Spillway Review -- Halloween 2004 -- Who Ya Gonna Call? -- Marcy Dumond

Spillway Review Halloween 2004 He mingway v. Stevens Main Menu Contents		Related links (use browser back button to return to Spillway Review after visiting these links): 1984 Movie Ghostbusters, starring Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd Animation and music Audio Clips Lyrics
	Who Ya Gonna Call? by Marcy Dumond The subject of Hemingway’s argument with Wallace Stevens came up about two weeks before my friend Rhinegold Julia was supposed to leave for a year in Europe on a Fulbright scholarship. I was sitting on the porch of the Columns Hotel at dusk with Rhinegold, sipping a goofy drink called a Mile High Pie. The drink had layers of different colors, and it was in a long flute of a glass and it had a long tiny straw in it so that you could drink from the layers individually if you liked. The Mile High Pie drink was named after a dessert made famous by the Pontchartrain Hotel. I was sipping that drink, and Rhinegold Julia was having ice water. A Mile High Pie was far beneath Rhinegold Julia. Rhinegold Julia knew everything and everybody, or so it seemed, but often years later I found discrepancies in his accounts and realized that many of his yarns were fabrications. On this beautiful evening he said, “You’ll never guess what my mother sent me.” His mother lived in Guatemala, supposedly, and was constantly sending him terribly interesting artifacts, or so he said. I looked at Rhinegold Julia’s eyelashes and sipped from the blue level of my drink. I said nothing but looked interested, because he was interesting. “She sent me a Cuban cigar box full of souvenirs from my childhood, one of which is this," and from his wallet he produced a black and white photograph of a child sitting on the lap of a fellow who looked for all the world like Papa Hemingway. “You know, that’s where I got this,” he pointed to a slight imperfection in the bridge of his nose. “This is from Hem.” “From Him?” I asked. “No from Hem. Hemingway.” “No kidding,” I said. “I don’t think it was very macho to punch out a little child. I thought he was supposed to be so macho and all. He ought to pick on someone his own size.” “Oh no,” laughed Rhinegold Julia. “It was years later. I met him again. Shortly before he killed himself. Hmmmm. I thought. Hemingway was already old when Rhinegold was sitting on his knee in the black and white photo. “I had written a very evil spoof making fun of his writing for the student newspaper, and he heard about it,” Rhinegold continued. My cousin Hector and I were hiking up in Idaho, and we stopped in a convenience store. I used my credit card, and I felt a PRESENCE looking over my shoulder. I didn’t turn around, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see an old guy peeking at my credit transaction. Things were quiet for a moment, and suddenly the old guy bellowed, “RHINEGOLD JULIA?” and I turned around. It was almost a reflex, the turning around, and just as I turned around, the old guy decked me, and stalked out of the store muttering the title of my piece in the student paper, “Old Man.” BOTH Hector AND the convenience store guy said that was HEM. Hemingway. I refused to have my nose set, naturally.” I’m pretty poor at math, but I figured that Rhinegold could not have been more than about one year old when Hemingway killed himself, but whatever. I worked on the orange level of my drink. “Hey there’s Patrice,” exclaimed Rhinegold. Our mutual friend Patrice was riding by on a bike, and Rhinegold started to flag her down. “My great-aunt’s sister-in-law was Wallace Stevens’ secretary’s cousin,” I remarked. Rhinegold stopped in mid-flag-down-of-Patrice. “What?” he said. “My great-aunt’s sister-in-law was Wallace Stevens’ secretary’s cousin,” I repeated. Rhinegold was stunned. I never had interesting third hand brushes with celebrities. That was his job. He sat quietly for a moment, adjusting to the situation. “You know, Wallace Stevens, the poet Hemingway punched out at that party in Key West.” Rhinegold Julia has a nice olive complexion, and if he blushes, it does not show easily, but I saw a rosy color come to his face. “Have you been snooping in my notes? Because some things about that happen to figure in a possible thesis topic I was knocking around a while back.” He might have been holding a bit of anger in check. It was hard to tell. “No, I haven’t been snooping in your notes. I had no idea you even knew about that. I just thought you’d like to know that my great-aunt’s sister-in-law was Wallace Stevens’ secretary’s cousin.” The part about not knowing that Rhinegold knew about Hemingway’s altercation with Stevens wasn’t exactly true because I could always assume that Rhinegold knew everything about everything. Rhinegold took a long drink of his water and was very quiet. I don’t think he liked me knowing about that little detail of Hemingway’s biography. I don’t think he expected me to know about anything interesting like that. I said, “Don’t you think it is a bit odd that the secretary typed up all of Wallace Stevens’ poems and sent them off while he was supposedly running the Hartford Insurance Company or something?” I can’t imagine that the secretary didn’t have a little comment here and there. Surely she put in