear!" warned Glady, from the bar.

"Yeah, well, just keep your friggin hands off me, you hear?" Bunt said.

At the college, they'd told Squeeze, no matter what, just keep talking! He said, "Okay, then, moving right along... Our next finalist, a retired English professor from UCLA. Berkeley, Mr Amos Hathaway." This time, he made no attempt to hug the man. Squeeze said, "Amos, you've come a long way for this contest. Congratulations and... good luck to you. Now, folks, please give a big hand for our panel of experts. Dr Montgomery Kilamanjaro, psychiatrist, retired US Navy. Gladys DePoo — former 'friend' of Papa Hemingway. (Squeeze winked to the audience who winked and leered back.) And last, but not least, Shine, our bartender and former sparring partner with Papa (A tremendous applause as Shine raised and pumped two fists.) Okay... our panel will have sixty seconds to select this year's winner of the Hemingway look-alike contest." Music from 'Beat the clock' began playing and Squeeze shifted uncomfortably, wondering if anyone knew he frequently beat his alarm clock. It had caught fire, but he'd managed to unplug it in time. His landlord's son as a policeman and had asked questions. Debbie complained now the room stunk.

While Squeeze waited, a beer bottle was hurled up at the stage where it broke behind Glady. She quickly finished filling in her vote card, then picked up the dart pistol, aimed it, and to her surprise, it fired. But it missed her intended target, a white-bearded, fat man, who laughed out loud when the tranquilizer dart struck Debbie's shoulder. Instantly the fifty-year-old sedative was in her blood. Debbie's head slumped to her chest. Now, Glady moved like she was in a trance. She looked younger as, in her mind, she was back in the time when she and Papa hunted together. She ran over tables and guests like they were sage and saw only a tiger lying on the floor. With efficiency, Glady was astride the animal, stapling an ID tag to the girl's ear. Squeeze, where he stood, was effectively screened from seeing these events and when the music stopped and the buzzer sounded, signaling Dr K to hand Squeeze the envelope containing the winner's name, Squeeze, ignorant of what had happened, held up his hand for silence. "Okay," said Squeeze, "this year's Papa Hemingway look-alike winner is... Mr Amos Hathaway! Yessir, Mr Amos Hathaway!"

Squeeze put his arm around the Hemingway look-alike winner's shoulders, asking, like they were the best of friends, "I'll bet you never dared dream this impossible dream, did you, Amos?"

Amos Hathaway glanced at Squeeze's arm then searched the front and back of the certificate. "Isn't there some money goes along with this? I mean, I came all the way down here from California. I got hotel bills, food!" he said.

Squeeze told him, "A lot of folks out there are going to be wishing they were in your shoes tonight, Amos. Because immediately after we get done here, you're going to be boarding the Hemingway Days float and you'll sit next to Miss Manatee while the two of you are going to ride from one end of Duval Street to the other. Yes sir! The whole strip! And for you two runner's up, Brick, Papa John — thank you so much fellas! Thank you."

Squeeze, again, held up his hand for silence. He yelled into the microphone, "Okay, now. For all you writers out there, here's what you've all been waiting for."

And right on cue, Lorian Hemingway took the stage. She stared at Glady, who was just now realizing all was not as it seemed. Lorian was also staring at Amos Hathaway, who was taking a stool at the bar. When she looked at Squeeze, Lorian had to suppress an insane desire to laugh. This she did by returning her gaze to Amos Hathaway, who truly did look like her grandfather. Squeeze took Lorian's hand and pulled her to his side. She felt Squeeze's moisture intensify as he spoke. </p>

"Sure, but writing's different now. Everything's different." Dave said.

"Different, scmifferent! Same old crap, same old rules!" said Shine, bringing more margaritas. "Same readers fascinated by same old nincompoops! Good writer makes his main character dumb as a stone and all the time saying motherfuck this and motherfuck that. . 'scuse my language, Glady! And you always got your bad guys driving a Cadillac automobile with white leather seats so's you can splatter blood and hairs all over the upholstery. And you got to have these guys drive their cars right through the front window of some restaurant breaking bottles and mirrors and squishing folks right into their plates full of spaghetti! That's what America wants!"

