Dan Leo

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 286: go left

2012-01-28T03:01:00.011-05:00

Once again our hero Arnold Schnabel has succeeded in thwarting the prince of darkness; now it only remains for him somehow to return with his companion the ancient Mr. Jones from the fog-shrouded island of lost souls to the land of the living…

(Click here to read our previous thrilling episode; the bold of heart may go here to return to the very beginning of this Gold View Award©-winning 69-volume masterpiece.)

“How well I remember that first day, when, browsing idly through the dusty basement shelves of Leary’s Book Store, I first came across the name of ‘Arnold Schnabel’, in Horace P. Sternwall’s delightful but little-known memoir Crazy People I Have Known, Vol. III.” -- Harold Bloom, in Collier’s.

The door closed behind us, and as it did the raucous shouting and laughter within as well as the beautiful music withdrew and became muffled.

The fog had grown heavier, the night darker and with it the fog. The only illumination nearby was that of the bar’s electric signs, red and orange and yellow:

The Dead Man

Cold Beer and Fine Cocktails

Live Music

Crabs

Lucky was nowhere to be seen. He had gone back to hell, or if not to hell then someplace other than here, and that was all that mattered to me.

Mr. Jones flicked his cigarette butt away, it disappeared in the fog like a tiny rocket ship passing into another dimension, leaving behind a trail of glowing orange ribbon which slowly disappeared into that other dimension as well, as if someone were pulling it away.

“What was the story on that dude in there, anyway?” Mr. Jones asked. He took another cigarette from behind his ear, drew it under his nose and made a face.

“Pardon me?” I said.

I was still staring at the point in the fog at which the glowing orange ribbon had disappeared.

“That guy Lucky or whatever his name was. What was his fucking problem?”

“You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “But apparently he’s the Devil.”

“The Devil.”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s been after me.”

Mr. Jones removed what looked like a piece of dried dung from one end of the cigarette, which I believe was one of the Soviet-made ones he had gotten from Finch. He flicked the dung away.

“Trying to drag you down to the pits of hell, huh?”

“Yes,” I said.

“He sure left with his tail between his legs though.” He put the cigarette in his thin old lips, and took a book of matches out of his suit-jacket pocket. “What did you do to him, anyway?” 

“I invaded his brain. Told him I wouldn’t leave it unless he agreed to go away and leave us alone.”

Mr. Jones lit his cigarette with his Sid’s Tavern matches. The smoke he exhaled smelled of burning compost, of an old cloakroom filled with damp galoshes and old woolen coats, and the smoke lost itself in the dark fog that surrounded us.

“Once again you surprise me with your powers, Arnold.”

“I surprise myself,” I said. “But I think the LSD may have helped.”

“Possibly,” he said. He tossed the paper match away into that thick dark billowing fog, into that other dimension.

“And now what?” said Mr. Jones.

“Now what?”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Jones. “What do we do now?”

I paused only briefly.

“We need to find a way out of here,” I said.

“And if we don’t we can just go back to the bar.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “But --”

A couple of seconds went by during which entire galaxies merged and mingled, separated and merged and mingled again, or at least in my brain they did.

“Speak freely,” said Mr. Jones.

“I have an idea,” I said. “I think.”

“An idea you think.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll have to ask you to trust me, I’m afraid.”

“Hey, you’ve done okay so far. I’m with you, pal.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go back to the river.”

“Back to the river.”

“Yes. It’s out there somewhere in this fog.”

“It shouldn’t be far,” said Mr. Jones. “By the way, are you comfortable just wearing that polo shirt and Bermuda shorts?”

“It’s a little cool and damp,” I said.

“How’s your leg?”

“I’m vaguely aware of a pain, now that you mention it, but the ache seems very far away, as if it’s a pain in some other person’s leg. Or as if the pain is so far away now that it gave up halfway on the way to my brain, and went to sleep. ”

“So the LSD is still working.”

“Yes,” I said. “Well, let’s go.”

And off we trod, into the fog, along those damp and barely visible cobblestones.

We hadn’t gone too far when I tripped over something, at first I thought it must be a dead dog. The something gave a yelp, and I thought it must instead have been a sleeping dog. I stumbled over it with an awkward hop but I managed not to fall.

“Oy!” yelled a familiar voice, a voice somewhat doglike, it’s true, but human.

I turned and looked. It was Sid the Shiv, trying to push himself up from the pavement with his one good arm, and groaning.

“Here, let me help you,” I said.

“Don’t come near me, you bastard,” he said.

