martinsmithstories

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‘Mary, my dear,’ Hemingway Whyte said to his wife late one afternoon, ‘I’ve decided to apply for a grant.’

‘Should I get your medication?’ Mary said.

‘My medication?’

‘Yes. For your blood pressure if you’re going to try have a rant.’

‘Not a rant, Mary. A grant. I’m going to submit a grant application to the Arts Council. See if we can supplement our meagre retirement annuity.’

‘But wouldn’t you be depriving others more deserving, more talented, more in need?’

‘No, my dear, it’s the principle. I’m a taxpayer and a creative.’

‘Really? I never knew. And under what art form will you be applying?’

‘Sadly, there isn’t an Oenology category, so I’m going with Plan B: Literature. I’ll have you know I’ve nearly completed a volume of what I think—and I hope the grant assessors and the reading public will also think—is a rather brilliant collection of short stories.’

‘What, a little tome of enlightened literary fiction? You?’

‘No, not a weeny, whiny, woke Whyte work of serious literary fiction, my dear, but a big, blithe, bawdy black book bursting with buffoonery and belly laughs.’

‘So that’s what you’ve been doing when locked away in your study while I’m out in the garden. Who’d have thought? You, my dear Hemingway, attempting humour?’

‘I most certainly have, my dear. What’s the point of reading a book, let alone living a life, if you can’t have a few laughs along the way? There’s enough dreariness and horridness in this world without having to open a book and read about others whining about things. If you want a good whine, sample a tipple of Château Mouton Rothschild 1945, I say. Humour, Mary! That’s what the world needs more of. And less of that self-absorbed, self-flagellating, woe-is-me, back-of-hand-on-forehead, couch-swooning serious lite-ra-ture. And don’t get me started, my dear, on those morbid memoirists. Good God, am I the only person in the history of humankind who didn’t endure a beastly childhood under patriarchal tyranny? Mark my words, Mary, humanity will read my book and be left in tears!’

‘Have you thought about entering a writing competition? Winning some prize money?’

‘No point, my dear. No one of my ilk gets shortlisted for writing competitions these days, let alone wins. It’s as if the world is too scared to be seen laughing. Alas, it’s all about doom and despair. And diversity. Every shortlist’s the same: three chicks, a gay and a they. No, it’s a grant for me.’

‘And you think the Arts Council and the reading public will part with their hard-earned for your little—sorry, I mean big—collection of humorous short stories?’

‘I can’t see why not? Besides, why shouldn’t I hop on board the gravy train and grab a few pennies to enhance our collection in the wine cellar? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my study, preparing my application.’

‘That sounds lovely. Don’t forget to pay the electricity bill while online.’

***

Hemingway sat at his computer and navigated to the Arts Council website. He scrolled down to the Grants section and created a login account. He then clicked the Apply button and commenced filling out the online application form. Typing with his thumbs and forefingers, and with his tongue lodged in his cheek, he worked his way through the form: Name, Date of Birth, Sexual Orientation, Gender Identity, Citizenship Status, Disability Status, Person of Colour Status, Income and Assets Profile, Social Justice Affiliations … the application form went on and on.

‘Good heavens,’ he said, ‘this is worse than rewriting David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. And what the blazes is this “lived experience” they keep banging on about?’

He completed the form, including proudly listing his Certificate II in Wine Appreciation under the Relevant Qualifications section, attached three stories he had written and clicked the submit button.

Easy as 1-2-3, he thought.

He perused the profiles of successful applicants from previous years. There sure were a lot of wonderful names listed. Names that screamed exoticness, mystique and authoritativeness. But surely they weren’t their real names. Surely they were noms de plume. Who the hell names their child H♀neyp♀t or BCDFGHJKLMNPQRSTVWXYZ or ¶? What sort of parent gifts a child an unpronounceable name devoid of even a single vowel? And for heaven’s sake, why the symbol? Why not just come out with it? Pil-crow. Yet he had to admit their names certainly caught the reader’s eye. And no doubt the grant assessors.

