Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Bad Hemingway
It's raining again here in SLO. I just got back from taking my calculus midterm, which went well. It was misty when I left for class, but it was pouring as I walked back. Have I ever said how much I love the rain? It's peaceful. Anyway, as I was walking back with my trusty umbrella I was observing all of the people running by who were completely unprepared for the inclement weather, and it made me think of the essay I had to write in 11th grade in the style of Ernest Hemingway. This essay is one of my five favorite things I've ever written. So, for your enjoyment, I've decided to reproduce this essay for you below. If you've ever read A Farewell to Arms, you'll appreciate this tale of a typical rainy day at Rancho Bernardo High.
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Outside it was raining. It came down in sheets and mixed with the light fog so that you could not see the top of the library through the haze. It could not reach the bandos in the sanctuary of the band room where their clarinet reeds and valve oil would stay moist and warm and dry. Under the covered halls it was fine, but the small quad could not protect the boys with their pants below their butts and the smart girls in sweatshirts and the not-so-smart ones dressed like hoes in the cold. Inside Room 202 the tap tap tap of the drops added to the dullness of the morning announcements. If you have heard the announcements then you know how it is. Sometimes trivia and the dance and sports. Sometimes free Oscar’s breadsticks, while the APUSH students talk mindlessly through Mr. O’Connor’s pleas for them to listen. And the quiet flutter of turning pages as they try frantically to study for the chapter 28 test. Outside the rain smacked against the windows.
“All right, take out a half-sheet of paper and number from one to forty,” he said. He held a stack of papers that looked fresh and warm and stapled. At the sight of them my stomach went hollow and empty. I took out a bottle of vermouth and two glasses.
“Mr. O’Connor, we haven’t had enough time to read the chapter,” I told him, and the class nodded their heads in agreement. I tried to tell about our math and science and English homework. If I could explain that we needed more time to study then we could pass the course. I could not explain. He was crying. It was no good.
“I thought students always wanted to be taught,” he said.
“They do, but darling, I am learning. I’m learning from you. Don’t I make a good student?”
“You’re a lovely student.”
“You know I don’t learn from anyone but you. You shouldn’t mind because someone else has taught me.”
“I do,” he said. “Now be quiet.” He passed out the tests. They were still warm from the copy machine. “I think I may go to Harry’s to grade these,” he mused. He went on about the linguini and the fettuccini and the chicken fingers, and how he could grade the tests twice as fast on the pink tablecloth with CNN on at the bar, and how splendid it was to share a drink with the bartender. He looked down at my desk and took a glass of the vermouth. “Good luck, darlings,” he said, and he took a drink.
Outside it continued to rain.
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Outside it was raining. It came down in sheets and mixed with the light fog so that you could not see the top of the library through the haze. It could not reach the bandos in the sanctuary of the band room where their clarinet reeds and valve oil would stay moist and warm and dry. Under the covered halls it was fine, but the small quad could not protect the boys with their pants below their butts and the smart girls in sweatshirts and the not-so-smart ones dressed like hoes in the cold. Inside Room 202 the tap tap tap of the drops added to the dullness of the morning announcements. If you have heard the announcements then you know how it is. Sometimes trivia and the dance and sports. Sometimes free Oscar’s breadsticks, while the APUSH students talk mindlessly through Mr. O’Connor’s pleas for them to listen. And the quiet flutter of turning pages as they try frantically to study for the chapter 28 test. Outside the rain smacked against the windows.
“All right, take out a half-sheet of paper and number from one to forty,” he said. He held a stack of papers that looked fresh and warm and stapled. At the sight of them my stomach went hollow and empty. I took out a bottle of vermouth and two glasses.
“Mr. O’Connor, we haven’t had enough time to read the chapter,” I told him, and the class nodded their heads in agreement. I tried to tell about our math and science and English homework. If I could explain that we needed more time to study then we could pass the course. I could not explain. He was crying. It was no good.
“I thought students always wanted to be taught,” he said.
“They do, but darling, I am learning. I’m learning from you. Don’t I make a good student?”
“You’re a lovely student.”
“You know I don’t learn from anyone but you. You shouldn’t mind because someone else has taught me.”
“I do,” he said. “Now be quiet.” He passed out the tests. They were still warm from the copy machine. “I think I may go to Harry’s to grade these,” he mused. He went on about the linguini and the fettuccini and the chicken fingers, and how he could grade the tests twice as fast on the pink tablecloth with CNN on at the bar, and how splendid it was to share a drink with the bartender. He looked down at my desk and took a glass of the vermouth. “Good luck, darlings,” he said, and he took a drink.
Outside it continued to rain.
