This Is This

or:

A Real Life Conversation I Have Had That, If Written Word For Word, Sounds Like It’s Straight Out Of Hemingway

“So where abouts in the States are you from?” I asked the quiet guest at our table.

“Missouri,” he said politely, happy to make conversation, since he was only there as a mutual friend.

“There are only two things I know about Missouri. One is that it is home to William Least Heat-Moon.”

He smiles, “That’s right, I’ve met him a few times. He teaches at the University.”

“Does he still?” I ask. He nods and I say, “I loved Blue Highways. Hacklebarney is a great phrase.” It’s a place that Missourians know that symbolises a place that is always around the corner, where things are slightly better than where you are.

He smiles back and asks, “What’s the other?”

I collect my thoughts, still impressed that he knows the obscure authors of one of my favourite books. “The other is that Fats Waller died there.”

“And my father pronounced him dead.”

“Abord the Santa Fe Chief,” I say, half asking, half stating, with a smile of wonder. “I want to hear this.”

He took a gulp of wine.

“Well,” he said, “my father was a doctor and was waiting for a different train. When the Chief pulled into Kansas City, someone came out and asked if there was a physician anywere in the station. My dad had his bag with him and duly stepped on board, checked him over once and said: ‘This man’s dead.’ ”

“Is that right.” None of my questions sounded like statements.

“How he told it.”

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