The Passing Visitor
On July 2, 1961, Ernest Hemingway, the winner of the 1954 Nobel Prize in Literature, used his favorite shotgun to kill himself at his home in Ketchum, Idaho. The macho sportsman, adventurer, and famed American writer was dead. His rough-and-tough life was blown away by inner demons. This larger-than-life, feast of a man no longer would move about the far corners of the world. Except for one brief, forgotten episode of the Hemingway legend.
In a small coastal town on the upper left edge of Oregon, folks who would never admit to sightings of Elvis tap a finger against their nose and tell a tale of a hard drinking, gray bearded man who held court one afternoon at a local haunt. Some say they saw him for real. Others just wonder.
It all began on a gray, misty July morning when a man wearing a brown tweed jacket over a red plaid shirt suddenly appeared on a bench in the town square. His gray flannel slacks ended atop a pair of brown loafers. His gray hair hung down to his shirt collar, and a short gray beard with a white mustache covered his face. After giving thought to where he was, he rose, shuddered, and walked across the street toward a sign that said Driftwood Tavern. The bell on the church tower tolled twelve.
I know this story for true. I was eating lunch inside the Driftwood when a large figure filled the doorway, casting a dark silhouette framed by afternoon light. He entered, took the empty, round table in the middle of the room, ordered a double bourbon with water, and tossed it back in one large gulp, then ordered another. His voice was loud and brusque.
“What place is this?” He suddenly asked of no one in particular. “It seems a quaint little town. I do not like crowded places.” He took a large swig. “They are stifling. I like the open West. Wyoming, Montana, Spain, Africa. And Idaho. Does it rain here? Goddam, I hate to go out in the rain.” He was not a man to be rushed. He paused to order another bourbon and water. He noticed the folks crowding in from the street. “What do you do here? You look like a bunch of old loggers and beatniks. I fish, hunt, travel, write. Also, I’m up early. I write best as the sun rises. My mind starts making sentences. I write them down as fast as I can to get rid of ‘em.” He gulped his drink. “Are you good people? Do you treat each other right?” He waited, then continued. “Writing is lonely work. Without loneliness, writing would suffer. Each day I face eternity alone. Friends cannot help me put the words to paper.” Slumping his bulky body, he looked down at broad hands holding a glass and muttered, “Writing is a terrible responsibility. You feel dead afterward.” Silence filled the room as he drained his glass. Then quietly, almost to himself, he said, “But no one knows you’re dead.” And with that he rose, stretched out his arms, and bid farewell.
The afternoon sky was a dull gray. The summer sun glowed hazily behind the shroud. The strange man strolled west along Second Street toward the sea wall. Then climbed down the steps and onto the sand. Crossing the beach, he stopped a moment at the water’s edge. A boy suddenly stepped from the mist, took the old man’s hand, and together they disappeared into the sea.