Ron Smith

 

I. Sport Literature Association

“Oh,” he said, “You’re a Fitzgerald guy,”
his face flaring, flickering with our lakeside
campfire. The whisky helped burn our
chests, but our backs knew well the cold.  

“I don’t think I have to choose,” I said.
That fire-enhanced twinkle told me I did.
And once before I actually had. When, 
at another well-fueled meeting, he’d said:   

“Picasso or Matisse. Can’t be both.” I 
swirled  the brown liquid in my tumbler.
“Matisse,” I said. That time the twinkle
borrowed some teal from the ceiling lights. 

II. Prep School

“Naw,” he said to a row of raw young faces,
“Hem wasn’t bisexual. He was try–
everything.” Then he looked at me
and laughed so hard we had to wait
for him to stop coughing. The kids
adored him. A few weeks later it was clear
at least one of them thought he was Hemingway. 

III. Bateau Mouche, on the Seine 

Somewhere between Notre Dame and
the Eiffel Tower, they started lining up
to shake his hand. They had almost digested
their meal and their panels, had certainly
metabolized the champagne, and now
had to thank Stoney for every delicacy he
had made it possible for them to savor. I had
known him for decades and would see him
after. But I got in line, too. Pink faced, blue eyes
alive with earnestness and irony, he took my
smaller hand in both his big ones. “Who knows
what we’ll accomplish, my friend, before we croak.”