Yes, that’s what he needed to enhance his chances of grant success. A nom de plume that grabbed the assessors by the scruff of their corduroy jackets. Hemingway Whyte was so boring, so bland, so … so … so earnest! For a start, get rid of Hemingway. He cursed his father and his reading habits. How about Faulkner or Salinger or Bradbury for a first name? No, they were all a bit too literary, a bit too high-brow, a bit too wanky. He needed something a bit shorter, a bit snappier, a bit meatier. How about Beef? Or Venison? Or Ham? No, he needed to stop thinking with his stomach. Then it struck him. The perfect first name for his nom de plume. Hem. Yes, perfect. Tick.

Now he needed a surname. He didn’t want to be known by a single name or symbol, not like those pretentious pop singers. No, he was going to call himself Hem … Hem … Hem Din? No. Too confining. How about Hem … Hem … Hem Lyne? No. Too neat. What about Hem … Hem … Hem Roid? No, better still, Hem A. Roid? Nothing like a middle initial to stamp oneself as a man of letters. No, not that. It sounded too much like a pain in the arse. What about Hem … Hem … Aha! Yes, that was it. Perfect and with a nice Socratic feel about it. He reopened his application form, deleted his name and typed in his new nom de plume: Hem Locke.

He continued reading the profiles, and what caught his eye was that all the successful applicants seemed so young. There wasn’t a wrinkle, grey hair or jowl between them. This simply wouldn’t do. If he was going to succeed in getting his grant, he needed to de-wrinkle, de-grey and de-jowl himself. But how? Spend days on the computer trying to photoshop himself into some sort of Adonis? No, he needed to be a bit more subtle than that.

He reopened his application form and changed his DOB so he was seven years old. No, not seven, you idiot, he thought. He wasn’t bloody Mozart, for goodness’ sake. How about 17? No, still too young. 37? No, too old. Forty is on the horizon—a rocky, shark-infested horizon—and, at that age, one’s sailing head-on towards shipwreck aboard the Good Ship Missed Opportunity. No, 27 was the age. Yes, 27. An age when life is full of promise and optimism and a little “lived experience”, before the banality of reality sets in and dulls one’s sensitivity, creativity and originality.

He amended his DOB so he was now a sprightly 27 in the eyes of the assessors. He clicked Save and turned off the computer and went out to the patio, where Mary was setting the table for dinner.

‘Mary, I’ve submitted my application. You’ll be pleased to know I am now known in the literary world as Hem Locke. Not only that, I have drunk the Elixir of Life and am now twenty-seven years young.’

‘Sounds lovely. I’ve always wanted a toy boy.’

‘All we can do is sit and wait. I’m sure my application will impress the grant assessors.’

Hemingway and Mary sat in silence as they ate their main course. While she lost herself in her Book Club novel, he pondered between chews about how he could tweak his application to improve his chances of success.

When Hemingway completed his meal, he placed his cutlery on his empty plate and drained the last of the wine in his glass. He smacked his lips and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

‘Delicious, my dear, absolutely delicious. Now, Mary, after much introspection, I have concluded that what I lack in my life is a tortured soul.’

‘But I grilled the fish the same way I always do. Is the sole underdone? Do you want me to batter it?’

‘Not a battered sole, my dear. I said, a tortured soul. S-O-U-L. I’m talking about my being, my essence. I need more suffering in my life. All the great writers, the literary legends, suffered for their art. And I bet three-quarters of those grant applicants lead miserable existences, raiding dumpsters for a feed and copping a bruising from Life’s hard knocks. That’s what I need, Mary, if I’m to enhance my grant chances. Suffering. Come, pain me. Break that plate over my head.’

‘But Heming—sorry, I mean Hem—it’s barbeque night. It’s a paper plate.’

‘Well, slice me with that knife you are holding.’

‘It’s made of bamboo.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, try that tartare sauce bottle … no, no, let me guess, plastic. Well, it’s going to have to be that bottle of Grange. Wait, wait. What year is it? A ’95? Drain the bottle before you start, my dear.’

Mary emptied the remaining contents of the bottle into the glass Hemingway held in his outstretched hand.

‘Cheers.’ He guzzled the contents of his topped-up glass. ‘OK, Mary, give me your best shot.’

‘Are you sure about this, Hem?’

‘Yes.’

Mary cracked the bottle over his head.

Next morning, Hemingway woke up lying prone with his face in Barnie’s water bowl. His head throbbed, fogging his remembrance of how he lay half-drowned in a canine lap-pool. He sat and raised his hand to his head and felt a lump and grinned. Yes, he thought, Vissi d’arte. Just like Floria Tosca, he’d suffered for his art. And lived.

