The Sun Also Sets

The last time he had stood in the hallowed hallways of academia, he was dressed in a dark suit, black shoes and a black gown with a fur collar. The university photographer at the time captured a young man smiling in the summer sun, his light brown hair curling over his ears holding a piece of parchment inscribed with the words Bachelor of Science with Honors. He was still only 20 years old. 

Now, years later and many miles away, he stood in front of a red brick building, in the late afternoon autumn sunlight watching students leave. Their classes over for the day, his about to begin.  He remembered the pride he felt back then as an undergraduate. Being one of the few high school students, in those days, adjudged good enough to attend university. A sure ticket to a well-paying professional career, a comfortable life, unlike the hardscrabble life his father had lived, working on construction sites. Yet, today he felt no pride. The Master’s program, he always dreamed of taking in his golden years was a last toss of the dice. His attempt to make a new start, an old guy with lots of qualifications, experience and know-how with a past due date stamped on his face. 

“We are not looking for experience but sensibility,” the interviewer had said, what he meant was we are looking for someone young, naïve and cheap. Maybe, he thought, like one of these students now filing past him. Someday, I will be teaching students like these. That was his plan. With a Masters degree in Liberal Arts and Sciences he could get a gig as an Adjunct at a college provide a regular source of additional income to help pay the bills. Like many men his age, he had started a consulting company, even won contracts. They came few and far between. At times, there were delays in payments. When he called accounts payable, he was told: the invoice needed to be signed by a senior manager, unfortunately he is on vacation or he has taken a leave of absence. Then, came the wait followed by the calls came from the credit card companies, warnings he had better pay or his account would go to collections. The comfortable life once dreamed of for himself and his family exchanged for a life of anxiety. No one told him, make sure you make your pile by fifty, it’s all downhill from there.

His classroom on the second floor looked bare and unloved to him. Not the grand lecture halls and equipment filled laboratories of his undergraduate days.  A medium size room with floor to ceiling windows on one wall, a white board on another and a large circular table in the middle of the room. Sitting at the table was a man about his age with a stack of files, three women in their late thirties, a younger woman in her early thirties and two older heavy-set men.  No one paid him any attention as he sat down in one of the available chairs.

“We are waiting for two more, then we can start,” the man with the files said “while you are waiting pass these around.”

This is different, he thought.

A few moments later, two young women showed up, flushed and apologizing profusely for their lateness.  

“Welcome, don’t worry first day of class, finding places on campus can be trying. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Tommy Havelock, just call me Tommy, none of that Professor stuff” said the man with the stack of files smiling. “This course,” he continued, “560 Literary Criticism is in essence, a deep dive into an author’s prose.  Today we are going to dive into a selection from a very accessible writer Ernest Hemingway.  Take a few minutes to read over the handout, and we will do a quick round robin with first thoughts on this selection.”

Looking down at the handout, he read what appeared to be was a scene from a Spanish speaking bar somewhere. He read over it and thought, not very descriptive, seems to lack words.  A scene from years earlier flashed into his mind, a bar in Century City, Los Angeles called Harry’s Bar. Every year, they had a “Bad Hemingway” writing competition. I can see why, he thought.

Pointing to one of the young women sitting beside him, Tommy asked for her name and her impressions on the reading.  

“Ashley” she said, and then began a lengthy soliloquy. Where is she finding all these deep meanings, he thought, there are not enough words to justify these assertions. A sense of panic was creeping over him. His favorite authors were Raymond Chandler, Arthur Conan Doyle and Ryder Haggard they used lots of words, so did Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Clearly, this Ashley is borrowing from their writings and imagining that Hemingway should have written more, but was word challenged.  Similar, delusions were coming from the other students when it was their time to speak.

When his turn came, he started hesitantly, “my name is Arthur,” he stuttered, “I have to say, I disagree with most of my colleagues, compared with a book like a ‘Hundred Years of Solitude’, the writing lacks emotion, is not very descriptive, dull prose. Could do with more adjectives.”

Tommy put his face on this hand and said “That’s Hemingway’s style, it’s called the iceberg theory, the reader is supposed to fill in the blanks,” he continued in a professorial manner, “image yourself going into a Cuban, Spanish or Central American bar, what comes to mind.”

“I have been in bars in Puerta Vallarta and Mazatlán,” he said, almost immediately regretting he had.

“Doesn’t Hemingway’s writing invoke that feeling!” Tommy exclaimed.

“Actually, no, at least not the ones I went into, they were mostly filled with undergrads on Spring Break drinking beer, listening to loud music with drunk women dancing on the tables, sometimes topless,” he said.

All eyes were now looking at him, the older men stifling a smirk, the older women a look of disapproval and the younger women taking a sudden interest in the state of their nail varnish.

“Oh really, please do tell us more,” Tommy said raising his eyebrows.

“Here is what I think,” he said now speaking faster, “the purpose of a novel is to described a scene so well that the reader is transported into a time and a place. Maybe somewhere they have never been or will never go but vividly described, so one can transport themselves into it.”

“The reader in your opinion is not intimately part of the story, but a passenger on the author’s literary journey, so to speak.” Tommy said squinting his eyes.

“I would say,” he said slowly, carefully choosing his words, “the author sets up the movie in my mind.”

Tommy smiled again and nodded to the older man sitting on my right, Ronald by name. He was a Hemingway fan, an American icon in his mind, noting he had won the Nobel Prize, the Pulitzer Prize, mentioning some of his titles and describing scenes from; “A Farewell To Arms,” “The Sun Also Rises,” For Whom The Bell Tolls.”

With each mention Tommy’s smile widened, he began nodding and interjecting remarks, like “of course”, “that is a classic”. “memorable”, each one a thrust at the Philistine sitting at Ronald’s left.

He looked at his watch, the hour class was almost up.  Just a few more minutes. The Hemingway critiques, now, just a dull drone in the background with occasional flashes of the scenes from “Papa and Beers” in Puerto Vallarta

For homework, Tommy told the class to write three short paragraphs of a bar scene in the Hemingway style.

As he got up to leave, Tommy said with a forced smile; “Arthur, just the PG rated version, yes?”

Walking down the stairs and out the exit, he felt the early evening breeze, exhaled a sigh of relief and decided, maybe a drink or two would inspire some Bad Hemingway.

8/10/2020