“Come on, Arnold,” said Mr. Jones. “Leave this guy.”

“Are you, um, okay?” I asked Sid.

“Am I okay? Am I okay?”

He had got himself into a sitting position now, his thin short legs outstretched, his broken right arm hanging at his side. His sharkskin zoot suit was filthy and damp, his pompadour hopelessly deflated, his greasy hair lying down over his pale face like strands of dark seaweed.

“Um,” I said. “Uh --”

“You saw me get me arm broke by that white-suited bastard. And I was only lying here on these wet hard rocks passed out from the ensuing agonizing pain until you woke me up by brutally kickin’ me in the spleen. Now what do you think, genius? Do you think I’m okay?”

“Well, uh, I --”

“What’s that you got in them paper sacks,” he said.

“Beer,” I said.

“What kind?”

I turned to Mr. Jones.

“Rheingold,” he said.

“That ain’t a bad beer,” said Sid. “It ain’t a great beer but it ain’t a bad beer.”

“Listen,” I said. “Would you like a quart?”

“Of your beer?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re offerin’ me a quart of beer?”

“It seems like the least I can do,” I said.

“Arnie,” said Mr. Jones. “You forget this bum tried to rob us. And then attempted to slice you up you with a straight razor.”

“And got me arm broke for me trouble!” said Sid.

“Look,” I said. “Take this quart.”

I bent over and proffered the quart in its bag, making sure however not to get close enough for Sid to take a stab at me with some other weapon he might have secreted on his person.

He took the beer, with the small dirty hand at the end of his one good arm, and he stood it on the cobbles between his broken arm and his scrawny hip.

“Do you have an opener?” I asked.

“What’re you, writin’ a book? Don’t you worry if I got an opener. You let me worry about that.”

“Okay,” I said. “Well, we’ll be going now, then.”

“Not so fast.”

“Yes?”

“I had twenty-two bucks in me wallet before you head-butted me back there. When I came to me senses me wallet was lying on the pavement and it had no dollars in it. Plus me imported Wop flick knife was missin’.”

“Okay,” said Mr. Jones. “I want you to listen very closely to me, Artful Dodger: fuck you. I took your knife and I took your twenty-two bucks. Consider it a cheap price to pay for trying to highjack us.”

“Yeah, but you forget, pops, I also got me arm broke,” said Sid. “You keep forgettin’ that.”

“We didn’t break your goddam arm,” said Mr. Jones.

“But still it’s broke. How am I gonna make a living with a broke right arm?”

“That’s your problem, pal.”

“You are a very cold old man,” said Sid. “How about just givin’ me a tenner back, and me knife?”

“Fuck you,” said Mr. Jones.

“Okay, keep the blade then and just give me a tenner. That’s more than fair.”

“I’m not giving you one red cent.”

I took out my wallet and looked in it. I still had the ten Mr. Arbuthnot had given me to buy seafood with as well as nine dollars of my own. I took out the nineteen dollars and put my wallet away.

“Here,” I said, extending the money, but keeping my distance.

“Arnie,” said Mr. Jones. “Jesus Christ.”

After staring at the money for a moment, maybe wondering if I was pulling some kind of trick, Sid took the bills, and with his one good hand his fingers dexterously fanned them so that he could count them.

“You’re three clams light,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “That’s all I have. And ten of it isn’t even mine.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll settle for the nineteen.” He folded up the money and shoved it into his inside jacket pocket. “But you,” he said, pointing at Mr. Jones, “you’re on me shit list, gramps.”

“Fuck you,” said Mr. Jones.

“Okay, let’s go, Mr. Jones,” I said.

“Where yez goin’,” said Sid.

“What do you care?” said Mr. Jones.

“I wasn’t talking to you, granddad,” said Sid.

“We’re trying to get back to the world of the living,” I said.

“The what?”

“You know,” I said, “the, uh, previous world.”

“That ain’t allowed.”

“So we’ve been told,” I said.

“Hey, don’t sweat it, hooligan,” said Mr. Jones. “We got the okay from St. Peter himself.”

“St. Peter,” said Sid the Shiv. “Bleedin’ la-de-da, ya ask me.”

There was an awkward pause here. Finally:

“Do you think you’ll be able to get home, okay?” I said.

“Like you give a shit,” said Sid.

“Well, uh,” I said.

“Don’t you worry about Sid,” he said. “I’ll get home all right. Don’t you worry. Soon as I catch me breath. I’ll get home all right.” He paused. “I wouldn’t say no to a fag though.”

“Pardon me?” I said.