her two cents. I read somewhere that Wallace Stevens didn’t write that poetry at home. At home it was lights out at nine, young baby in the house, no poetry. Stevens wrote that poetry on his way to work.” “If HE wrote it,” murmured Rhinegold. “He wrote the poetry on little slips of paper, and he claimed he thought of the slips of paper as money. And to whom did he turn the slips of paper over? The secretary.” “Alright, enough already,” Rhinegold said. “Get to the cousin and the secretary and the fight. “Well, my great-aunt told me her sister-in-law said that she heard that Sevens had heard a rumor that Hemingway had said that Steven’s secretary wrote the poems, or at least had a hand in working on the poems and made suggestions about them and edited them. Stevens had also heard that Hemingway was spreading it around that Stevens was in love with the secretary. So Stevens was at this party in Key West, and he was tipsy because his wife didn’t let him drink at home. He wasn’t used to alcohol, so when he had a drink, he got drunk easily. Anyway, he was at this party, and was a little loose and started remembering those rumors he’d heard Hemingway was spreading around, so he blurts out, apropos of nothing, that Hemingway’s writing was lousy, or something like that. Well, Hemingway’s sister, Ursula, was at the party, and she went straight over to Hemingway’s to tattle. According to my great-aunt’s sister-in-law, Hemingway was in his jammies, which consisted of boxer shorts, and he was having a toddy. When Ursula came over he jumped up, ran right over to that party and called Stevens out into the street. He ended up breaking...” Rhinegold interrupted me. Of course he knew the details of the fight already. “OK, back up to the secretary. What did the cousin say about the secretary?” “Well,” I said, “my great-aunt told me that her sister-in-law, the secretary’s cousin, said that she thought that the secretary, I think her name was Something-or-other Carr, did collaborate on the poems, and that she and Wallace Stevens had a very unspoken entirely platonic love. Unrequited, she said. She doubts that they even held hands or anything. Stevens' marriage wasn’t so hot. The wife was a piano teacher when he met her, and it looked like it was going to be all very romantic, but after they married, and especially after the child was born, it got very boring for him. His wife was a fanatic about house cleaning and didn’t like to have people over.” “All this is from the cousin?” Rhinegold asked. “Right,” I said. “And the cousin is...” “Dead,” I said. “And the secretary herself?” asked Rhinegold. “Dead,” I answered, but I was shocked that he didn’t already know that. Maybe he was testing me. “And the great-aunt?” “Sadly, dead,” I said. Rhinegold became quiet. “Back to the fight,” I said. “The cousin said that anybody could have whipped old drunk, paunchy, insurance executive Wallace Stevens. He was twice Hemingway’s age and not used to liquor, as I said. The cousin said that Dorothy Parker could have toppled Wallace Stevens that night. It was no great feat of boxing or anything.” Rhinegold banged the table with his fist, and my drink bounced up from its glass. It settled more or less back in its glass, but the stripes were greatly disturbed. “Now you’ve done it!” exclaimed Rhinegold. “What?” I said. “Hemingway’s ghost will turn over in its grave. He’s going to haunt you for the rest of your days. You know how vengeful he is.” We were both quiet, then I said, “Oooops!” and we laughed. After we left the Columns, we drove around a bit. We passed this short-lived art house theater on Prytania. They were playing the movie the “Gods Must Be Crazy,” and a little bushman was scheduled to visit with people in the lobby, but when we passed by he was outside and there was a small crowd around him. “Oh, I heard about this,” said Rhinegold and he pulled over and squeezed his way into the crowd to see the little bushman. Now one reason Rhinegold Julia got that Fulbright is that he speaks five languages, but I don’t think Australian bushman tongue clicking language is one of them. However, when Rhinegold got up to the bushman, he started talking to him in the tongue clicking language, and the little bushman laughed and said something back in the tongue clicking language. Ok, maybe Rhinegold knew one phrase in bushman language, but I still don’t believe he speaks the language or anything. After this little episode with the bushman, Rhinegold got back in the car as if nothing happened, and said “Karaoke?” “OK,” I said. Singing is the one thing Rhinegold can’t do, or maybe he’s pulling my leg about that too. Maybe he really can sing, and is just having fun pretending not to be able to sing. He loves to go the Karaoke place and sing off key with a straight face. At first the audience feels terribly sorry for him, but soon the whole place is hooting with laughter at him. Once the audience members find out his name is Rhinegold, they start calling to him. “Rhino, get down from there. C’mon Rhino,” the crowd begs through laughter. All of the other patrons always beg me to get him to stop, as if I have control over him. So after this Columns, bushman, Karaoke night Rhinegold took me home. Let’s be clear about this -- this was not a date. I have a crush on