Fritz joined in, "And make sure you got cats in there. Calms people down. You ever read that book 'How to massage your cat'? Now, that, my friends, is literature!"

Suddenly the lights in the Green Parrot went dark. A spotlight suddenly shone upon Squeeze with his microphone wearing a jacket which reflected the light in a million sparkles. These theatricals impressed everyone. "Folks," he said, "I'm glad you all came, because I'm here to make a very important and historical announcement. Now, it's no secret — there's been some wild speculation, not only among Buddhists and psychic friends, but everywhere I go — people all over the world are calling me asking if he's back yet! They're not asking me 'if', but 'when' is the real Ernest Hemmingway coming back to Key West! Because — and make no mistake about it — he is coming. I know it, you know it, the American people know it! But the question is: how will we know it's him? Because, you know, there have already been more than two dozen men and one woman claiming that they are the real Ernest Hemingway. Now, do we take their word for it? Do we go out and look for him like with the Dalai Lama? Do we draw straws? Do we ask them tricky questions about Papa's past, his family?"

"After consulting with folks who actually talk to dead people, and then with the tourism committee, everyone agreed we should have a pentathlon — an Ernest Hemingway pentathlon, where the last man standing, wins!"

And before anyone could react, Amos Hathaway leaped up on the stage, grabbed the microphone from Squeeze, shouting, "You're all a bunch of fat bozos! Only one man here is the bona-fide real Ernest Hemingway, and that's ME!"

A real Donnybrook followed. A TV cameraman was thrown to the floor. Bottles broke as men fought among themselves in a blind frenzy, some fighting because it was the only way they knew to release tension. Above the roar, Squeeze shouted, "Gentlemen, here's your itinerary!" The crowd quieted down.

Carousing: You'll be judged by an old carouser himself, Shine!

Alligator wrestling and capture: You must bring the 'gators back here, dead or alive! Glady will point you in the direction of the swamp.

Cigar smoking: Now, this one sounds easy, but don't be fooled. We're talking about genuine Cuban cigars, Havanas! And you got to GET hold of one first before you smoke it, don't you?

And there's big woman hunting. I mean, big game hunting! That's self explanatory." (The crowd exploded with raucous laughter.) You can use a gun, a stick, a knife, whatever.

And, last of all there's writing: (Serious grumbling from the contestants.) You cannot, I repeat, cannot use word processors, tape recorders, or fax machines. All writing must be done on your portable Olivettis.

Someone asked, "Can we substitute self-inflicted wounds for writing?" Squeeze answered with an emphatic, "No!" And without further interruption, Squeeze yelled, "Now, gentlemen! Are you ready to rummmmmmmmmmmmble?" In unison, the Hemingway look-alikes shouted they were. "And may the best man win!" Squeeze shouted as the herd of white beards thundered out into the humid night.

-000-

Was it four days later or was it five? Amos Hathaway couldn't remember. He and a Hemingway look-alike who called himself Captain Ernie had been slogging in thigh-deep mud for days over a marsh swamp far beyond the Saddle Bunch Keys. The sun was brassy and relentless. They were on the trail of an alligator, had been since early morning. They itched from mosquito bites. The pair looked apprehensively from side to side.

"And don't be afraid to use the back edge of your Olivetti if things get out of hand!" said Amos.

"You just grab the leg like I told you and everything's gonna go smooth. I'll grab the head," said Captain Ernie, squinting in the sunlight.

"You just make sure you got a good grip on the mouth — keep it closed!" said Amos.

"You got the rope?" asked the Captain.

"Right here," said Amos. And they crept toward the bushes where the reptile should be sleeping. Captain Ernie tensed. He was about to spring when the Ché Guevera look-alike and Fidel Castro seen earlier at the Green Parrot bar, leapt out from the alligator's bushes with automatic weapons drawn. Castro barked, "Put up your hands, capitalist pigs!"

Captain Ernie put his hands up over his head as he was told, but immediately yanked them down saying, "Hey! I don't take orders from no commies! You think this is Russia or something?"

"You think this is The Bay of Pigs or something." Shot back the pock marked Ché, poking his weapon at Captain Ernie's chest. "There's some old scores need to be settled here tonight!"

"Those guns are... fakes, I hope," said Captain Ernie.