“A snout, a gasper, a burn -- whaddaya, deaf?”

“Um --”

“He means a cigarette,” said Mr. Jones. “He wants us to give him a cigarette.”  

“Oh,” I said. “Mr. Jones, can you spare him a cigarette?”

“I only got two left after this one.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account, you mean old bastard,” said Sid.

“Ah, fuck it,” said Mr. Jones.

He reached into his shirt pocket, took out a cigarette and tossed it at Sid, who grabbed at it but missed. It went flying a few feet away, disappearing in the fog. I went over after it, and, bending over, I found it in the crack between two cobblestones. I picked it up, went back and handed it to Sid.

“It’s damp,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said.

“I’ll smoke it anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Do you have a light?” I asked.

“Still got me Ronson,” he said, taking out a scuffed gold lighter. “Nobody stole this from me yet.”

“As if you didn’t steal it from some other joker,” said Mr. Jones.

“Thin ice, gramps,” said Sid. “Very thin ice you’re walking on.” He lit the cigarette, exhaled, coughed, spat. He put the lighter away and took another drag on the cigarette. “Fag tastes a little like sulfur.”

“I got it from the Devil himself,” said Mr. Jones.

“Figures,” said Sid.

He stared off into that dark fog, smoking and not looking either at me or Mr. Jones.

“Okay, Arnie,” said Mr. Jones. “Let’s breeze.”

“Well, okay,” I said.

After another uncomfortable pause, Mr. Jones and I turned and headed off into the fog.

“You’re too fucking nice, Arnold,” said Mr. Jones, in a low voice.

“Well, maybe,” I said, “but, still --”

“Oy!” came a voice.

It was Sid’s voice.

I turned. I couldn’t see him through that dark fog.

“Oy!” he yelled again.

“Yes?” I called.

“You’re goin’ the wrong way,” called his disembodied voice. “If you’re thinkin’ of doin’ what I think you’re thinkin’ of doin’ you’re goin’ the wrong way. Bear to the left. Turn left and keep goin’ that way until you get to the river wall. Left. You gotta go to the left.”

“To the left?” I called,

“What’d I just bleedin’ say? Yes! Go to the left! Till you get to the river wall.”

“To the left,” I said.

“Fucking Christ,” he called back.

I looked at Mr. Jones through the trailing wisps of dark fog. He shrugged. I called out again:

“Thank you!”

“Fuck you!” came Sid’s voice out of that thick foggy darkness.

I turned to Mr. Jones.

“Well, left it is, I guess,” I said.

“Whatever,” said Mr. Jones.

He put his arm in mine and we turned left into the fog and the darkness.

(To be continued, ad infinitum et astram.)

(Please turn to the right-hand column of this page to find a listing of links to all other legally-available chapters of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©, and be the first kid on your block to subscribe to Arnold’s adventures on your Kindle!)

tales of the hotel st crispian: chapter 44

2012-01-27T18:32:00.003-05:00

"flossie vs hyacinth"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas , rhoda penmarq and konrad kraus

(Go here for the complete thrilling episode!)

"The Sticky Twig Man"

2012-01-26T04:49:00.010-05:00

(The new chapter of Arnold Schnabel's Railroad Train to Heaven™, upon continued examination, has proven to be so epic that it is indeed not one but two chapters. As we work feverishly round-the-clock on our editorial "process", aiming now for an ironclad publication date for the first of these chapters no later than this coming Saturday morning, we throw the people a bone in the form of the following inspirational tale, first published here in slightly different form way back in 2007...)

The year was 1965, and for some time the young Simon Gratz High grads Patty and Rachel, sales assistants and apprentice bakers at Fink’s Bakery* on Spencer Street, had been experimenting with what they called “weed art”. They would wander through the abandoned lots and woods and construction sites of Olney with an Acme shopping cart and collect weeds and twigs and other odd bits of trash and detritus, and in the basement of the O’Donnel house on Sparks Street they began to create the masterpieces which would soon bring them fame and a certain amount of fortune.

After working in obscurity for a few months the girls decided to enter one of their favorite creations, “The Sticky Twig Man” (pictured above), at the annual Autumn Art Show at Sturgis Playground over at 65th and Second. Much to their delight they won third prize (a $50 gift certificate at the Mitzi Shoppe on 5th Street), and to their even greater surprise the very photo reproduced here was printed in the “Neighborhood Fun” section of the Evening Bulletin.

As it so happens the famed artist Andy Warhol and his entourage were in town that day for Andy’s first American museum exhibit at the Institute of Contemporary Art at the University of Pennsylvania.