Rhinegold, which is probably obvious to him, but we do not speak of it. As far as I know he has a crush on Patrice, and she’s turned him down. Patrice reported that to me. That’s how it is. Rhinegold, Patrice and I just hang out together. So there’s no kissing or Rhinegold coming in or any of that. I got into my dark apartment on Prytania and washed up a little and got into bed. I normally have a lot of trouble falling asleep, and it took a while, but I eventually got to sleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but I woke up, and it was still dark. I heard noises. The noises were creaks and soft groans that might be the old building settling, but it sounded like someone was prowling around in the apartment. I opened my eyes a slit and I saw something white in the rocking chair in the corner of the room. I needed my glasses but I was afraid to reach for them. With no glasses, and my eyes just open a slit, it looked like a large old stubble-bearded man was sitting slumped over in the rocker. I reached for the phone. “Rhinegold,” I whispered into the phone. “What?” He was understandably groggy and cranky. “Rhinegold, there’s an old guy asleep in my rocking chair.” Rhinegold didn’t say anything, at first but then he said, “Papa?” I peeked at the old guy, and he did look like Papa Hemingway. “Yeah, it looks like Papa,” I told him. “Oh my god,” said Rhinegold still groggy. “Now I told you he was going to haunt you for making that comment about it being unmanly to beat up Wallace Stevens.” “I didn’t make the comment, I was just telling you what my great-aunt’s sister-in-law said,” I whispered into the phone. “What if it’s a real old guy?” I said. “OK, don’t wake him up. I’ll be right over,” Rhinegold said. Rhinegold lived about two blocks away, and he has a key to my place because I need him to get the mail and take care of the plants and stuff when I’m away. So he came over and let himself in. When he got to the bedroom, he assessed the situation for a moment, and said, “Papa?” And he simultaneously flicked on the light and grabbed this white housecoat I had draped over the rocking chair. “Mystery solved!” he announced. And he just turned off the light and left. But I heard creeping around in the apartment a few nights later, and Rhinegold again came over to investigate. And he came over again in the wee hours a few nights after that. He was very patient with me. “I have just resigned myself to the fact that Hemingway is going to haunt you for the rest of your natural life,” he said wearily after the third time I called for him. The following Saturday was my birthday, and Rhinegold had big plans for me. I thought the plan was for Rhinegold and Patrice to take me out for dinner at this little courtyard restaurant in the Quarter, and that was the plan, and that did happen, but first, at about nine in the morning on my birthday, I got a knock on the door. I looked through the peephole. Outside on the stoop were three people in khaki pants and matching maroon tops with some sort of emblem on it. They were carrying a bunch of paraphernalia, badminton rackets, metal detectors, and some other stuff. “Who is it?” I asked politely. “We’re the Extra-experiential Phenomena Investigation Team,” said the tall guy in the middle. “Ok, well I’m not letting you in,” I said. I had developed a policy of not opening the door to strangers even before I started thinking someone was creeping around in my apartment at night. “Rhinegold Julia sent us,” responded the tall one. I made them wait outside while I got dressed, then I unlatched the door. The Extra-experiential Phenomena Investigation Team consisted of Bud, the handsome clean cut tall young fellow with the badminton racquet connected with wires to a battery tester; Renee, the plump sensible young woman with glasses and the thick maroon sweater despite the August heat; and Tennyson, the black guy, also clean cut, with the magnifying glass and the briefcase. They explained that Rhinegold Julia had sent them to see if there were any Extra-experiential Phenomena in the apartment. They talked about it in very delicate roundabout terms, but they obviously knew that Hemingway might have a reason to haunt me. Soon they were going over the apartment with their silly instruments. They scrutinized the place for about fifteen minutes before Rhinegold showed up. He is usually deadpan, but even he had trouble keeping a straight face in the presence of the Extra-experiential Phenomena Investigation Team. I took him aside and asked him how much this little show had set him back, and he said a hundred bucks. “And worth every penny,” I said. “Oh god, yes,” he whispered enthusiastically. “Renee, Bud, come quick, I’m getting a reading over here,” Tennyson called to the team from the bedroom. Bud and Renee were bug-eyed at the reading on Tennyson’s battery testing devices. The team had a huddle. They went around slowly passing the badminton racquet over the walls and furniture, and scratching their chins. They were excited. They were on to something. This was one of the best cases they had come across in years. Just to make sure, Tennyson pulled a special night vision scope out of his brief case. We drew the blinds and darkened the rooms, and sure enough, using the special night vision scope, we