仿写之三
27.04.15
Mock Writing: Task 3
Inspired by
“A Clean, Well- lighted Place” by Ernest Hemingway
（http://www.mrbauld.com/hemclean.html）
“Seven dollars eighty, please.”
“Thank you sir, good night, sir.”
It was two past one thirty. Seeing off the last but one customer in the cafe, I looked at the clock over my head in the mirror on the opposite wall. They put it there to make the narrow passage not that narrow, but fools don't use their eyes to think so they feel the narrowness anyway, especially when there is nobody crowding at the bar and you are left with the face of yourself, with the phantom of night creeping into its depth, relentlessly dragging itself around the round scaled plate, once and again. Exactly at the same pace, tic tak tic tak goes the little devil.
I looked at my watch, it was four past one thirty.
There was him again.
There is always, always one person, and this only person, who has totally no humane sympathy nor concern for the others, and probably none even for themselves, or at least pretends to be like that, keeping you from what you want.
This old man, dressed decently, was sitting there alone.
“Last week he tried to commit suicide” my colleague said coming back from cleaning the table of the last customer.
“why?” I said, just to be polite.
“He was in despair.” He said, he is of the sentimental kind, being an old bachelor and everything.
“What about?” I was trying not to fail him by covering my indifference.
“Nothing.” After a just noticeable hesitation, he said.
“How do you know it was nothing?”
“He has plenty of money.” obviously he was being cynical, he always mocks me for taking money too dearly. Well, you understand that sometimes people need to despise others to feel better about themselves, when they can't face themselves directly without uneasiness. Anyway I am poor and young, and don't know any better. It's natural.
But my theory is, I being a quite frank guy who can live with dark sides of human, you should accept the irony, I mean, don't you have a sense of humor.
I went over when the old man started to make noise with his saucer and glass, he had already got quite a pile there. He was probably quite drunk, which dulls down his other senses besides hearing, for he is deaf anyway.
“what do you want?” I said in a scary voice to test his numbness as well as amuse myself.
“Another brandy,” his was the voice of a rusty tractor with a buzzing effect made by the swelling tongue.
“You'll be drunk,” I said, in a manner as kind and gentle as I could handle. He didn't understand, of course, staring at me with his dead eyes.
I went back to the bar to get his brandy. “He will stay all night,” I said to my colleague, “I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week.”
If someone starts a monologue with revelations on big themes like virtue or morality to defend themselves, you see that they have probably erred, and they know that well. No one needs to be preached on morality, they have it or will never have it.
“You should have killed yourself last week,” I said to the drunk-deaf. I like moments of being purely vicious, as a matter of fact, you can tell that I enjoy it. Bad and shallow young guy who has no proper awe nor appreciation for old age, as if the sickle will never come to find him.
He motioned, “a little more,” as if he didn't have more strength to spare another word.
I poured till the brandy ran in a thin stream down the brink, he might not have noticed. “Thank you,” he said in the end.
“He's drunk now,” I said to my colleague.
He just finished cleaning the bar table for the last time, dropping his duster cloth, rapping his hands on his apron and said, “he's drunk every night.”
I don't understand why he insists on cleaning and mopping the place at such a high frequency. The movement of his arm contains an indisputable subjective certitude, which adds up to the expressions on his face. There is something between his eyebrows when he moves his arms in a rhythmic way, giving him an air of religious solemness even.
But I don't care. We talked about how the old man tried to kill himself to kill time. My colleague told me he was saved by his niece, who lives with him. I wonder what kind of a life is that like. It brings good feelings imaging the miserable lives of others, as far as I am concerned.
“Another brandy,” he yelled over like a drunk-deaf. From his eyes you find no expectation of any response. He was yelling in spite of us. And, I was dying to go home, my wife should be waiting for me in bed.
“Finished,” he said, like an obstinate child with his mind set up against himself.
“No more tonight. Close now,” I said, suddenly very certain about what I'm going to do.
“Another” he didn't understand, or pretended to be.
“No. Finished,” I waved no at his eyes and wiped the table.
He stood up, slowly and unsteadily counted the saucers in spite of the involuntary shaking of the hand. I suddenly felt a strong aversion towards this neatly dressed gentleman, and this clean and well-lighted place. There is something under the idyllic stage-picture that is incredibly wrong and poisonous. The poison hides and broods in the invisible darkness, which everybody who refuses to walk into that darkness is aware of, and pretends that it doesn't exist by keeping this clean and well-lighted appearance.
I just wanted to go home and into bed.
I hurried to shut up, thinking how to surprise my wife with an early night. Even thinking about the one more hour to spend in the darkness makes me thrill.
On closing up, my colleague said to me that each night he is reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe.
“Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long.” I appreciate his devotion to his job, but there is really no reason to dramatize or to be hyper-sentimental.
“You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted.”
Now I understand his obsessions. But that stand is truly pathetic. The tragedy of man is that they take things too seriously. What's worse, they enjoy being, or rather, imaging themselves as tragic heroes. Too much movies and romance. Too much solitude and grand narrations.
“Good night!” I said to the poor lonely man, who seemed beaten up by the frustration of finding a world of nothing.
But nothing is not a proper ending for a story.
It is always a but or although that gives us a story. What comes after this nothingness, a hollow period mark of despair? If you find the irony, why not live with it, have some sense of humor.
Now walk cheerfully into that dark night, after all, I have a wife waiting for me in bed.