Andy saw the newspaper photo of the girls and the “Sticky Twig Man” and pronounced it “really neat”. The “Factory” stalwart and Warhol right-hand man Gerard Malanga got on the case and tracked Patty and Rachel down. The girls agreed to meet Warhol at their favorite local stopping place The Three Babes diner on Fifth. Yes, it was a wild night at the Three Babes when Andy arrived with superstars Baby Jane Holzer, Edie Sedgwick, Candy Darling and the ubiquitous Malanga, along with the writers Terry Southern and George Plimpton, the actor Dennis Hopper and, not least of all, the gallery owner Janet Fleisher. Andy loved Patty and Rachel and immediately offered them parts in his next movie, but the girls declined as they didn’t think they would be able to get their shifts covered at the bakery. They passed around snapshots of their work and everyone seemed to be impressed, not least of all Miss Fleisher, who made them an offer on the spot to show their work at her world-famous gallery downtown on 17th Street.

Well, we all know what happened next. Helped out immeasurably by the imprimatur of Mr. Warhol, the Misses O’Donnel and Greenberg sold out their entire maiden show that December at the Fleisher, fetching as much as $5,000 a piece. Not bad at all for a couple of Olney gals who were still living at home and working at the bakery!

But this famous first show proved also to be their last. Patty and Rachel, in an interview with the Saturday Evening Post, said that they felt they had gone as far as they could with weeds and twigs, and that they wanted to quit while they were ahead.

Rachel took her money and put it down on a semi-detached on Acker Street, and shortly afterwards moved in with her new husband Dave, a mechanic at the Atlantic station down at Fifth and Somerville. Patty for her part bought a brand-new Thunderbird. Rachel continued to work at Fink’s until she and Dave had their first baby. Patty went to nursing school and worked for many years at Einstein Hospital on Old York Road.

Their most famous work, “The Sticky Twig Man”, was recently auctioned at Christie’s for $750,000.

*Arnold Schnabel mentions his habit of picking up some of Fink's famous cinnamon buns on the way home from his ushering duties at St. Helena's church (Railroad Train to Heaven, Vol. 26).

(Kindly refer to the far lower right-hand column of this page to find links to many other fantastic "Tales From the O-Zone".)

Communion

2012-01-23T21:03:00.004-05:00

We promise that the next thrilling chapter of Railroad Train to Heaven will arrive sometime this week, but today was another hectic day at Casa de Leo, with all the electricity in the casa completely disappearing. We type these words in a cozy local coffee shop in the midst of what looks like many medical students earnestly studying. As a token of good faith, we here present again this classic Arnold Schnabel sonnet, originally published in the Olney Times for Dec. 7, 1962, a mere month or so before Arnold’s complete mental breakdown and subsequent hospitalization at the Pennsylvania State Mental Hospital at Byberry.

“Ushers' Communion Breakfast”

Today we had our communion breakfast,
All the ushers and their wives, or friends,
Or, in my case and that of some others
Who have neither wives nor friends, our mothers;
Afterwards, it’s once a year, so, reckless,
Our merry crew marches down Fifth, descends
On the Green Parrot and orders all ‘round
Cold pitchers of Schmidt’s and shots of Schenley’s,
Also some Manhattans for the ladies;
We stand at the bar and listen to the sound
Of our voices for once not hushed and grey,
As an usher’s should be, but loud and gay;
Drunkenly we tell each other bold lies;
Several of us even loosen our ties.

(Kindly look to the right hand side of this page for links to other fine Arnold Schnabel poems, as well as to the many dozens of installments of his immortal memoir, Railroad Train to Heaven™. All rights reserved, the Arnold Schnabel Society of Philadelphia. Nihil Obstat, Msgr. James “Jim” Kirk, SJ.)

Mrs. Malazewski, the sweet “Angel” of B Street

2012-01-21T00:25:00.005-05:00

Mrs. Malazewski, tending her garden, June, 1963

Due to a rather extremely hectic week in the life of your humble amanuensis, our weekly episode of Railroad Train to Heaven must, alas, be delayed until next week, as we will foist upon the public no chapters of our hero's epic memoir which are less than fully-baked and relatively free of typos and egregious misspellings; but in the meanwhile, and by popular demand, here's a classic Tale from the O-Zone {Olney to the uninitiated}, first published here way back in June of 2007:

Everyone knew Mrs. Malazewski. A widow whose husband Stanley had worked as a tool grinder at the Heintz steel plant for many years, she lived alone in her small rowhome on B Street right across from the factory. (Right up the corner lived the famous poet-laureate of Olney, Arnold Schnabel, and his mother.) Her three children had grown and moved away, and she always had a happy word for the men coming to and from old Stan’s workplace. Often she would invite one or two of the boys to come in for a beer or two while she rolled pie dough with the enormous wooden roller her mother had brought over from Poland. (Mrs. Malazewski herself did not imbibe but she had always kept beer in the house for Stanley when he was alive and she continued to do so after he passed away at the age of forty-eight, the victim of a massive coronary perhaps hastened by his heavy diet of kielbasa and chops, Mrs. Malazewski’s homemade pies, and four quarts of Schmidt’s beer a day.) Soon it became a nightly event for quite a few of the guys to stop over at Mrs. Malazewski’s after work. Wanting only to cover expenses and to make a modest profit, Mrs. Malazewski regretfully had to begin to charge the boys for their beers and shots of Schenley’s whiskey, not to mention the hot brisket sandwiches and rhubarb pie with fresh whipped cream, but her prices still were half of what Pat asked over at his legal Tavern, not to mention the Green Parrot or the Huddle. (And her food was better than at any of those places!)

As business picked up, Mrs. Malazewski had her basement soundproofed, installed a jukebox and an ice machine down there, and even occasionally hosted informal jam sessions featuring off-duty musicians (such as Joe and Larry Schmidt, Missy McDonough, Ronnie Doyle, and Joe E. Donatello) from the nearby Schwarzwald Inn. Evenings were quiet and mellow affairs at Mrs. Malazewski’s but things always picked up after two AM when the legitimate bars closed. Guys from the Heintz plant who had worked the 6PM-to 2AM shift knew they had a nice nearby stopping place where they could drink and talk, play the new pinball machine Mrs. M had brought in, have a quiet game of 8-Ball on the billiard table that now stood where the dining room table used to be, and then stagger happily home before first light.

Everything went fine until that night in November of 1962 when Hank Titana got out of hand.

Hank was an enormous and boisterous stoker at the plant, loud and obnoxious and opinionated, and no one really liked him, not even his own wife and children, in fact especially not his wife and children. (Hank spent almost every cent he earned on booze and gambling, and it was his wife who kept the household running, taking in sewing and making dresses out of her house on Wentz Street.) Only a year before Hank had finished a three-year jolt in Holmesburg for assault-and-battery, and that hadn’t been the first time his penchant for violence had landed him behind bars, either. Hank when he drank tended to act a lot worse than he did sober which was already bad, and unfortunately he drank every day, a lot. Mrs. Malazewski had never had any time for Hank Titana and had banned him from her house many years before when he broke all four legs of her kitchen table one night during an argument about baseball with her late husband Stanley.

However, one fateful cold November evening, after the inevitable had happened and Hank had finally been flagged from every last bar in Olney, he begged Mrs. Malazewski on bended knee and with cap in hand to allow him the honor of patronizing her establishment. He tearfully explained that it was either Mrs. Malazewski’s or sitting in the woods with a bottle for poor him, because his wife wouldn’t let him drink in the house. Mrs. Malazewski listened to his pleading for a while and finally relented, but only after assuring him that he was being allowed in on a trial basis only.

Something happened that night. There was talk of a big fight at Mrs. Malazewski’s, and indeed a few of the guys came in to the plant the next day with black eyes. But one fellow who didn’t come in to the plant was the fearsome Hank Titana.

Hank had disappeared and no one knew where. The word spread that Hank, who was on still on parole for his last conviction, had skipped town after beating a few guys up, fearing to be sent back to the slammer for good as a three-time loser. When his wife finally reported his disappearance a few days later Detective Morris “Big Mo” Berg stopped by and had a little talk with Mrs. Malazewski. Over good hot Maxwell House coffee and warm rhubarb pie she told Big Mo that, yes, there had been a little conniption that night when Hank and a few other boys were visiting, but that she had thrown Hank out on his ear and his filthy old cap after him and told him never to darken her doorway again. Big Mo took a look around the little house, even went out into the tiny yard where Mrs. Malazewski grew hardy rhododenrons able to survive even amidst the harsh fumes constantly wafting down from the factory, and then he thanked Mrs M and left.

After that one unpleasant night it was business as usual at Mrs. Malazewski’s. (Once a month until the last of her four kids turned eighteen Mrs. Titana found an unstamped envelope with a hundred dollars in it slipped through her mail slot late at night; whether this allowance came from some local benefactor or benefactors, or even from the awful Hank Titana himself, trying finally to do right by his family, no one ever knew.)