"Yeah, right. Like your beards?" asked Fidel who yanked hard on the Captain's whiskers.

"You Goddamn pinko!" screamed the Captain. But Ché grabbed Captain Ernie by his collar and pulled the Captain's face within an inch of his own, saying, "This weapon is no fake, Mr Bay of Pigs assassin!" And cocking his rifle as he flung Captain Ernie to the ground, the revolutionary squeezed off an ear-splitting burst of fire into the hot blue sky. Amos hit the dirt next to the Captain. They both got up, then, and ran in different directions. The revolutionaries ran behind Amos, laughing, firing at the ground by his feet, shouting, "Socialism forever! All hail, Marx!"

Captain Ernie was congratulating himself on getting away. He was distracted by the automatic rifle fire and was looking behind him, giving the finger to Karl Marx when he tripped on mangrove roots and fell into the tidal current rushing out to the Gulf of Mexico. In the water, he struggled to keep his footing. But the current was strong and pulled him toward Cuba. Captain Ernie's mother had always wanted to give her boy swimming lessons but, there was never enough money.

-000-

Amos Hathaway was tired and wet. For three days now he'd called out to Captain Ernie. Now his voice went hoarse. He was hungry and suffering from heat exhaustion. He'd slogged through swamp and hammock, through a seemingly endless maze of tiny islands that made up the back country of the Florida Keys. Now, a part of his brain could hear himself thinking out loud. He knew he was in trouble, and when he reached another in a series of dead end mangrove swamps, it was with heartbreaking fatigue Amos realized again he'd have to spend another night before turning around. His drinking water was gone. He held his head in his hands and cried. He had no idea how far he'd come, but guessed it could be twenty or thirty miles. Could it be more? Darkness was falling quickly, as it does in the tropics. The water would run shallow for hundreds of yards, then suddenly drop off in deep areas with a strong current. The bugs were at him relentlessly. He hardly had the strength to hold his head, and was falling asleep on his feet when he thought he heard a voice, but many times he thought he had heard voices. Then, through the mangroves he saw what looked like a figure in a small boat. Was it real? Yes. He definitely saw something, someone. It was a man... talking to someone. No, he was alone. He was alone, but, yes, the man was talking, talking to himself.

"Yes," Amos heard the man say, "Maybe... Maybe there needs to be a love interest, something to give humanity, feelings." And then the figure in the boat looked his way and saw Amos. "My God!" the man said, "Are you alright? What the Hell happened to you?"

Amos was overcome. He could let his guard down now and he began to blubber about angels and spirits. "You... you saved my life," Amos said to his savior who was, of course, Dave. Dave studied the man carefully. Suddenly, beneath the mud and grime, he recognized the Hemingway short story writer. Dave thought about trying to savor revenge, but he could hardly muster any hatred for Amos in his deteriorated condition. Dave said, "Yeah, well... Okay, you might as well get in the boat. I swear to Christ, I wouldn't leave a dog out here, but don't give me time to think too much about it."

But Amos didn't hear. He remained on his knees, repeating, "You saved my life. I'm forever in your debt."

Each time Dave told him to forget it, Amos became more insistent.

"Listen, my friend, I need... I want to do something for you, something special, something..."

And with each passing moment, reality began coming back for Amos. He began to look hard at his savior as recognition came slowly. "Oh no! You're the writer, the one I insulted. Forgive me. You must forgive me. I wasn't myself."

"Yeah. None of you are," replied Dave.

"I think I can help you. I really can." said Amos, "What are you writing? Tell me, please!"

Dave didn't want any part of this. But, over and again, Amos insisted, saying, "I know I can help you. I know it sounds crazy out here in the middle of this... swamp and with all we've been through, but I AM a creative writing teacher. You're probably working on something for the Hemingway contest, aren't you? Everyone is. You might as well let me help you. I'm not going to give up!"

Dave tried to remain aloof, but Amos just wouldn't relent, "Tell me now. Come on... Tell me, please."

Then, and he later couldn't remember how it happened, Dave found himself explaining his story to the writing teacher, "I can't seem to get it to gel... I can't make it believable. I can't."

