martinsmithstories

Image by MasterTux from Pixabay

When Mary entered the foyer at the Marriott late the next day, she saw a short, tubby, bearded man lurking near the lifts. He wore an oversized trench coat, a black baseball cap and sunglasses and stood hunched over an opened newspaper.

Carrying her many parcels and bags, Mary walked over to the man and said, ‘Hello, Hem. Nice trench coat. And where on earth did you get that fake beard?’

Hemingway lowered the newspaper slightly. His eyes darted left and right before settling on his wife.

‘Oh, thank God it’s you, my dear. I’ve lost my room card. Quick, give me your bags, and let’s get up to our room.’

Hemingway ushered Mary towards the lift and shuffled her inside when the doors opened. As another couple approached the lift, he hit the close-door button and said, ‘Sorry. Full.’

When they entered their room, Hemingway closed the door and placed the safety latch in position.

‘Quick, Mary! Pour me something from the bar fridge.’

Mary poured and handed him a scotch. Hemingway downed the drink in a gulp and shuddered.

‘Thank you, my dear. Boy, did I need that. I’ve had quite a day. The protest rally was a nightmare. I’m glad it was a one-off. Certainly not my cup of Earl Grey.’

Mary refilled his glass, and Hemingway again downed the drink in a gulp and shuddered.

‘The good news,’ Hemingway continued, ‘is that I think I’ll be in tomorrow’s paper. Front page, I suspect, captured by the press whilst manning the front row of something my fellow dissidents called a human chain. That should certainly enhance my social justice credentials on my grant application.’

‘What or for whom were you protesting, Hem?’

‘To be truthful, my dear, I’ve not the foggiest idea. It may have been power pole rights. I have a vague recollection of someone screeching on and on through a megaphone about pole feelings, the pain of being torn from forest homes, the exploitation of having to hold up lines all day and night, doing the bidding of the pigs of privatisation, and the ignominy of having dogs urinate on them. I say, they’re a funny lot, those lefties and their causes.’

Hemingway extended his empty glass towards Mary.

‘Anyway, my dear,’ he continued, ‘there I was, all set to extend my hands passively and let the authorities handcuff me, when our chain suddenly surged forward at the police barricade. Fortunately for me, I had bent down to tie my shoelace, because when I looked up, there were police and protesters and pickets and batons and boots and blood everywhere. All a bit too messy and violent for me. No one seemed to object to my quietly exiting stage right, although one delightful young lass, a Partoo Partoe, spat at me and called me her oppressor and shouted that my time was over and her time was now. I suggested to her that if this was a glimpse of the future, then I was more than happy to gift her the present. She rewarded my wit with a second globule of spit. I’m afraid my tweed jacket will need to be dry-cleaned. I tell you, Mary, it was a nightmare.’

Mary obliged him with another refilling of the glass. Once again, he drained its contents in a gulp.

‘Sounds like life on the edge, Hem.’

‘It was. How was your afternoon, my dear?’

‘Me? Oh, wonderful, just wonderful. A haircut and a high tea, a massage and a manicure, and the Amex card is glowing white-hot from shopping.’

‘As I can see.’ Hemingway cast his eyes at the pile of bags on the desk in the corner of the room. ‘I’m pleased for you. Now, my dear, please sit down. I have something to share with you. A little something that promises, I hope, to lead to a night of scandal, debauchery and, eventually, grant glory. It might also explain why I am wearing this ridiculous garb.’

Mary sat on the bed, and Hemingway removed a small plastic bag from his coat pocket. The bag contained a white powder. He displayed the package to her with an outstretched open palm.

‘For us, my dear.’

‘What is it, Hem? Talcum powder?’

‘No.’

‘Baking soda?’

‘No. It’s drugs, Mary.’

‘Drugs? What ails you, Hem?’

‘Not to cure an ailment, my dear. I’m not ill. No, it’s drugs. To get high on.’

‘But we’re in the penthouse already. If we went any higher, we’d be sitting on the rooftop satellite dish.’

‘Not levitation, my dear, but a pharmaceutical high, a recreational high. To take us to the edge and air-walk a little further beyond.’