That night, Hemingway went online and updated his grant application form with details of his “lived experience” of suffering.

***

When Mary returned from shopping the next afternoon, she found Hemingway partially hidden behind the curtain in the lounge room. He held a fly swatter, and when he saw Mary enter the room, he placed his index finger to his lips.

‘Shh, Mary. Else it’ll get away.’

‘Hem, what in heaven’s name are you doing with that fly swatter? And what’s it?’

‘For goodness’ sake, my dear, keep your voice down. I’m big-game hunting. I’ve been tracking the bugger for more than an hour.’

‘Tracking whom, my dear?’ Mary whispered.

‘This enormous fly. I swear it is the size of a buffalo.’

‘And will you be mounting its head over the fireplace once you’ve captured it? Honestly, that bottle of Grange last night has gone straight to your head.’

‘No need for sarcasm, Mary. Look, there it is!’

Hemingway lunged forward and brought the fly swatter down, but he missed his target, for the fly triumphantly buzzed past his ear as a lamp crashed to the carpeted floor. Hemingway reloaded his weapon and took a second swipe, only to trip on the Persian rug, stumble and crash headfirst into the fishbowl.

Hemingway and his pet goldfish, Marlin, lay side by side on the floor, half-drowned and gasping. Hemingway heard footsteps exit and re-enter the room, and the squirt of an aerosol can pschitted twice near his ear.

‘There, Hem. That ought to get rid of it. Now, should I call the taxidermist?’

He tried to open his eyes, but they immediately stung and his vision blurred. ‘Mary! Mary! Help me! Someone’s maced me!’

Something small and vibratory landed on Hemingway’s distressed tongue. He coughed. He gagged. He swallowed. The vibrations ceased.

‘And now I’ve swallowed the fly! Oh, Mary, quick, call triple-zero!’

‘Settle down, Hem. Sit on the lounge, and I’ll get you a warm face washer and a glass of Gutiérrez Colosía Oloroso Sherry. Honestly, call yourself a Great White Hunter? Really? I swear Ernest would turn in his grave.’

That night, Hemingway went online and updated his application with further details of his “lived experience”. Yes, he thought, nothing like flying in the face of a dastardly death to garner the empathy and vote of the grant assessors.

***

When Mary returned from the local library later that week, she found Hemingway sitting on a small stool in the back garden. He held a ruler in one hand, and his head rested on the palm of his other hand as he sat lost in Rodinesque contemplation. From the end of the ruler, a piece of string dangled down into a bucket.

‘Hem, what in God’s name are you up to?’

‘I’m big-game fishing, Mary.’

‘Put that down. Marlin’s had enough stress these last few days. Come inside, and I’ll make you a Millennium cocktail. Then I’m going to book you an appointment to get that head of yours checked.’

As Mary cut a pineapple into cubed chunks for the juicer, Hemingway sat on a stool at the kitchen bench and stared despondently at his upside-down reflection in a silver serving spoon. He released a big sigh.

‘Hem, a bitcoin for your thoughts?’

‘Mary, it pains me greatly to tell you of my consternation.’ He shifted uncomfortably on his stool.

‘There’s a bottle of Milk of Magnesia in the pantry if you need it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your constipation. What do you expect, the way you’ve been scoffing down that goat’s cheese lately?’

‘Mary, I said consternation, not constipation. I’m vexed about the world and its politics, not a blocked bowel. I’m thinking about joining the Greens.’

‘They’re one and the same, aren’t they? Just a load of hot air and bullsh—’

‘Language, Mary, language. But touché, my dear. Look, I’ve decided we live too conservative a life. Too much comfort, too much privilege, and too little scandal. We need to get on board with all those greenies and embrace a bit of social justice activism. Become warriors. I’m sure such activity would enhance my grant prospects.’

‘Sounds like fun, Hem. Do I get to wear war paint? Don camouflage? Stop shaving my legs and armpits?’

‘No, my dear, nothing as drastic as that. But I thought I might attend a protest rally in the city tomorrow. I’ve booked us to stay overnight at the Marriott. And after the rally, we might try something scandalous, something debauched, to gain notoriety. Nothing like infamy to place one’s name front and centre before the grant assessors.’