Amos put his trembling scabby hand on Dave's shoulder and it was clear to Dave, if the hand had not been so pathetic, he would not have allowed this intimacy. He remembered reading where concentration camp victims came to harbor a perverse love for their tormentors. But the man was fragile and Dave didn't have the heart to stop the trembling hands from reaching into Dave's canvas bag to pull out the manuscript. Amos studied the writing, The Hemingway winner cleaned his glasses on Dave's shirt and began reading. Then he said, "See... here, you've got your main character sitting back and playing second fiddle. You want to keep him up front, keep him in the reader's face. Your description are great, your characters, good! Don't change a thing there. But you need to write about... about the things you know, conflicts you're familiar with. Keep the drama, only this time, model them after you and I while the blood is hot — our battle of wits! I can help you. I really can! I can get you writing great stuff.

-000-

Seven days had passed now without a word from any of the contestants. A story was circulating that a group of drunk Hemingways had tossed in the towel after only six hours and flagged down a taxi somewhere near Ramrod Key. They'd been driven to Fort Lauderdale, where a Captain Claud apparently lived. He had promised the others a "good time" back in civilization. Back at the Green Parrot bar, Dr K and the others were beginning to worry. "I'm going to call the police, Glady said, and actually had the phone in her hand when a sweat-soaked, tattered man stumbled into the bar. He looked more like a muskrat than Hemingway. He was followed closely by Dave, at whom the filthy man chattered a mile a minute. It was only when Dr K recognized the bent and muddy typewriter Dave carried, that he cried, "Good God! That's Amos Hathaway!"

Amos stumbled to the bar with Dave at his side and said, "Give me a Martini!" Shine brought Amos his drink and he downed it in one swallow. "Amos, what happened to you?" Asked Dr K. Seeming not to hear, Amos ordered and downed a second Martini. The alcohol had an immediate effect. Amos began to shout, "He's dead in the swamp! Oh, my heart! Get me another Martini!"

Amos slugged down his third Martini and spoke as if in a trance, "Stiff as a board... Captain Ernie! 'Gator bites on his legs... Brick Stevepipe! He's in the slammer up to Big Pine Key. They say he killed a Key deer with a stick. Well, how was he supposed to know they were protected? He was dizzy from the heat and thought you just weren't supposed to hit them with your car.. . he got confused. Florida state troopers got him now, say he'll be lucky if he gets out in five years!"

While Amos talked, Fritz purred at his feet. Glady, clutched her bosom, and sighed as the door flew open and Squeeze, followed closely by a TV crew, sailed into The Green Parrot Bar. He laid his hand proprietarily on Amos' shoulder and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, we got ourselves a winner."

-000-

Three months later, Dr K, Glady, Squeeze and Dave were all sheltering behind margaritas in the Green Parrot bar. It was 4pm. Palmer Squeeze smirked and handed Dr K. a letter which the good doctor read aloud: "Dear Mr Squeeze, despite early misgivings by some of our commissioners, things turned out quite the way you said they would. Good going, young man! I always had faith in you, right from the beginning. Hathaway is certainly our Golden Goose! Business is booming all over town. We're plastered all over the nightly news, aren't we? Fish are even biting better than they have in years! Hemingway or Hathaway. . . whatever you want to call him. . people can't get enough of him! Palmer Squeeze, you are the man of the hour! You make your mother and your sweetheart proud. Signed, your friend and mayor, Tomas Truitt."

Everyone except Dave looked cheerful. He wasn't sure about his writing. But maybe that was because he was taking risks, writing in verse, then changing it back to prose. Doing the reverse. Turning prose into screenplay, then always back to short story format. These were Amos Hathaway's ideas.

And when Glady walked in she was dressed to the nines, flowers in her hair, her eyes shadowed green with silver glitter.

"Who's the chick?" asked Dave, nodding his head toward the stranger he knew to be Glady. She blushed. And when Dr K asked where she was going like that, Glady told him to mind his own business, but everybody at the bar knew where she was going.

-000-

"Who is it?" asked Amos when he heard the knock on his hotel door.

"It's Pillows," replied the soft voice. Amos opened the door a crack and beheld Gladys in sequins.