‘And what type of drug is it, Hem?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The chappie I bought it from. We transacted behind a dumpster in one of those seedy back lanes hidden away from the normal city hustle and bustle. All with a hush, a nudge, a wink and a “say no more”. I reckon I got a bargain because he threw in the trench coat, the cap, the sunglasses and the false beard for free. It was haggle-free, too. You know how I’ve hated to haggle at all those overseas markets you’ve dragged me around over the years. Come on, my dear, let’s give it a go. Hand me your Seniors Card.’

Hemingway moved Mary’s shopping bags from the desk to the bed. He sprinkled a small pile of the white powder onto the desk, and using Mary’s card, he created two neat lines. He winked at Mary, blocked a nostril with his finger, leant forward and snorted a single line.

He stood and grinned at Mary. Then his head exploded. His brain throbbed like a jackhammer at a roadworks site, and self-confidence oozed from him like a lava flow. He felt like running a marathon. On his hands. And with a watermelon between his knees. His heart pumped at a disco beat, and a thousand conversations fought to be the first one to scramble to the tip of his tongue.

He staggered to the bathroom to rinse his face. When he looked in the mirror, he saw dozens of Hems, both in front and behind him, all with the same pin-sized pupils and Cheshire grin. Hemingway quickly swung around, but the bastards were still there in their dozens. All the Hems started giggling.

The Hems spun around again. And again. And again. Then all the Hem heads toppled out of the mirrors, but only one Hem head landed with a clunk on the rim of the toilet bowl.

Hemingway woke the next morning blanketed by the trench coat and with his arms wrapped around the base of the toilet bowl. His dry throat ached, as if the Pamplona bull run had stampeded through it.

The heady aroma of coffee and croissants greeted his drug-numbed nostrils. He crawled out of the bathroom but collapsed when he was midway out the bathroom door. The cool tiles provided soothing relief, yet the glare of a bedside lamp tortured his bloodshot eyes.

‘Good morning, Hem,’ Mary said.

‘Argh.’

‘How was your night of debauchery? Not really a night, though, was it? More a minute. But what a minute it was! You, like a true rock star, trashed the room, flooded the bathroom and knocked yourself out. But you missed the real decadence, for I had a lovely evening, feasting on a sumptuous platter of seafood and a delightful bottle of Dom Pérignon ordered through room service, followed by a wonderful chat with our daughter, Amarone, in Milan. She said to say hello.’

‘War-ta.’

‘What was that, Hem?’

‘War-ta.’

‘Water? I’ll get some from the fridge. Would you like a coffee, too?’

‘Yeth.’

Mary pulled out a bottle of Evian water from the bar fridge and unscrewed the lid. Hemingway pulled himself up so his back slumped against the door frame. He drank long and hard from the water bottle.

Mary poured him a coffee from the plunger.

‘One lump or two, Hem?’

‘Un.’

Mary picked up a teaspoon and opened the plastic bag containing Hemingway’s white powder. She scooped up a bountiful spoonful, placed it in his coffee cup and gave it a vigorous stir. As she tapped the rim of the cup with the teaspoon, the Great Bell of Dhammazedi tolled in Hemingway’s ears.

‘I say, Hem, thank goodness your candyman dealt you this processed sugar yesterday. Room service didn’t leave any on our breakfast tray.’

Mary smiled and sipped her coffee.

‘Arstard,’ Hemingway said through parched lips.

That night, back at home and still wearing his sunglasses as he sat at the computer, he updated his application with further details of his “lived experience” and his social justice affiliations. Sure, he embellished the events of the last two days, but who hadn’t tweaked their CV to improve their employment chances. For heaven’s sake, he was a writer of fiction, not one of those self-absorbed memoirists.

As he clicked the Save button, he pondered how he might improve his chances of success. Later, as he and Mary lay in bed—he with the top button of his pyjamas done up and Mary with face cream caked on a face topping a full-length flannelette nightie—he coughed politely to interrupt her reading.

‘Mary, I’ve been thinking. I need to be more fluid.’

‘If you’re still parched, I could make you a cup of tea.’

‘No, not that kind of fluid, my dear. I mean being more sexually fluid. Extend my sexual boundaries, so to speak. I must say, the grant assessors do seem to be obsessed with an applicant’s sexual orientation. Particularly the non-heterosexual variety. Say, would you be interested in joining a swingers group with me?’

‘That sounds lovely, Hem. But not on Tuesdays. I’ve got Investment Club. Nor Wednesdays. That’s Book Club. And I’ve got Probus on Thursdays.’