In 1979 Mrs. Malazewski finally passed away quietly at home. The Heintz plant had closed some years before, and Mrs. Malazewski had eventually retired her speakeasy, although she was always ready to offer a cup of tea or a glass of beer to a neighbor or a passing policeman.

A nice young Korean couple bought the little house from Mrs. Malazewski’s children. The wife, Mrs. Oh, set immediately to work on the backyard garden, which had been sadly neglected since Mrs. Malazewski’s death several months before. Imagine Mrs. Oh’s surprise when, upon digging up the earth in order to lay fresh soil she found the decomposed remains of a big-boned man, his skull crushed. Next to the skeleton lay a large and severely dented rolling pin. Scientific examination proved that the dead man was none other than the long-missing Hank Titana, and that death had been caused by a blow to the head with the rolling pin, which in fact was Mrs. Malazewski’s, brought over by her mother from the old country in 1904.

Big Mo Berg, himself about to retire after thirty-five years on the force, declared the case finally closed.

(Kindly refer to the far lower right-hand side of this page to find links to other fabulous "Tales From the O-Zone".)

tales of the hotel st crispian: chapter 43

2012-01-19T13:49:00.004-05:00

"Mortimer's theory"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo*

illustrated by rhoda penmarq

*Associate Professor of Classics and Ancient History; Assistant Volleyball Coach, Olney Community College; editor of Say Hi to All the Gang: Collected Letters of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol.4 (1946-1950); Olney Community College Press, “The Sternwall Papers”.

Mortimer knew that people looked down on him.

He knew people looked down on him because he was an elevator operator.

A forty-two-year-old elevator operator.

A forty-two-year-old elevator operator who lived with his mother in a third-floor walk-up apartment down at Bleecker and the Bowery.

But Mortimer didn’t care what people thought about him. He didn’t care because he loved his job and he loved his life.

What more could a guy ask for?

Who needed a wife, or a girl friend? Mortimer had his mom to do his laundry and darn his socks for him. Not that Mortimer had anything against dames, mind you. Wasn’t his own mother a dame? And Mortimer’s mother was a saint, bringing up her seven children all alone after Mortimer’s poor overworked dad dropped dead in the rendering vat at the hot dog factory...

(Click here to read the entire thrilling episode!)

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 285: invasion

2012-01-14T02:49:00.006-05:00

Our resourceful hero Arnold Schnabel has somehow managed to invade the very brain of Lucky, the prince of darkness himself, here in a seedy dive called The Dead Man on the fog-enveloped island of lost souls…

(Go here to read our immediately preceding chapter; anyone looking for a new lifelong project may click here to return to the very beginning of this Gold View Award©-winning 63-volume memoir.)

“For some several years now it has been my custom to take to my bed following the new year’s festivities and spend a month or so doing nothing but reading and rereading Arnold Schnabel.” -- Harold Bloom, in Boys’ Life.

But perhaps it was even more disconcerting for Lucky. I could hear his thoughts reverberating around my own consciousness as he -- and I, for I now shared all his senses -- stared into my own seemingly impassive eyes.

“What are you doing,” he said, aloud.

My own body’s voice replied:
 
“I’m just standing here,” I said (lying by omission, it’s true, but is it a sin to lie to the prince of darkness?) “Listening to you. Enjoying my drink.”

And I took a sip of my Manhattan.

“But I can feel you in there!” he yelled. “You’ve invaded my brain!”

I decided to hold my peace, at least in the physical realm, but silently, between his ears and behind his eyes, I said, as that tiny swallow of Manhattan coursed its merry way down my throat where it gently exploded beneath my lungs and sent waves of pleasure throughout every centimeter of my body, including my toenails and fingernails and the ends of the hairs on my head:

“Yes, I have invaded your brain. What are you going to do about it?”

For a few moments Lucky said nothing aloud, although I could feel him breathing heavily and I could hear the rioting of his thoughts. For just a moment I became distracted by the music; the band had never stopped playing after Gabriel had finished his solo and while he was lighting up and smoking his reefer and communicating telepathically with me -- but now the girl singer, who had disappeared from the stage for a while, had taken the microphone again. She was singing “Yesterdays”, and Gabriel was playing along with her, sparingly, accenting her words, expanding their meaning.

