In Ernest

Shifting his 6'2" frame in the cramped seat, Michael contemplated pulling out the Hemingway novel that he had started, and was thoroughly enjoying. For some reason, he was drawn to Hemingway's writing more than any other author. He recognized the deficiencies in style, particularly the occasional literary criticisms of the odd characterization of women in his novels. Hemingway's women are subtle, sometimes less-developed in the stories than the men, but nobody could call them simple and stupid--they were complex and extraordinary.

It's a wonder that anyone reads Hemingway at all, after being bombarded with "The Old Man and the Sea" crap they make everyone read in High School--what a lame introduction to Hemingway, Michael thought to himself. It's probably because it's the only novel that he's written that doesn't dwell on drinking and screwing, death, suicide, hopelessness.

Reading the novel on the four-hour plane ride from Dallas to Boston, he had really gotten into it and was focused on the story. It was almost a relief--he had loved reading Hemingway while in college, but perhaps he was trying too hard to be vogue--picking an author that is perhaps not so popular, and selecting him to be a personal patron saint of literature, representative of your taste in reading. Michael feared that, now, reading with a more refined palette and in a more critical manner, he would be disappointed. He couldn't even stomach the reading of a Stephen King novel, or a Tom Clancy--the characters were wooden and predictable, the dialog was absurd. The worst was when characters would define themselves immediately and summarily, which Michael felt was so artificial as to be inexcusable. But Hemingway did not disappoint-in fact, he was exhilarated with how refined the writing was, and retroactively impressed with himself for having appreciated this in his younger days and keeping this novel as one of his favorites despite having read it over 10 years ago.

Another fact that struck Michael was that much of the dialog was written in the grammatical style of Spanish, which he had since learned. This exponentially added to his enjoyment of the book, because there were subtle, inexplicable differences in the way things were worded that added to the mood of the book. Unfortunately, he had seen a terribly boring movie version starring Gary Cooper as Robert Jordan, the hero, so no matter how hard he tried, Gary Cooper kept popping out from the pages occasionally as the lanky, dusty dynamiter from the Spanish Civil War.

Then a manicured hand reached over and gently brushed him on the right arm, making him start a little in the tight-fitting airplane seat. The woman two seats over (the middle seat was miraculously empty) had reached over and touched his arm to get his attention--he had his Ipod going quietly over the noise-blocking headset in the background as he read to drown out the airplane droning, so she was trying to get his attention to show him something. He turned his head quickly and she smiled up at him and casually pointed to an article she was reading--it was about Hemingway?s home in Key West, Florida.

Interesting, he thought to himself, she's been paying attention to what I'm reading. I wonder why? He knew that she was traveling with a group of friends because they had been talking briefly across the airplane with each other at times. She was about 32 and relatively well-dressed, but it was a long flight and Michael hadn?t taken the energy to start a conversation with her in case she was boring or in case he was called on to share something more than the superficial information about his family, his job, where he lives, and what he does for fun. He didn't want to get below the superficial with any strangers for now. There is a lot there, he knew, but it was tiring to go through it, and he had things to hide. Things he would be hiding for the next 10 days if he could get away with it.

But, from riding on planes almost two dozen times a year, he had a strategy employed to help him deal with airplane conversations. Two stories to tell--One if the person asking was someone's 72-year-old grandmother from Kalamazoo, the other if...but both stories were shades of the the real truth, which was too complicated to get into. One stopped the conversation, and the other was intriguing, slightly self-deprecating, and endearing.

Michael smiled and nodded, pulling the Ipod earphones off and said, "Wow--coincidental, huh?"

She smiled at him.

"Do you like Hemingway?" He had never met a woman who does, but was sure there's one out there. Remember your hyphenated-last-name college English teacher who loved you to death but bashed Hemingway mercilessly? She made you choose a short story to comment on that emphasized a strong woman, and you had resented her a little for that. She shaved her head, and part of you suspected she was a wiccan or something slightly edgy like that. But he considered her class to be the one that awakened the writer in him. Everything before her was total crap. After her, he noticed that he would receive compliments by people who read his reports, write-ups, descriptions. She even read your entire essay test to the class a year later when you took her again, and the class sat stunned in amazement at your writing--for just a moment you were a celebrated author, and it was the beginning of a desire in your heart...

The woman suddenly looked slightly uneasy, then smiled "I've never read any of his work." Then she firmly yet politely snapped the paper open with both hands and turned her head to signal that the conversation was over and went back to reading. Maybe she was a little embarrassed. Boy, you sure knocked one out of the park with that one, he chuckled to himself.

Good, he thought.