Good Intentions
One/One
One might walk into a speakeasy with all the good intentions in the world, but they’d never come out in that same frame of mind. F. Scott Fitzgerald might have wanted to get away from the nagging of his wife for a quiet drink amongst good friends, but by the end of the night her simple nagging would be twisted into something else entirely.
“She’s insane,” Fitzgerald retorted, placing his glass back down after another mouthful probably a little too roughly.
“All I’m saying is that it’s better that you have someone as opposed to nobody at all. She keeps you in good health. She makes you happy… most of the time.” Ernest Hemingway added that last part just quietly, because he knew he was already pushing it. But Fitzgerald’s attention was no longer with him, anyway, and any fear of him perhaps lashing out as he had the last time they’d met up was gone with the drifting of his eyes.
His eyes had landed on the group of women doing the Charleston to the last jazz band that would hit the stage that night. It was getting that late, that yes, things would have to die down soon. Fitzgerald sighed as he realised this, and came to the conclusion that going back to his dearest Zelda would be just god awful. It’d be the worst thing a man could do. In fact, he wouldn’t do it. She was the reason he was unable to write a decent novel lately. She was the cause of the creative drought that had him whoring out his words in the form of short stories for The Saturday Evening Post, for Christ’s sake. He simply wouldn’t have it, he decided, as he finished the last of his drink and set the glass back down, surprising himself as he saw so many other glasses around him, and didn’t remember drinking nearly half as much as he apparently had. That little fact was of course shrugged off, and the wobble in his walk served to prove nothing to his already drowned-out mind.
He’d seen her. He’d been seeing the same girl every week, sometimes more than once, but he’d never once bothered to say hi. She was beautiful; although some might say she was what could only be described as a typical flapper, he couldn’t think anything low of her. She was beautiful, and that was simply that. She was beautiful, and beauty was inspiration. She was bouncing about by herself on the dance floor, and this was not acceptable.
“Miss, I believe I must introduce myself,” Fitzgerald began, and of course, Miss Alexandria Hemingway knew who he was. She might have dreamt she was actually related to his close friend Ernest by more than just the sharing of a family name, if it meant she might have known him better. She’d read all his published work she could get her hands on, and the rest she knew she’d read one day. She simply had to. This was F. Scott Fitzgerald, she thought to herself, as she justified the expense of each Saturday Evening Post whilst holding it in her eager hands, dying to rip it open and read those few stories she was sure would be in there each week. Some weeks, of course, he wasn’t published, and those weeks were as hard on poor Alexandria as they were on Fitzgerald.
Meeting him in the flesh was almost too much for Alexandria, who took it upon herself to sit down as soon as she was able to do so. Of course, she was sat with Fitzgerald, but in the darkest corner of the room. She could see Hemingway giving her a most discomforting look across the way, but that was nothing for the look of admiration she was receiving from Fitzgerald. He was drunk, she knew, and she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he actually meant all he might be saying to her. Still, it was nice to hear, none the less.
“You’re so beautiful,” he cooed just quietly to her, running his fingers over her hand as she rested it on the table top. No, she wasn’t stupid at all. She knew this was her one time with him. She knew that’s all it was. She’d heard of his Zelda, as anyone part of the social scene had, but that didn’t stop her from smiling coyly as he continued to touch her, just gently, just secretly, as he stared across the table at her with adoration in his eyes. She wasn’t looking forward to the time Zelda was sure to find out about any of this, and could only hope she’d be locked up in some hospital before that day like the crazy lady she apparently was. She’d heard it come from Fitzgerald’s own mouth several times the previous week, and again what seemed like only moments ago.
“I read your stories, in the post,” Alexandria commented, thinking that would be a compliment if ever she heard herself utter one. She took to playing with the pearls hung around her neck as Fitzgerald said nothing at first, before she looked into those eyes and saw it all. “I’m sorry, Mr Fitzgerald, if I’ve offended you at all…”
“Those stories are not my best work. They’re not authentic. There’s nothing true about them, and I don’t like that,” he spoke, and Alexandria wished she’d just kept her mouth shut. Of course she’d read This Side of Paradise, but that was a few years ago and as the hype had since died down, she’d never got around to rereading it. She wasn’t as well-versed with it as she might have hoped to be, if she’d ever received the chance to meet the author. But these things happen, she thought, and sighed into the musky air upon her loss of what might have been great conversation. Nothing got a writer talking more than his own work, provided that he actually enjoyed it.
But conversation went on and on anyway, until one of them had to leave. Surprisingly, this was Fitzgerald as he’d sobered up and felt a sudden tinge of guilt as he thought of Zelda, worried, sitting by the door awaiting his return. This thought, of course, wasn’t enough to stop him from telling sweet Alexandria he’d be seeing her again. She might have bet he’d meant in the same dark corner of the speakeasy, and not on the dance floor for all to see and talk about. Though, she didn’t want that kind of attention, anyway, and knew she had only a small role in Fitzgerald’s life. She figured, though, that it was better to have someone as opposed to nobody at all, and tried to remember where she’d heard that just recently.
Fitzgerald left the speakeasy with good intentions in mind, or so he thought, as he promised himself time with Miss Alexandria Hemingway each week to help that inspiration strike, after Zelda had spent all day serving only to strike it down. He’d meant it with good intentions, and so perhaps could be given that much.