“Wow, that sounds really good,” I said, silently. “You know, I only recently started to appreciate jazz, but I have to say that I’m really starting to like it. Or ‘dig’ it as my bohemian friends say --”

  “Shut up!” yelled Lucky, aloud. “I don’t give a fuck!”

My bar companions all stared at him, and I -- my corporeal host -- continued to look at him in an impassive manner.

“The funny thing,” I said, inside Lucky’s head, “is that it feels like I can smell the music. And taste it. And feel it.”

“Fuck you!” yelled Lucky aloud. “It’s only that stupid LSD you took, you moron!”

“Do you think so?” I said, my words producing a slight echo as they bounced off the inner walls of his consciousness. “But do you know what the music smells like? It smells like the feeling you might have walking down a city street at night, in the summer, when you’re thinking of all the things you’ve done and haven’t done, and you suddenly realize that someday you’re going to die, and that eventually everyone who ever knew you will die also, so that you yourself will no longer even be the memory of a memory…”

“Stop it!” Lucky yelled. “That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“And it tastes like what happens when you suddenly look out of the window of a train on a rainy day and you realize that on the other side of that cloudy pane of glass is an entire universe which is not you, even though you are part of that universe.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said, and I could feel him sweating, I could feel the sweat streaming down his forehead from under his Panama hat.

“It feels like a dream that you’re having while you’re dreaming, where you’re dreaming you’re some other person, and then that other person wakes up and realizes that he has been dreaming that he was you, but he’s not you, he’s not even him. He’s someone else who still hasn’t woken up from his dream, which after all may be someone else’s dream entirely.”

“Out, damn you!” he yelled. “Out!”

“Anyway, that’s what this music smells and tastes and feels like to me, or at least it did a second ago, which already feels like an aeon ago, to tell the truth. Right this second it feels more like --”

“Fuck you!” yelled Lucky. “And get out of my fucking head!”

“This guy is crazy,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yeah, he’s good-looking, but I think he’s all hopped up,” said Molly.

“Oh,” said Finch. “You don’t happen to have any hop on you, do you, sir?”

“No!” said Lucky. “I don’t have any hop on me, you degenerate! This one,” and he pointed at me with his cigarette in its ebony holder, “has somehow entered my brain. I can hear him in there.”

“Really?” said Finch. “What is he saying?”

“He’s not saying anything right now, the bastard, but I feel him in there all right. Lurking. Smirking.”

“Don’t kid us, handsome,” said Molly. “You’re hopped to the gills. Drink your Manhattan, that’ll calm you down.”

“He’s probably on coke,” said Mr. Jones. “Or bennies, maybe.”

“Bennies!” said Finch. “I wonder, sir, if you might have some bennies to spare.”

“Fuck you!” said Lucky.

“Oh, but I didn’t mean to suggest that you should lay them on me for free, sir, gratis, or for nothing,” said Finch. “I would be perfectly willing to purchase from you a few tabs with hard currency, if the price were not too dear, that is, or perhaps I could give you a downpayment, and…”

“Say, bub, I could go for some coke if you’re holdin’,” said Molly. “How about hooking a lady up, dude? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I don’t have any coke and I don’t have any bennies!” said Lucky.

“Pink footballs, maybe?” said Finch.

“Black beauties?” said Molly.

“We know you’re wailin’ on somethin’,” said Mr. Jones. “It ain’t magic mushrooms, is it?”

“Damn you all, I am not on hop, nor bennies, nor coke, nor any other drug!” cried Lucky. “Fuck you all!”

“Hey, buddy.” It was the bartender, I could see him through Lucky’s eyes, over my shoulder. “Settle the fuck down.”

“But he’s in my head!” yelled Lucky, pointing at me again.

“Lucky,” I spoke silently, inside his head. “You’re going to get thrown out if you’re not careful.”

Lucky dropped his cigarette holder and his drink simultaneously and put both his hands over his ears, muffling the sounds of the music and the laughing and shouting people all around us but not the sound of my voice within his head.

“Listen, Lucky,” I said. “All I want to do is go home. I really have no desire to drive you crazy.”

“Fuck you!” he yelled aloud.

“That’s no way to talk,” I said.

“Get out! Get out of my head!”

“I’ll get out of your head,” I said. “It isn’t that much fun being in here, believe me. But, before I do, you have to agree to leave this bar and go back to hell and leave me and Mr. Jones alone.”

“I can’t make an agreement like that! This is what I do, damn it!”

“Well, I’m sorry, then,” I said. “I guess we’re at an impasse.”

“Impasse. Where does someone like you pick up these fancy words?”

“I read a lot.”