"Hello, Bullets." She breathed, "It's been a long... lonely time. I've missed you. I've missed your... love and your... your body!" She advanced upon him, holding his male body again, her first in thirty-odd years. She spoke ever so quietly, "Don't you remember how we used to make the jungle steam when you'd drag me into your tent? And the sweet... naughty words... you'd say to your... Pillows?" Amos stared at the lady and was lost, as he usually was, in his own importance. But there was such emotion in Glady's eyes that he woke momentarily from his ego sleep. "A lady remembers every caress, every kiss," she said as she locked Amos in a love embrace. Together they tumbled to the floor and the sounds of the moment became sweet passion.

-000-

Three weeks later, Squeeze was bragging to Dr K while his girlfriend, Debbie, sat listening at the Green Parrot bar. "There is no one. . I mean, no one better equipped than me to teach the Tourism Basics at the college level! No one!"

"But you only have a two-year degree, Palmer," said Dr K.

Debbie stepped in to defend her man. "That makes, like, no difference. Why is an old degree any better than a young one? Because there's, you know, nothing Palmer can't do!" Dave covered his ears like he'd learned to do whenever Debbie spoke.

Dr K, a patient man, was about to respond when Glady burst in from the afternoon heat with her lipstick smeared all over her front teeth. "Hurry! It's Papa!" she said. "They won't let him go!"

"What?" asked Dr K.

"He wants to know why, if he's the real Papa Hemingway, why is he living in some cheap hotel? Why's everybody's gettin' rich off a' him while he can't afford a house?"

"What are you trying to say, Glady?" asked Dr K.

"Are you okay, Honey?" asked Debbie.

"Last night," Glady said, "The two of us moved all his stuff up there after the employees left."

"Up where?" asked Palmer Squeeze.

"In the old bedroom, in a real bed, the old bed. It was wonderful. And before we knew it... it was morning. They saw us and screamed and called the police and that old bitch comes after me with a broom calling me a homeless whore!"

"Glady, tell us where?" Dr K asked calmly, while Squeeze wrung his hands nervously.

"The police, they got the place surrounded. Papa, he won't come out," said Glady, shaking.

"Where? Tell me where?" demanded Dr K.

"The Hemingway House!" said Glady.

"He's in the Hemingway House? Oh, Christ Jesus!" Squeeze said in a voice like someone who'd been yelling at subway cars all night,

Outside, a police car with its siren wailing, rushed past the rustling palms and bougainvillea.

-000-

The old Hemingway House is a truly fine example of nineteenth-century Key West splendor. Inside, Papa's trophy heads and collection of artifacts from far-off lands lend a sense of time and mortality. The feeling is extremely personal. If Papa were, indeed, to return, he would be very much at home. The cypress ceilings and tall French doors open onto a wrap-around veranda where Amos Hathaway stood defiantly above the yard with his legs apart.

"I'm not leaving. This is my house!" he said. He had his arm around Glady's waist, drinking from a bottle of Cuban Rum. "All my memories are here." He positioned himself at the French doors, where he could look down on the flashing lights of the police cars surrounding the compound. He shouted, "You can tell that goddamn mayor and the police and the national guard and anyone else, tell em this is my house and... tell 'em old Ernest Hemingway has no intention — not now, not ever — of turning his house over to a bunch of ass-grinding tourists again!"

Amos turned from the sultry street and re-entered the main hall. He was midway down the dark corridor when he heard a timid knock on a side door. He grabbed an enormous rifle from the rack and aimed it, ready to fire. "Who is it?" Amos asked.

Dr K and Shine peeked from behind the door. "Jesus, I almost blasted you idiots!" said Amos, "I been telling these functionaries that I... " but before he could finish his sentence, he was startled by a voice on a loudspeaker that vibrated the whole neighborhood.

"Amos? It's me, Palmer Squeeze. I'm down here in the yard with Mayor Truitt and the chief of police and the president of the Bank. Listen to me, Amos, none of us wants trouble. Let's get this thing settled before all the TV news dogs come in and make a big deal out of it. That's what those bastards want. They want to cause trouble, grind us all up in controversy so tourists will go to Myrtle Beach instead of Key West! Listen to me, Amos. We're reasonable folks. We'll meet you more than half way! We're going to give you your house for life. That's right, and an annual salary of $375,000... (Conferring with someone.) That's been increased to $450,000. Okay, Amos, that's $450,000 with book rights, a Range Rover, 150 pounds of fresh meat a week. Okay? Are we okay with that?"

