The Blind Pig sold the coldest beer in Key West, for it was the only bar in town so soon after the repeal of prohibition. Saunders spent a great deal of time at the rowdy come-as-you-are saloon. The owner, Joe Russel, was twenty years Saunders' junior and had none of the gray hair that the sixty-eight-year-old Captain sported. Saunders' full beard was a patchwork of gray and white covering most of his sea-worn face. Years of fishing under the hot sun had produced wrinkles in Saunders' face and hands. A wrinkle for each fish that he had caught, he would joke to his fellow patrons.

Laying beneath Saunders was Butch, a seven-year-old boxer that the Captain had shipped to Key West from Germany. Saunders believed in few things; the three that he stuck to were his beer must be cold (preferably served in a cold glass), his liquor must be English (for only the English could make proper gin), and his dogs (when needed) would be boxers, bred in Germany. Other than these things, Captain Saunders was content to live out his aging days slapping the behinds of young girls and drinking in The Blind Pig.

Butch groaned beneath Saunders' chair, causing the old captain to look down.

"Butch! You old sea dog. Mind what your doing!" Saunders scolded.

The boxer looked up at his Saunders, his jowls drooping. He then looked from his master to the piece of chewed wood that moments before had been Saunders' right leg.

"You know how hard those pegs are to come by, boy. Leave my leg alone, eh?"

Butch yawned broadly and flopped over onto his side, his eyes closing to slits eyeing his master.

"Good boy," Saunders said, reaching for his mug of beer.

On the other side of the bar, merchant marines flirted with young girls, causing Saunders to smile. The sailors were rapidly becoming drunk, and money was being produced and laid on the wooden table. The dark-haired girls smiles widened noticeably as they slid onto the laps of the men, their arms circling the sailors' necks.

Saunders knew that these fools and their money would soon be parted, yet it was none of his business. He knew where to get much prettier girls for far less, and he had done so often over the last twenty years. Now, he rarely felt the urge anymore. Once in a while, he might take a companion for a night of fun, but it would end far before they neared the bedroom. This decision was Captain Saunders', of course. His only desire being their simple company and the conversation that they brought to an old man; the illusion of being young once more.

Saunders drained his glass and tapped in on the bar. A few feet away, Joe looked at the old sea captain and frowned.

"How many times do I have to tell ya Saunders, don't slam the glasses on the bar. If ya break it, you're going to pay double to replace it," Joe said, pulling a fresh glass from a barrel of ice at the far end of the bar.

Saunders laughed and slid the glass down the bar towards Joe. "C'mon, you know I'm good for it."

"Yeah, I know, but it's replacin' the damn things that's the pain in the ass. You know how long it takes to get shit from the mainland." Joe set the fresh glass of beer in front of Saunders.

"You know, Joe, back in the old days, I'd have them glasses here faster than lickety-split." Saunders guffawed.

"Back when you where in the merchants?" Joe laughed. "Christ, took you guys half the day just to raise the sails on those tubs."

Saunders slammed his hand against the bar. "That's not so and you know it. We were men back in those days. Men not afraid of hard work. Now"—Saunders motioned toward the sailors who were drunk with rum and the heat from their groins—"look at what we rely on. In my day—"

"In your day," Joe interrupted, "you would be twice as drunk with two women on your lap."

Saunders frowned. "Maybe so. But at least we'd have the cargo here on time. We could take twice the work and twice the fun. Real men, just like I said."

A man entered the bar, drawing the two friends' attention. He was well dressed and not native of the island. This much Saunders was sure. Yet, under all the well-tailored tweed and cotton, the man seemed to have a rough edge about him. His hair was dark brown and well-combed. A mustache hung over the man's upper lip, creating the illusion that he was older than he appeared. His shoes threw both Joe and Morgan; boots, rising almost to the knee, and covered with dried mud.

A pipe hung from the man's lips, and he puffed it steadily as he took in the bar through round spectacles. Under his arm, he carried a soft leather briefcase. A gold pocket watch dangled loosely from his lapel pocket.

The man sat two seats from Saunders and placed his briefcase on the bar. Joe walked over to the young man, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What'll ya have?" Joe demanded.

