Free Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost by Tom Winton Page A

Ernest’s mentor from his Paris years, walked in with Alice B. Toklas.  Their arms were locked together and both sported uncharacteristically wide smiles on their faces.  It was as if, after many years, Stein and Toklas had finally broken out of a locked closet.  Later on Gertrude would ask me how I got the nasty “ Ernestesque ” gash on my forehead. 
    When Big Skinner, the bartender from Joe’s bar came in, the doorway suddenly seemed to shrink.  He was a towering, imposing figure even if he weren’t the three hundred pounds he’d been during his prime.  I stood there in awe, wondering how anybody, no matter how drunk, would not be intimidated by this man.  I also wondered why Big Skinner ever bothered to keep a baseball bat hidden beneath his bar.  Later, when I shook his enormous hand, I felt like a cub scout shaking with his new scout leader.  
    A band cranked up outside on the patio as other guests streamed into the crowded room.  The musicians opened with Happy Days are Here Again , and I felt a nostalgic smile rise on my face.  I thought how perfectly fitting the 1930’s hit song was for such an occasion. 
    As I sipped my second Daiquiri, I felt as if I were back in time.  It was like being at a mid-19 th Century Gala or Academy Awards ceremony.  And I swear, just as the latter crossed my mind, who walks in side-by-side but Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy.  Gable looked as dashing as ever.  He had on a white tuxedo and the same ear-to-ear, gleaming smile that had driven generations of women wild.  As Spencer Tracy shook hands with Ernest, he was beaming as well.  I imagined Mister Tracy must have smiled that very same way the first time he’d met his longtime sweetheart, Katherine Hepburn.
    After wishing Ernest a happy birthday and mingling a bit, some of the happy faces retreated to the patio.  I saw through the windows that vintage lawn furniture had been set up out there.  Tables and chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle facing the band, and some folks were dancing to the tunes.  I watched Marlene Dietrich do the swing with tall, bearded Waldo Peirce, Ernest’s artist friend who’d painted several portraits of him.  Pretty Zelda Fitzgerald was out there, too, swinging away with a man I didn’t recognize.  Other couples danced the jitterbug while white-shirted waiters made sure the guests had drinks of their choices and plenty of hors d’oeuvres.  As I watched the goings-on outside the window, I noticed two men in my periphery.  They were walking toward me.  It was Ernest and a handsome man with hair parted in the middle.  The grand party suddenly felt like a Great Gatsby, East Egg bash.
    “Scotty, meet my new friend Jack Phelan . . . Jack, Scott Fitzgerald.”
    We shook, and his hand was smooth as a baby’s.  A heart attack had ended his life when he was but forty-four, and he, along with his wife, were two of the youngest looking guests at the party.
    “It’s an honor to meet you Mister Fitzgerald.”
    “The honor is mine, Jack.  Please, call me Scott.”
    “Okay.  Sure.”
    “Ernest here tells me that you just might become a fledgling author.”
    Feeling a small rush of pride from such a possibility, I said, “Yes, that’s what it sounds like if I have what it takes.”
    “Well, if you do, don’t be like our mutual friend here,” he said giving Hem a devilish look.  “Don’t be going out and getting yourself a new woman every time you write a big book.”
    “Go ahead, Scott,” Ernest said in a half-joking manner, “I’d love to find out exactly how you kept Zelda so happy all those years.”
    “Touché, Ernest,” Fitzgerald came back, giving him a playful pat on the back.  “Nice stab, lots of thrust.  I award you a point for that one.”
    “In about two minutes, I’m going to award you with a right hook.”
    The close friends shared a good laugh; then Fitz said to me, “Alright, on with it then.  Jack, if you do attempt to write something