"Jesus Christ! They're going to give you all that?" sputtered Dr K. But Amos seemed unimpressed and only repeated, "And? And?"

The loudspeaker answered immediately, "Okay. And three bottles of Jack Daniels per day with a case of Bock beer!

" And..?"

"Amos, we got to draw the line somewhere."

Amos repeated, "And..?"

"Oh, come on, Amos. We can't do that one!"

"You can and you will!" Amos roared!

"Alright! We can arrange for the name change. We will call you Ernest Hemingway... but we can't change history for you. Not for you or for anyone else, Amos," said Squeeze.

"Call me Papa!" said Amos.

"We can't change history! That's illegal, Amos, and you know it!" said Squeeze.

"I didn't kill myself!" said Amos..

"There's nothing anyone can do about that, Amos." Said Squeeze

"You can say I was killed in a bull fight."

"Jesus, Amos... We're burning up out here... We gave you just about everything you could ask for... (Squeeze conferred with the mayor.) But, okay, okay! We'll see what we can do."

Five minutes later, Amos entered the dining hall. He was celebrating his negotiation victory with rum when suddenly he heard a commotion outside. Soft footsteps ran up the stairs and the door was kicked open by the cat. Fritz burst into the room followed by Squeeze, Debbie, a clutch of city officials, the banker and two police officers.

"Don't anybody cash another one of Amos Hathaway's checks!" said the president of the bank.

Dave quietly entered the room and stood in the back watching as Fritz thrust a tattered 'New Yorker' magazine in Amos's face, hissing: "Look at this, you FAKE!"

Everyone looked dumbfounded. Fake? Fake what? Fritz waved the magazine over his head and said, "It's all... every bit of it, right here in this Goddamned magazine, isn't it, Amos? What have you got to say for yourself, fat boy?"

Dr K, still confused, examined the magazine and, asked, "What's going on here, Fritz? This magazine is ancient — September 1954. Christ, it's . . over sixty years old."

"That's why the bastard though he could get away with it. It's from the pile of magazines in your waiting room, Doc! You must still have the same magazines you opened the office with in 1954. I was waiting for you there at and started reading. The story sounded familiar and I'm asking myself: where have I read this story? So I look at the title and it's... 'The snow bird'! Sound familiar, Amos?"

"But that's the... title... of his Hemingway story!" said Dave.

"You bet your ass it is! So, what have you got to say for yourself now, Mr Hemingway? Mr Famous Plagiarist Writer?"

Amos deflated in front of their eyes; an arrogant writer turned little boy who'd wet his bed. He said in a small voice, "What did you expect? This was your grand idea, your dream. It never occurred to me I was really Ernest Hemingway until you told me I was."

Dave, who'd been quiet until now, said: "But what about the writing, the elements of style, all your editing?"

"For heaven's sake, Dave, that's the first book any beginning writer reads: 'The elements of style'! And I stand behind the editing!" said Amos.

"But... everything — all your help — was phony?" asked Dave.

"I don't know about phony, but... Oh, Hell, you might as well know everything. I'm no College professor from UCLA. Oh, I am a real creative writing teacher alright, but I teach high school. I know you're going to poo poo this, but some of your best teachers are high school teachers," said Amos, sweating profusely now.

"But you led me to believe... you said...," Dave sputtered.

"Listen to me Dave, you learn pretty early when you're like me: if you haven't got a creative bone in your body, you teach! I'm the kind of guy eats bland food — plain, no onions, no garlic, not even a Goddamned tomato! My writing's like that. All my life I wanted to be a great writer, another Ernest Hemingway. I was always copying somebody's story, trying to acquire style, trying to memorize it. Finally I thought: Hell, if I just want to BE a famous writer — and, you said it yourself, there's so much good writing already done, why not just copy it, word for word! You know, it's crazy, but with everybody telling me I was Ernest Hemingway, I actually started to believe I was him." Amos began to cry.

"It's okay Bullets. It's okay!" said Glady.

"Yeah, it's okay, man, it's okay," said Shine.