"Beer. Cold as you have, thank you."

"Not another one," Joe said, shaking his head. "I suppose you'll be wanting a cold glass with that?"

"Why yes," the man said. "If it's no trouble."

Joe sighed. "A long lost son of your's, Saunders?" he asked as he walked past the old captain toward the end of the bar.

"Not one of mine," Saunders answered heartily. "Make sure you don't give 'em my personal glass."

"They're all your personal glasses, you old sonofabitch!" Joe laughed. "You're the only S.O.B. that drinks beer from cold glasses in Key West."

Saunders grunted. "Maybe so. Just don't give the lad the coldest one."

Joe plucked a glass from an ice-filled wooden barrel and pulled a pint of beer, eyeing the man.

Saunders turned in his seat, his peg leg hitting Butch squarely in the head, sending the dog running to lay in the far corner.

"That'll teach ya to chew on my leg!" Saunders said playfully to the boxer.

"Boxers are extraordinary animals," the man said, looking up from a pad of paper that he had pulled from his briefcase.

Again, Morgan took in the stranger, then extended his hand.

"They're stubborn, loyal, and smart. Except for this one. Old Butch is about as smart as a bucket of hammers. The name's Captain Saunders."

"Hemmingway," the man said, firmly shaking Saunders' hand. "Ernest Hemmingway."

"Nice to meet ya," Saunders said. "That old fart tending the bar is Joe. He thinks he owns the place."

"I do own the place," Joe said, walking over to shake Ernest's hand. "It's just that this old sea dog"—he pointed to Saunders with his thumb—"thinks he owns the place."

"After all the money I spent on your rot-gut liquor and warm beer, I should own this shack." Saunders laughed along with Joe.

"It seems like I've come to the right place," Hemmingway said, then took a sip of his beer.

"Oh? How do you mean?" Saunders replied before drinking deeply of his own beer.

"I came to Key West to find new experiences. You see, I'm a writer."

"I read, and I ain't never heard of ya," Joe said, picking up a shot glass and polishing it with a bar towel.

Hemmingway smiled. "I've written a few stories."

"That so?" Joe questioned, his right eyebrow raising slightly. "Maybe you can write about old Saunders here. That old sea dog's been here longer than anyone else in Key West. Christ, I think he might have had something to do with colonizing it by the look of all the ugly women running around."

Saunders waved his hand at Joe. "What would you know of Key West anyway? You haven't even gotten your feet wet yet." It was Saunders' turn to point a thumb at Joe. "Rich boy from Boston come down from Atlanta and won this bar in a card game. Now he just runs it so he fuck the local girls."

Hemmingway broke out into a laughing fit as Joe's face turned bright red.

"Why, you old, broken-down—"

"Now, now, Joe," Saunders interrupted. "Don't get your dander up. You know it's true and that everyone does it. It's just that you're the only one who won't admit it."

Joe turned to Hemmingway and said, "Don't you listen to a word this old fart has to say. He's just gone senile in his waning years and is pissed off 'cause he can't do the young girls anymore."

"Why you..." Saunders stood and pulled the peg leg from his thigh, waving it threateningly at Joe, wobbling precariously on his one good leg. "You ungrateful, low-down, miserable excuse—"

Saunders' words were cut off by Hemmingway's loud laughter. In surprise, both men looked at him. Tears streamed from Hemmingway's eyes and ran down his cheeks, unable to control the glee that he felt at the two men's bickering.

For a moment, the two men looked at Hemmingway as if he'd gone mad, then slowly they also began to laugh. Soon, all three were laughing so hard that the drunken merchant marines and their lady companions looked in their direction.

"Truly," Hemmingway said, wiping his eyes, "I have come to the right place."

"Perhaps you have, lad. Perhaps you have," Saunders replied, his own laughter starting to abate. Joe laughed on for a few moments longer.

n hour later, Joe had excused himself to attend to afternoon customers and Saunders had reattached the peg leg to his thigh. The old sea captain and the writer were quickly becoming friends. Butch had returned to his master's side and, to Hemmingway's astonishment, was again launching an attack on the wooden leg.

