Story About Ernest Hemmingway - Jazz Is Everywhere
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The very first thing he does is fixed me with those wonderfully brown eyes and say, Where's possible? I'm too drunk to judge, but you might have something here. It's October 1920 jazz is everywhere. I don't know any jazz, so I'm playing Rahman enough, and I can feel a flush beginning in my cheeks. From the hard side of my dear pal, Kate Smith has stuffed down me. So how? Relax I'm getting there second by second. It starts in my fingers, warm and loose and moves along my nerves, rounding through me. I haven't been drunk in over a year. Not since my mother fell seriously ill, and I've missed the way it comes with its own perfect love of fog settling snugly and beautifully over my brain. I don't want to think, and I don't want to feel either, unless it's a simple is this beautiful boys knee inches from mine. The knee is nearly enough on its own, but there's a whole package of man attached, tall and lean, with a lot of very dark hair and a dimple in his left cheek that you could fall into. His friends call him Hemming Stein coin bones, bird nest, oh, damage anything that they can dream up on this part. He calls Kate Start or Botstein Ave. Flattering and another little fellow Little Fever and yet another horny or the great Horned article. He seems to know everyone, and everyone seems to know the same jokes and stories play telegraph punchlines back and forth in code lightning. Fast and wisecracking. I can't keep up, but I don't mind really. Being near these happy strangers is like a powerful transfusion of good cheer. When Kate wonders over from the vicinity of the kitchen, he points his perfect chin. It me and says, Well, what should we name our new friend? Ah, Hash? Kate says hashes. Dad better, he says. Her ceviche and your bird. I ask when Kate says I'm the fellow who thinks someone should be dancing. He smiles with everything he's got on in very short order. Cates. Rather, Kenley has kicked the living room carpet to one side and is manning the Victrola. We throw ourselves into it, dancing our way through a stack of records. He's not a natural, but his arms and legs of free and in their joints, and I can tell that he likes being in his body. He's not the least shy about moving in on me, either. In no time it'll how hands a damp and clenched out cheeks close enough that I can feel the very heat of him. And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest. I'm I'm thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull and Hemingway who wants a Hemingway, probably every girl between here and Michigan Avenue, I think looking at my feet to keep from blushing when I look up again, he has his brown eyes locked on me. Well, what do you think? Should I toss it out? Uh, man, maybe not. Just see it. The slow number starts on without asking. He reaches for my waist and scoops me towards his body, which is even better up close. His chest is solid, and so are his arms. I rest my hands on them lightly as he backs me around the room past Kenley, cranking the Victrola with Lee past Kate, giving us a long, curious look, I close my eyes and lean into earnest smelling bourbon and soap, tobacco and damp cotton and everything about this moment is so sharp and lovely, I do something completely out of character and just let myself have it.