Imagine that Hem was forced to teach Creative Writing at an MFA programme, and Phil Sawyer, the song-writer for Toto, was enrolled in his class. And like every MFA whiteboy in Idaho, Colorado, Wyoming, or Billings, Montana, Sawyer’s got some woman he’s pining for somewhere, and some others in the programme he’s gaming. But…he’s still thinking of her. Out there, going about the business of achiving the Greater Good of Womankind, NGO-ing in dusty, walk-a-mile-to-get-the-day’s-water-supply, female-circumcision land.
Hem’s in trouble already with administration: he threw a chair at a kid in his 6-9PM poetry workshop (why has his career come to this – to praising terrible alliterations? Why do these people think alliterations are good?). The chair-flinging incident was quickly named a ‘diabetic fit’ after an inquest by an internal committee (though the whole class sees him sucking on sweets throughout workshop, and the rapidly diminishing contents of a bottle of Black Label in his office), and he was given a mandatory year of ‘medical leave’. But here he is, with the same fools, and the haunting sense of failure that sent him into a rage.
Then, suddenly, Hem gets invited to run a study abroad programme, in Kenya. He’s got no illusions: study abroad and MFA? It’ll be babysitting 20 idiots, all nurturing the assurance that they will find their Big Break, write the iconic story about Africa, become famous. But Hem’s stuck with admin’s request – he’s this close to losing his Handicapped Parking spot. He’s shrewd – after all, he’s attached himself to a succession of rich bitches, each richer than the last, who hand-maidened him along. He earmarks some of the funding for a TA – Phil Sawyer. Of all the fawners, Phil excels in an exceptional way. It’s like this limp biscuit has no sense of selfhood, but one seen through others (Hem remembers the therapist-speak from the last forced marital counseling encounter). He feels a glint of recognition.
Phil will gladly take care of the 20 morons, and imagine it to be an honour.
If you’ve ever imagined the lost short story Hem writes, in the twin-prop on the way to Nakuru, this captures it. Sadly, Hem’s brains have been addled by drink and diabetes, so he’s using far too many adjectives and metaphors. It’s scandalous how much his little protege, Phil Sawyer, the bootlicker, has influenced him. Ah, the servant becomes the master.
Go read “TOTO’S ‘AFRICA’” BY ERNEST HEMINGWAY by Anthony Sams (H/T: Kevin Gibbons)