"Don't worry about old Butch," Saunders said. "It's the third one this week. I just can't seem to break him of the habit. Sometimes I think he gnaws on it just to piss me off. Anyway, Joe keeps a couple of spares in the back for me just in case Butch chews it in half."

Hemmingway laughed and took a sip of the fresh beer that Joe had served them moments before. "So. You're a retired Merchant Marine?"

"Aye," Saunders answered. "But that was years ago. I spent the last fifteen years fishing."

"And the leg?" Hemmingway asked tentatively.

"Lost it to a shark," Saunders replied, grinning.

Hemmingway looked positively horrified.

"Just joshing, son!" Saunders said, to Hemmingway's relief. "An accident a few years back. Broke the leg real bad. Bone came right through the skin. Local doctors set it , but gangrene set in. Only thing to do was hack it clean off."

Hemmingway winced at the vision.

Saunders smiled at Hemmingway's reaction. "It's not that bad, lad. I can still get around, and I have enough money to keep me in the drink. I even get a young woman now and then. And the peg is good for fending off the riffraff around here. Like Joe over there."

Both men laughed heartily at the remark. Joe glanced at the two, seeming to know that he was being made fun of again. Business was business, however, and he turned his attention back to his customers.

"And you, lad," Saunders said, "where did you come from?"

"Originally the Midwest. Illinois. Son of a farmer. Then school, and finally the army."

"Ah, the war," Saunders said, thoughtfully scratching his beard. "I tried to enlist. Bastards wouldn't take me. They said a one-legged man couldn't fight worth a damn. I can still aim a gun and pull the trigger."

Hemmingway nodded. "I moved to Key West with my wife Pauline to write and fish—"

"So, you're a fisherman, eh?" Saunders asked.

"I've caught a few," Hemmingway replied with a grin. "I learned how to hunt and fish with my father along the shores of Lake Michigan."

"Bah. That ain't real fishin'. Let a marlin get a hold of ya, then you'll know you're in a fight!"

"That's why I'm here, Ed. You don't mind if I call you Ed, do you?"

"Call me what ya want, Ernest. Just don't be takin' my last cold glass, eh?"

Hemmingway laughed and slapped his knee.

Saunders grinned toothlessly and reached down to scratch Butch behind the ears.

Hemmingway pulled a pen from his pocket and placed the pad of paper in front of him. "How about you, Ed? What's your story?"

"You thinkin' 'bout takin' down my words?" Saunders asked cautiously.

"I might," Hemmingway replied.

"Ok, then. Here's the deal. You keep the beer comin' and I'll keep talkin'."

"Agreed," Hemmingway said, his excitement growing as he pulled the cap off the pen. He placed the pad of paper on his knee and poised the pen at his fingertips, preparing to write.

Saunders smiled, cocking his head toward Joe.

"Of course," Hemmingway said, smiling. "Joe. Another for Captain Saunders and myself? And keep them coming."

Joe nodded. "Ok, but if he gets shit-faced and can't walk home, you gotta take him."

Hemmingway waved to Joe before focusing his attention on the old man in front of him. For long moments, Saunders seemed to sit and think, Hemmingway becoming concerned that the old man might not talk at all. Then, with one more drink of beer, Captain Saunders began to speak.

"I was in the Royal Navy once. Did you know that, lad?" Saunders didn't allow Hemmingway to answer. "But of course you wouldn't. I joined in London as a lad at my father bothering. If he only knew what would come to his only child." Saunders laughed, shaking his head.

"We set sail from Dover in the summer of 1888 bound for the Caribbean sea and His Majesty's colonies. It was a routine trip, checking England's interests abroad. I hated the idea from the onset. I despised the sea and the life that awaited me. I was a landlubber just turned seventeen."

Saunders paused, allowing Hemmingway to catch up with his notes.

Hemmingway scribbled frantically. Englishman, he thought. He would have never guessed.

"The voyage to the South Atlantic was uneventful," Saunders continued, "and I found day-to-day ship life boring. Only the evening allotment of rum kept me sane.