Mock Writing: Task 3
Inspired by
“A Clean, Well- lighted Place” by Ernest Hemingway
（http://www.mrbauld.com/hemclean.html）
“Seven dollars eighty, please.”
“Thank you sir, good night, sir.”
It was two past one thirty. Seeing off the last but one customer in the cafe, I looked at the clock over my head in the mirror on the opposite wall. They put it there to make the narrow passage not that narrow, but fools don't use their eyes to think so they feel the narrowness anyway, especially when there is nobody crowding at the bar and you are left with the face of yourself, with the phantom of night creeping into its depth, relentlessly dragging itself around the round scaled plate, once and again. Exactly at the same pace, tic tak tic tak goes the little devil.
I looked at my watch, it was four past one thirty.
There was him again.
There is always, always one person, and this only person, who has totally no humane sympathy nor concern for the others, and probably none even for themselves, or at least pretends to be like that, keeping you from what you want.
This old man, dressed decently, was sitting there alone.
“Last week he tried to commit suicide” my colleague said coming back from cleaning the table of the last customer.
“why?” I said, just to be polite.
“He was in despair.” He said, he is of the sentimental kind, being an old bachelor and everything.
“What about?” I was trying not to fail him by covering my indifference.
“Nothing.” After a just noticeable hesitation, he said.
“How do you know it was nothing?”
“He has plenty of money.” obviously he was being cynical, he always mocks me for taking money too dearly. Well, you understand that sometimes people need to despise others to feel better about themselves, when they can't face themselves directly without uneasiness. Anyway I am poor and young, and don't know any better. It's natural.
But my theory is, I being a quite frank guy who can live with dark sides of human, you should accept the irony, I mean, don't you have a sense of humor.
I went over when the old man started to make noise with his saucer and glass, he had already got quite a pile there. He was probably quite drunk, which dulls down his other senses besides hearing, for he is deaf anyway.
“what do you want?” I said in a scary voice to test his numbness as well as amuse myself.
“Another brandy,” his was the voice of a rusty tractor with a buzzing effect made by the swelling tongue.
“You'll be drunk,” I said, in a manner as kind and gentle as I could handle. He didn't understand, of course, staring at me with his dead eyes.
I went back to the bar to get his brandy. “He will stay all night,” I said to my colleague, “I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week.”
If someone starts a monologue with revelations on big themes like virtue or morality to defend themselves, you see that they have probably erred, and they know that well. No one needs to be preached on morality, they have it or will never have it.
“You should have killed yourself last week,” I said to the drunk-deaf. I like moments of being purely vicious, as a matter of fact, you can tell that I enjoy it. Bad and shallow young guy who has no proper awe nor appreciation for old age, as if the sickle will never come to find him.
He motioned, “a little more,” as if he didn't have more strength to spare another word.
I poured till the brandy ran in a thin stream down the brink, he might not have noticed. “Thank you,” he said in the end.
“He's drunk now,” I said to my colleague.
He just finished cleaning the bar table for the last time, dropping his duster cloth, rapping his hands on his apron and said, “he's drunk every night.”
I don't understand why he insists on cleaning and mopping the place at such a high frequency. The movement of his arm contains an indisputable subjective certitude, which adds up to the expressions on his face. There is something between his eyebrows when he moves his arms in a rhythmic way, giving him an air of religious solemness even.
But I don't care. We talked about how the old man tried to kill himself to kill time. My colleague told me he was saved by his niece, who lives with him. I wonder what kind of a life is that like. It brings good feelings imaging the miserable lives of others, as far as I am concerned.
“Another brandy,” he yelled over like a drunk-deaf. From his eyes you find no expectation of any response. He was yelling in spite of us. And, I was dying to go home, my wife should be waiting for me in bed.
“Finished,” he said, like an obstinate child with his mind set up against himself.
“No more tonight. Close now,” I said, suddenly very certain about what I'm going to do.
“Another” he didn't understand, or pretended to be.
“No. Finished,” I waved no at his eyes and wiped the table.
He stood up, slowly and unsteadily counted the saucers in spite of the involuntary shaking of the hand. I suddenly felt a strong aversion towards this neatly dressed gentleman, and this clean and well-lighted place. There is something under the idyllic stage-picture that is incredibly wrong and poisonous. The poison hides and broods in the invisible darkness, which everybody who refuses to walk into that darkness is aware of, and pretends that it doesn't exist by keeping this clean and well-lighted appearance.
I just wanted to go home and into bed.
I hurried to shut up, thinking how to surprise my wife with an early night. Even thinking about the one more hour to spend in the darkness makes me thrill.
On closing up, my colleague said to me that each night he is reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe.
“Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long.” I appreciate his devotion to his job, but there is really no reason to dramatize or to be hyper-sentimental.
“You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted.”
Now I understand his obsessions. But that stand is truly pathetic. The tragedy of man is that they take things too seriously. What's worse, they enjoy being, or rather, imaging themselves as tragic heroes. Too much movies and romance. Too much solitude and grand narrations.
“Good night!” I said to the poor lonely man, who seemed beaten up by the frustration of finding a world of nothing.
But nothing is not a proper ending for a story.
It is always a but or although that gives us a story. What comes after this nothingness, a hollow period mark of despair? If you find the irony, why not live with it, have some sense of humor.
Now walk cheerfully into that dark night, after all, I have a wife waiting for me in bed.
