Ernest Hemingway Reviews his Recent Stay at an Airbnb

When the wind was from the east, the man could smell General Tso’s kung pao chicken.

In the mid-summer of this year the man lived in a house near the ocean. He could not see the ocean. He could not hear the ocean. He wondered how this house came to be described as near the ocean.

The house had 1325 square feet that was divided into two bedrooms that slept four. The bedrooms were decorated with paintings of seascapes and sailing ships. There were dried starfish on the chests of drawers. There were baskets of beach towels in the corners. The towels were old and stained, as were the bed covers. It made the man sad to think that this is what he would be sleeping on.

There were two bathrooms. The bathrooms had clam shells that held small rectangles of soap and shower curtains with designs of fish. The towels were tropical blue, the kind of blue you’d see if you were in the Keys. But the man was not in the Keys. The Keys would have been nice. The Keys would have been better. Here, in these bathrooms, there was no hot water.

There was a kitchen and living room. The man would sit in the living room with the surfboard on the wall, sipping his cold beer, and wonder how many people had sat in this brown, rump-sprung La-Z-Boy® and run their hands over the naked breasts of the mermaid table lamp.

There was a flat screen TV in every room. The TVs carried the local channels with local news and weather girls who looked, with their white teeth and tight dresses, like sad, forgotten dolls. The TVs would not allow the man to access his Netflix account.

Through a sliding glass door there was a deck. To the south there were rows and rows of condos. The condos bustled like ant hills. The man could hear the arguments of couples drunk on cheap wine, the breaking of glass, the occasional gunshot followed by laughter, the squealing of tires as cars raced off in the dark. To the north, the man could see the silhouettes of hotels near the airport. At night, their names flashed in the moonlight: Marriott, Hilton, Motel 6. The man should have stayed there.

The deck looked across the strip mall and gas station. In the strip mall was a Chinese take-out restaurant, a nail salon and a liquor store. In the liquor store the man could buy ice cream, lottery tickets and cold beer. The kind of beer that would sooth the throat from the dry, dusty walk across the road to the house that the man crossed several times a day for something to do. When the wind was from the east, the man could smell General Tso’s kung pao chicken. It made him retch. Nothing came out.

One day, the man asked the liquor store owner “Where is the beach?”

“Down the road,” the owner replied, without looking up.

“How far?”

“Not far.”

It was far. The man carried his towel and his sunscreen and he kept walking even though the sun shone on him unmercifully and the cars going by very fast honked their horns at the man in disgust. When the man got there, there was no beach. Only a marina with a store that sold t-shirts, sunglasses, key chains and bait. The bait was kept in a cooler outside the store with a sign that said “Live bait.” The store was out of Sponge Bob frozen treats. The man settled for a strawberry shortcake.

On the man’s way back, another man started walking with him. The two men walked the road together until the other man said “Do you have any change?” Even though the man said “No”, the other man robbed him anyway and took his towel and sunscreen.

Back at the house, the elevator was out of order. It had been out of order since the man got there. The man climbed the steps as he had for days. The steps were old and pocked with use. When the man got to the house, he remembered that he had been robbed of his keys.

The man would call the manager. The man would pack his things. The man would leave this place and never return.

Besides, there were no cats.