"It was our third week out when we encountered the storm that sank us. Oh, yes. It was a dandy, coming out of the east so fast that outrunning it was impossible. It tore our sails to shreds and de-masted us. We foundered not far from where we sit now. The winds took the ship onto the reef, ripping into the wooden hull. Water poured in so quickly that we had no time to put boats in the water, even if the storm would allow us to do so. I can still hear the screams of the crew over the howling winds." Saunders paused and lifted the glass to his lips.

"We had no idea where we were," Saunders said. "The wind drove the rain sideways, blinding us. And the sea exploded in our ears. I remember the salt stinging my eyes. I thought surely we would all die."

"But obviously you didn't," Hemmingway interrupted.

Saunders smiled at the younger man. "No, it seems I didn't.

Joe appeared, bringing two fresh glasses of cold beer and picking up the empties. "More sea tales?" he asked.

"I'm telling the lad of how I came to fuck your wife," Saunders taunted.

"Must have been the same night I was doing yours," Joe snapped back and headed back to the bar.

"You two do get along," Hemmingway said with a grin.

Saunders smiled and continued with his story.

"The night dragged on, as did the storm. I found myself alone and parted from the foundering ship that had been my home if even for a short time. And yet, I couldn't see nor hear any other person. A piece of broken mast became my raft and the seas tossed me like a cork in a millpond during a thunderstorm. How many times I wanted to let go of that piece of wood and let the sea claim me. But I held on, a single piece of rope bound about my waist, attached to the spar by a single iron ring. How long did I weather that storm? I can't tell you. At some time during the storm I lost my senses and passed out. When I awoke, I was in a bed and a young girl was tending me. I was told I'd been found by her father while he mended his boat, repairing it from the storm. I'd been pushed over the reef and swept into a small inlet. It was pure luck that the sea pushed me into the safe waters. Her father found me floating near a mangrove tree and brought me to his house for his daughter to tend my wounds. The reef had tore up my leg rather badly, and soon I lost it to gangrene.

"For the next two years I lived here in Key West, helping as I could, learning how to mend nets, tie lines and rig traps. Thank God for an old man in town that had lost his leg. If it wasn't for him, I don't think I would've learned how to make peg legs, and never would have walked again. "

"What about your family back in England?" Hemmingway asked.

"I'm getting to that. Hold your horses, lad," Saunders said, patting the young man on the sleeve. "As I was saying, I spent two years in Key West, and eventually married that young girl that had tended to me after the storm. She was a beauty. Long black hair and the darkest brown eyes you ever saw. And slim." Saunders held up his finger to illustrate. "She was everything I had dreamed of and it nearly killed me when she died."

"My God," Hemmingway said before taking another drink of beer. "How?"

Saunders shifted his weight in his chair and said, "It was a bad season for rain. It rained nearly all the time. I remember praying for the sun. When the rain finally did stop the mosquitoes were everywhere. My love died of malaria.

"In the end, it took her and our only son and half the town. If it wasn't for the missionaries that finally came, I think it might have killed us all. In the end, I was delirious and taken to the local doctor. There, I recovered slowly, and with no money or family left, I was forced to contact my father in England."

Saunders sipped and talked on. "Three months later I was back in England and awarded the King's Cross for bravery as the only survivor of the King's ship. I accepted this with bitterness. Believe me I was no hero and had no intentions of ever returning to England. But, I had no choice in the end. I had to go back, ya see?"

Hemmingway nodded.

"First chance I got, I tossed the medal into the Thames River. I hated London and all it stood for. I had found peace on that little Island in the Caribbean. But, it was five more years before my father passed away and I inherited the family estate. Durin' that time I served as a local merchant marine, but never got farther than France. You can guess what I did upon the old man's death."

"Back to Key West?"

"Right you are, lad," Saunders stated, slapping his hand against the table. "Those damned aristocratic bastards. I sold everything right out from under their noses. I closed my father's company and sold the bloody assets. By the time I was done, people thought I had gone mad. But, in actuality, I was reclaiming my sanity."

Hemmingway noticed, that as the old man drew himself deeper into his story, the thicker his British accent became, and the better his English.

"I left London and sailed to Key West," Saunders said. "I bought a house, some land, and a small fleet of fishing boats."