‘How about Fridays?’

‘Only if Inspector Morse is not on.’

‘Monday nights, then?’

‘Sounds wonderful, Hem.’

***

Two weeks later, on Monday night, the front doorbell rang. Hemingway opened the door and greeted a young couple dressed head-to-foot in black leather.

‘Hi,’ the taller one said. ‘I’m Cleaver. With an A. And this is Clover. Also with an A.’

‘An A, you say?’ Hemingway said as the deadpan, black-lipped woman stared through him. ‘Sorry, where are my manners? Come in, come in. I’m Hem, with an E.’

The couple in black entered and followed their host to the living room.

‘And this is Mary, with an A.’

‘Hello,’ Mary said. ‘Can I offer either of you a cup of tea? Or something a bit stronger? I know I could down another Wild Turkey. I’ve had two already.’ She released a nervous titter.

The swingers-in-black shook their heads. Cleaver placed a black suitcase on the dining table and unclipped the locks.

Hemingway whispered to Mary, ‘Best keep your phone handy, my dear. With a name like Cleaver, he could be a mass murderer with a suitcase full of saws and body bags.’

Mary tittered again and licked her lips as she eyed the liquor cabinet.

Hemingway stepped towards Cleaver and looked over his shoulder as he removed items from the suitcase: a feather duster, a turkey baster, a cat-o’-nine-tails, a rubber chicken, a jar of what looked like maraschino cherries and a large, white tub labelled Crème Anglaise. The bray of a donkey came from the front yard.

‘Tools of the trade, heh?’ Hemingway said.

Cleaver ignored him, emptied the suitcase, put on a black leather mask, turned to the Whytes and said, ‘Shall we begin?’

Hemingway had only removed his shoes and socks when he looked up and saw Cleaver and Clover naked and, by the look of Cleaver, primed. Their toned bodies suggested to Hemingway that when they weren’t swinging in leather, they were bench-pressing or chin-upping at the gym in Lycra. 24/7. Both had six-packs that made his paunch seem flaccid and despondent.

He looked over to Mary, who was down to her bra and panties and taking a quick nip from the whisky bottle. She had a twinkle in her eye that he hadn’t seen in years, and when Cleaver presented full-frontal to her, she gasped and giggled and gushed, ‘Golly-gosh, now I know why your name is Cleaver.’

Hemingway saw Clover lathering handfuls of cream over her ample breasts. Her pubic patch glistened under the lights, as if each hair had been individually washed, waxed and curled. Hemingway did a double-take, for her patch seemed to have been clipped into a familiar shape. It looked like an … an arrow? No, not an arrow. A … a tent, maybe? No, that wasn’t it either. He raised his eyes and saw that Clover had caught him fixated upon her mons pubis. Of course, it was an … an ‘A’. He blushed when Clover mouthed to him, ‘With an A.’

Hemingway switched the light off, thankful that no one could see him blush in the dark. He fumbled with the rest of his undressing. As he removed his underpants, he looked up and saw four breasts—two cream-covered and two jiggling to a nervous giggle—merge near the moonlit patio glass door. Then something hard brushed against his hip.

Next morning, he woke in the dog kennel—naked, sore and with a studded leather dog collar around his neck. Busting for a pee, he squeezed himself through the kennel door and hobbled over to the lemon tree and did his bit for the Nitrogen Cycle. He yawned and stretched, and as he farted, somewhat painfully, something warm and round and red popped out of his bum and landed with a splat on the wet turf at his feet. It looked suspiciously like a maraschino cherry.

Hemingway piss-shivered and hobbled inside to the kitchen.

Mary sat on a bar stool, sipping her coffee and humming to herself. Hemingway noticed she had a lovely glow in her cheeks, and her hair looked wild and windswept.

‘Good morning, my dear,’ Hemingway said.

‘Good morning to you, Hem. How was the doghouse?’

‘A bit more comfortable than this collar.’

‘Here, let me help you remove it. Oh, Hem, I had such a wonderful time last night. We should do it more often.’

Mary stood, crab-walked to the sink and poured the remains of her coffee down the sink. Hemingway winced when he saw a jar containing a single maraschino cherry on the bench.

That night, a dozen discharged maraschino cherries later, he went online and updated the Sexual Orientation section of his application with his “lived experience”.