could see pale green orbs floating around the room. Bud flipped up the visor of his special helmet, which was something like a miner’s helmet with some sort of homemade sensor on it. “Let’s get the lights back on,” said Bud solemnly. Rhinegold Julia and I were absolutely sore from restraining our laughter, but the team was entirely serious. The Extra-experiential Phenomena Investigation Team sat us down on the couch, and gravely gave us the diagnosis and the prognosis. The diagnosis and the prognosis were very grim. To paraphrase, I had one of the worst cases of haunting that they had come across during their two years of operation. They wanted me to sign a release to document their work as they exorcized the ghost of Hemingway from my life. They wanted to feature the job on “Tales of the Paranormal,” a television program that had already featured one of their cases. If I would let them put the case on “Tales of the Paranormal,” all the work would be free. Otherwise, it was going to cost twelve hundred dollars to exorcise Hemingway from my apartment. “Couldn’t I just take it back? Really, it wasn’t me that said it. I HEARD it. I was just repeating what I’d heard,” I said rather loudly, in case the ghost did exist, and in case it was listening. Rhinegold got a little kick out of that, but the Extra-experiential Phenomena Investigation Team shook their heads sadly, as if my suggestion were pathetically simplistic and as if I were extremely naive. After the team left, I told Rhinegold that there was no way I was paying twelve hundred dollars to get Papa out of my life -- the team had made it clear that the apartment wasn’t haunted, it was me. Hemingway would follow me to a new apartment. The discussion of the twelve hundred dollars was a moot question as I didn’t even have twelve hundred dollars, and Rhinegold consoled me by saying that he was sure nobody ever paid those guys twelve hundred dollars, but he reminded me that he was going off to Europe. “Then who ya gonna call?” he asked. “Patrice?” I said. But Rhinegold said he doubted Patrice would come over at two in the morning to dispel my fear of ghosts, and besides, he said, Hemingway was not going to be run off by any woman. The night of my birthday and the next night I didn’t hear any noises in the apartment. The next day, Rhinegold Julia got on a plane to Europe. “See you on ‘Tales of the Paranormal,’ ” said Rhinegold as he waved goodbye. “I bet they don’t even get that in Europe. They have more sense than that over there,” I answered. The night after Rhinegold left, I woke up in the middle of the night because I heard Hemingway rooting around in my fridge. There was no question about it. Definite jars clinking. My fridge is packed like an overstuffed closet. It is almost impossible to open the thing without stuff falling out, so soundless rooting around is out of the question. I was very scared, but I consoled myself with the thought that at least it wasn’t a burglar, it was only a ghost. I thought that if Dorothy Parker could whip Wallace Stevens, maybe I could handle the ghost of old Hemingway. There was no Rhinegold to call anyway, so I crept into the kitchen. Sure enough, there was an empty glass with milk residue in it. I’m a big milk drinker, but I always thought Hemingway preferred stronger drink. I snuck back into my bed and somehow managed to get to sleep after about two hours. In the morning I called Patrice. She told me in no uncertain terms that she would not be coming over to see what Hemingway had been up to in the apartment at night, and thanked me profusely for not calling her when I heard Hemingway in the fridge. It was Patrice who heard from Rhinegold first. She got a postcard from Italy. Over the next few months I got a smattering of letters from Rhinegold, and the letters tapered off, and we fell out of touch, which I knew would happen. I knew from the moment he got that Fulbright that he was on his way to being out of touch. I figured he would resurface sometime, but I braced myself for a long period of him being out of touch. Or I thought I had braced myself. Patrice could be fun, and there were other folk to hang around with, but nobody was as unpredictable as Rhinegold Julia. Rhinegold Julia was gone, but Hemingway was here to stay. I moved to Nashville Avenue, and I got an alarm system, but Hemingway came with me, as predicted by the team. He was not deterred by the alarm system. He clanked around in the fridge. He made my pictures crooked on the walls. He creaked on the fire escape. He knocked papers onto the floor. Patrice had explanations for all this: I sleep too lightly, the cat makes noises in the night and knocks things over, and makes shadows that look like Papa in the night when I don’t have my glasses on, I leave stuff out in the kitchen -- it’s not Papa doing that, and foremost, according to Patrice, I miss Rhinegold Julia. Patrice shrank my head in her amateur shrink fashion and pointed out to me that I have a crush on Rhinegold Julia, and I had figured out a way to call him over in the middle of the night. It doesn’t take Sigmund Freud said Patrice, and I supposed it didn’t. So now when I hear Hemingway making a ruckus in the night, I just pull up the covers and spend two hours trying to get to sleep. There is no one to call.