They all said it was okay except Fritz who puffed himself up and stood sideways with his back arched, hissing, And before anyone could stop him, the black and white striped cat growled eerily. He grabbed Amos by the back of the neck, lifting him with his mouth. Fritz, his luminous green eyes protruding, then began trotting around the room with the terrorized Hathaway stopping only long enough to violently shake the plagiarist. He growled fiercely as he threw Amos in the air and caught him again with his teeth. Each time, Debbie screamed. Fritz batted Amos with his paw as he allowed the large man to hit the floor. And with everyone shouting for him to stop, Fritz finally flung Amos across the floor to collapse in a heap against a wall heavy with trophy heads. Horrified, they all rushed to his crumpled and bleeding body. Debbie brought Amos's broken glasses to him and dropped them beside the man. It was Dr K who took control, then, and saved his life. The doctor ordered everyone back while he performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Amos was rushed to Fisherman's Hospital where, to everyone's surprise, and despite heavy sedation, Amos Hathaway was able to stagger to the parking lot and steal a car, leaving the Florida Keys forever behind him. That night Shine found a hair ball the size of an apple behind the juke box. He grinned at this blessing. Fritz was not seen again.

-000-

Bluish-black storm clouds, golden edged with sun, had been building off-shore all afternoon. Now, heralded by gusts of chilly air blowing leaves and branches to the ground and sending business signs swinging on their chains, it began to rain hard and steady. Inside the Green Parrot, they were all drinking margaritas. It was hard to believe a whole year had passed since Amos Hathaway had departed Key West. The irony was, he really didn't have to go, because he had become a legend in his own right as the False Hemingway. Visitors came from all over to see and meet him and were disappointed at not being able to photograph him along with Key West's other famous attractions — the southernmost point buoy, the cat man, The Hemingway House etc. Nearly as many T-shirts with Amos' picture were sold as the real Papa Hemingway. Some had both faces on them, real on the front, imposter on the back.

Shine, perhaps a little slower than last year, was still sparring with time. His grip on reality was more tenuous, but his visions of the past were more compelling since the hairball had joined his mojo. Today he was busy serving margaritas to those who made their yearly pilgrimage to witness the naming of the Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition winner. Earlier in the day, he'd served margaritas to the crowd watching Squeeze announce, without incident, the winner of this year's Hemingway look-alike winner, a nice fellow from New Jersey!

Squeeze strode in, microphone in hand, searching the crowd for Lorian Hemingway. Debbie was on his arm, and he escorted her to a seat. He'd shaven his head bald. The jukebox began playing "Oh, my papa..." and out from behind the juke box crawled a six-toed black and white striped kitten. Glady scooped the kitty into her arms as Squeeze cleared his throat, caressed his naked scalp, and spoke into the microphone. "Okay, folks. It's that time again. Another year. Another hot July. Another winner. Lorian, will you please tell us who's our winner of this year's Lorian Hemingway Short Story Competition?"

"Palmer, this is a real treat, " said Lorian, "This year we have the pleasure of presenting the short story award and the one thousand dollar prize for his story, Hemingway Days, to one of Key West's own, Mr. Dave Davis!"

Dave, in shock, stepped up on stage to shake Lorian Hemingway's hand and accept his check. "Oh, my God, I can't believe it. This is wonderful!" he said.

Glady looked down at the kitten in her arms. Suddenly she understood. "Hey, wait a minute, Hemingway Days, that's about us," she said. And as she spoke, she, Dr K, Shine, and all the characters in Dave's story became dimensionless wisps of imagination, mere words written in countless notebooks that had for months been spinning out from Dave's head like space dust from Saturn. And these words, like musical notes, curled one last time around is head before settling into a final copy on the white pages of the manuscript in his hand. Lorian asked Dave to read his closing paragraph aloud which he did.

"...and like the characters in Papa Hemingway's life, the characters in our own lives shine like stars in the blackest night sky. Each of us — author, bureaucrat, lover, doctor, bartender — during our time here on earth, is sent out, for the merest instant that is our lives, sent out as probes by Mother Earth to be her eyes, her nose, her ears... to observe, to feel , to sigh... to laugh... to wonder for her at the folly of life rolling by like the soft blue-green waters of Key West."

The end.