I was on the bus to Hillside, and I noticed that up by the front of the bus there was a table with a pile of books for sale to whoever would want them. I flipped through the pile and they were all good books, but I didn't have any money, or not much at least. Eventually I got a Hemingway book, "A Farewell to Arms", I believe. Back at the bus station to pay for my book. As I'm waiting for the driver I hear gunshots; people right next to me have gotten their heads blown off. One guy has half his head across the way and is writhing all over the place. I calmly step over the bodies and head for the bus. But the bus is leaving! Shit! I begin to run down the street in an effort to arrive at the next bus stop before it does (usually an easy thing with the Hillside buses) but suddenly everything in that part of town turns into a really dense meadow with really tall grass, and I can't get through it fast enough to catch the bus.  Somehow, later, I'm walking along, flipping through my new copy of "A Farewell to Arms" and suddenly I'm in 1920's Italy. Early 1920's. (Hemingway's book is set in 1917-1918 Italy.) I'm in the ballroom of a really fancy Italian hotel. It is filled with all kinds of people. A curtain draws back and we see Ernest Hemingway. He reads a notice: "All fairies, raise their hands!" A naked, hairy, fat man raises his rifle, hoots, and shoots out the light. Confusion ensues. When the light comes back on, there are 20 or 30 transvestites in shiny evening dress standing around a pool. One by one they're shot and fall into the pool. I think it's all Hemingway's doing, and that he must be standing behind that curtain, shooting them down. I think it's sick, but I don't know how to stop it, and besides, I'm out of my real time (echoes of Back to the Future again) and I don't really want to either endanger my own life or mess up history. I escape this madness by using the emergency elevator, which basically just drops you to the first floor, knoking your lower jaw through the crown of your skull on impact. Or that's how it feels, anyway. The doors slide open and I stagger into the lobby, and out onto the steps. It is a peaceful spring morning in Italy, Florence, I think. Firenzi. It is the 1920's. Hemingway is sitting by the exit, bandage wrapped around his head, staring off into space, whistling an aimless tune.