"You said you despised the sea," Hemmingway noted.

"Aye. I did. Things change, lad, and so did I. I fell in love with that bitch." Saunders pointed out the window to the calm Gulf of Mexico waters. "I guess a man can't help it when he's spent so long hating it. Maybe it was my father that I hated for sending me to sea when I didn't want to go."

Hemmingway nodded his agreement. "I see the reasoning. So, you were more of a businessman than a fisherman."

"Hell, no! I was out every day on one or another of those boats. I hired men that knew the sea and the fishing trade, and they taught me. As the years went on, I grew to love the sea more than life. More than once she tried to claim what she had once given up. My very soul. But I beat her. Damn if I didn't! Squall's tearing up my boats were the worst. But I'd shake my fist at her fury and I won."

Hemmingway stopped writing for a moment to study Saunders' face. As the old man's thoughts drifted through past places and times, a tear streaked slowly down his wrinkled cheek. After setting down his notes, Hemmingway relit his pipe and smoked, waiting for the old man to return from his mental journey.

After a time, Saunders looked up at Hemmingway and smiled. "I'm sorry, lad. I was remembering Maria, my wife, and how she looked as she stood near the docks as we set to sea. She would stand there as we left , her hair flowing in the wind, her white dress billowing out from her body. My God, she had the best pair of tits I ever laid eyes on!" Saunders added with a twinkle in his eye.

Hemmingway thought the old man looked twenty years younger, and it made him smile.

"What the hell are you grinning at?" Saunders said playfully. "Anyway, she was always there when we returned. Sometimes I would wonder if she would ever leave the dock while we were away. Then the day came when we returned and she wasn't there. The day the malaria struck her down." The twinkle in his eye vanished as quickly as it had arrived. The old man's hands trembled as he clutched his glass, bringing it to his lips for a drink.

"Now you spend your days here," Hemmingway said softly.

"What's that you say?" Saunders said, looking up at the younger man. "Oh, yes. Yes, here and down at the docks watching the fishing boats come and go. Sometimes I wish I were back fishing on the sea, but I'm getting old. It's a job for younger men with the will to withstand the sea. Yet, perhaps one day, if the sea is forgiving, I will try a little fishing. Maybe I'll even get myself another marlin." Saunders laughed as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "Maybe you can go with me, eh, lad?"

Hemmingway laughed along with Saunders, glad the old man had returned to his gruff self. "Maybe, Captain Saunders...Ed," Hemmingway corrected himself, "if the seas are very forgiving."

"Hey, Joe!" Saunders called across the bar. "You going to give us two more beers or do I have to get out of this chair and—"

"Shut the hell up, will ya, Saunders?" Joe interrupted. "It's coming. Christ, you think you own the place."

Saunders leaned over the table and whispered into Hemmingway's ear. "I do."

emmingway opened the door to the house that he had recently purchased . Already, he was beginning to like Key West and the people he had met. He had already made two new friends that could weave stories by the dozens if given half the chance. Joe was destined to be famous, or infamous, depending whether he could make the untidy Blind Pig work. Untidy?—no that wasn't the word. Downright sloppy, he thought.

Sloppy Joe's.

Hemmingway laughed at the name. Perhaps he would have a word with Joe on the idea.

Saunders was a man that one could sit and talk to for hours, never tiring of listening to his tales. Perhaps the two could do some fishing together. Either way, he liked The Blind Pig and its patrons.

Yes, he was going to enjoy his stay in Key West, Hemmingway thought. How long would he stay? Time would tell.

Looking out the single window that adorned his study, Hemmingway envisioned old Captain Saunders making his way out the front door of The Blind Pig, heading down dusty Duvall Street, Butch trotting along at his side, a new peg leg adorning the old man's thigh.

Sitting at a small desk overlooking the Caribbean, Hemmingway placed a fresh piece of paper into an ancient typewriter. From his briefcase he took the notes he had written from Saunders' tale and tossed them into the wastebasket. There was nothing there that he could not recall and would probably hear it over and over again in the days to come.

Smiling, Ernest Hemmingway lit his pipe and began to type.