“She’s insane,” Fitzgerald retorted, placing his glass back down after another mouthful probably a little too roughly.
“All I’m saying is that it’s better that you have someone as opposed to nobody at all. She keeps you in good health. She makes you happy… most of the time.” Ernest Hemingway added that last part just quietly, because he knew he was already pushing it. But Fitzgerald’s attention was no longer with him, anyway, and any fear of him perhaps lashing out as he had the last time they’d met up was gone with the drifting of his eyes.
His eyes had landed on the group of women doing the Charleston to the last jazz band that would hit the stage that night. It was getting that late, that yes, things would have to die down soon. Fitzgerald sighed as he realised this, and came to the conclusion that going back to his dearest Zelda would be just god awful. It’d be the worst thing a man could do. In fact, he wouldn’t do it. She was the reason he was unable to write a decent novel lately. She was the cause of the creative drought that had him whoring out his words in the form of short stories for The Saturday Evening Post, for Christ’s sake. He simply wouldn’t have it, he decided, as he finished the last of his drink and set the glass back down, surprising himself as he saw so many other glasses around him, and didn’t remember drinking nearly half as much as he apparently had. That little fact was of course shrugged off, and the wobble in his walk served to prove nothing to his already drowned-out mind.
He’d seen her. He’d been seeing the same girl every week, sometimes more than once, but he’d never once bothered to say hi. She was beautiful; although some might say she was what could only be described as a typical flapper, he couldn’t think anything low of her. She was beautiful, and that was simply that. She was beautiful, and beauty was inspiration. She was bouncing about by herself on the dance floor, and this was not acceptable.
“Miss, I believe I must introduce myself,” Fitzgerald began, and of course, Miss Alexandria Hemingway knew who he was. She might have dreamt she was actually related to his close friend Ernest by more than just the sharing of a family name, if it meant she might have known him better. She’d read all his published work she could get her hands on, and the rest she knew she’d read one day. She simply had to. This was F. Scott Fitzgerald, she thought to herself, as she justified the expense of each Saturday Evening Post whilst holding it in her eager hands, dying to rip it open and read those few stories she was sure would be in there each week. Some weeks, of course, he wasn’t published, and those weeks were as hard on poor Alexandria as they were on Fitzgerald.
Meeting him in the flesh was almost too much for Alexandria, who took it upon herself to sit down as soon as she was able to do so. Of course, she was sat with Fitzgerald, but in the darkest corner of the room. She could see Hemingway giving her a most discomforting look across the way, but that was nothing for the look of admiration she was receiving from Fitzgerald. He was drunk, she knew, and she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he actually meant all he might be saying to her. Still, it was nice to hear, none the less.
“You’re so beautiful,” he cooed just quietly to her, running his fingers over her hand as she rested it on the table top. No, she wasn’t stupid at all. She knew this was her one time with him. She knew that’s all it was. She’d heard of his Zelda, as anyone part of the social scene had, but that didn’t stop her from smiling coyly as he continued to touch her, just gently, just secretly, as he stared across the table at her with adoration in his eyes. She wasn’t looking forward to the time Zelda was sure to find out about any of this, and could only hope she’d be locked up in some hospital before that day like the crazy lady she apparently was. She’d heard it come from Fitzgerald’s own mouth several times the previous week, and again what seemed like only moments ago.
“I read your stories, in the post,” Alexandria commented, thinking that would be a compliment if ever she heard herself utter one. She took to playing with the pearls hung around her neck as Fitzgerald said nothing at first, before she looked into those eyes and saw it all. “I’m sorry, Mr Fitzgerald, if I’ve offended you at all…”
“Those stories are not my best work. They’re not authentic. There’s nothing true about them, and I don’t like that,” he spoke, and Alexandria wished she’d just kept her mouth shut. Of course she’d read This Side of Paradise, but that was a few years ago and as the hype had since died down, she’d never got around to rereading it. She wasn’t as well-versed with it as she might have hoped to be, if she’d ever received the chance to meet the author. But these things happen, she thought, and sighed into the musky air upon her loss of what might have been great conversation. Nothing got a writer talking more than his own work, provided that he actually enjoyed it.
But conversation went on and on anyway, until one of them had to leave. Surprisingly, this was Fitzgerald as he’d sobered up and felt a sudden tinge of guilt as he thought of Zelda, worried, sitting by the door awaiting his return. This thought, of course, wasn’t enough to stop him from telling sweet Alexandria he’d be seeing her again. She might have bet he’d meant in the same dark corner of the speakeasy, and not on the dance floor for all to see and talk about. Though, she didn’t want that kind of attention, anyway, and knew she had only a small role in Fitzgerald’s life. She figured, though, that it was better to have someone as opposed to nobody at all, and tried to remember where she’d heard that just recently.
Fitzgerald left the speakeasy with good intentions in mind, or so he thought, as he promised himself time with Miss Alexandria Hemingway each week to help that inspiration strike, after Zelda had spent all day serving only to strike it down. He’d meant it with good intentions, and so perhaps could be given that much.
♠ ♠ ♠
I hope that sufficed. :)