“Ha! I know what you read! Lots of trashy paperbacks about men caught in violent whirlpools of passion and deceit!”

“Well, that’s true, but, let’s face it, those books use a fair amount of fancy words. I’ve sometimes wondered why. Is it the writers trying to show they know the words, or are they putting them in to flatter their readers, to assist them in a delusion that they’re not reading mere trash, or --”

“But it’s not fair!” He had been speaking aloud all along, but now he was almost yelling. “How did you get this power to invade my head?”

“Beats me,” I said, quite truthfully.

“I’ll bet it was that LSD wasn’t it?”

“Possibly, but anyway I’m staying here unless you agree to leave.”

“Oh yeah? What if I just went back to hell with you in my head, huh? how would you like that, smart guy?”

“Well, you’re threatening to drag me to hell regardless, so what do I care? And I’ll still be in your head when we get there.”

“Damn you!” he yelled.

“All right, you -- fancy Dan,” said the bartender. “I don’t care how much money you’re spending, you’re getting too weird. Take a hike.”

“But --”

“Blow,” said the bartender. “Like now.”

“But --”

“You heard me, buddy. Fuck off.”

The bartender put one hand under the bar, as if to grab hold of a baseball bat.

Lucky paused for a moment, and I heard the distant screaming of a billion damned souls somewhere down in the sub-basements of his brain. And then I heard his voice, his inner voice, speaking only to me.

“All right, Arnold. You win. I’ll go. Just please get out of my head.”

“You have to promise to leave entirely,” I said. “I don’t want to find you waiting for us outside.”

“Okay! I’ll go, I’ll go!”

“All right, then,” I said.

And just like that I was back inside my own head, looking out at Lucky, who was still holding both his hands over his ears, his face pale and sweating. He had knocked his Panama hat off.

I bent down and picked his hat up off the floor, and for a long moment after picking up his hat I remained bent over, studying the floor, which was covered with a mélange of sawdust, cigarette and cigar butts, spent matches and broken glass, all of it seeming somehow alive with sputum, vomit, urine and beer. I wondered if there were perhaps entire universes within the atoms of this vile landscape, filled with creatures absorbed in their own sub-atomic affairs and problems. I rose up, like some creature rising up out of the primordial slime, like a ghost rising up from a graveyard on All Hallows Eve, and I handed the Panama hat to Lucky.

“Your hat, sir,” I said.

“All right,” he said, putting the hat on his head, but crookedly, and without bothering to brush from its straw the grime it had picked up, and the universes pullulating within this grime. “All right. I’ll go. This time I’ll go. But it’s not over between you and me. Not by a long shot it isn’t. Maybe next time we meet you won’t be high on LSD. Then we’ll see what happens.”

And he turned and strode toward the door, reeling slightly as if he were dizzy or ill, or very drunk. He pulled the door open and went out, the door closed behind him.

“Oh, my,” said Finch, “he left all his money on the bar.”

I turned around, the lights of the bar swirling like a drunken galaxy doing a square dance, and I saw Finch laying his small pale paw upon the money that lay there in a casual pile on the bar, a couple of twenties, a few singles and some change.

“Hey, Finch,” said the Wallace Beery bartender, “you want that hand broke?”

“But I just thought I’d keep it safe for the young gentleman until I should see him again,” said Finch.

“You hold it right there, Finchie,” Molly said. “He left it there for all of us.”

“He did say ‘Keep ‘em coming’,” said Mr. Jones. “And after all, Jack -- I may call you Jack, may I not?”

“That’s my name,” said the bartender. “Don’t wear it the fuck out.”

“After all, Jack,” said Mr. Jones, “the young fellow did already tip you a twenty, everyone saw it.”

“Indeed we did,” said Finch.

“That’s right,” said Molly. “Don’t get greedy, Jack.”

“’Keep ‘em coming,’ said Finch. “Those were the young gentleman’s very words.”

“All right, I’ll compromise,” said Jack the bartender. “I’ll take another double sawbuck,” and saying thus he matched his words with deed, grabbing up a twenty and shoving it in the same trousers pocket in which he had stashed the first twenty, “and you four losers can drink up what’s left there.”

“A solution worthy of Solomon, sir,” said Mr. Jones. “I’m ready for another one.”

“And so also I,” said Finch.

“Me three,” said Molly.

“Wait a minute. Mr. Jones,” I said, putting my hand on the old gentleman’s arm, just as he was laying down the glass he had just emptied. “We really should go.”

“But, Arnie, look at all this green here. We can have two or three more rounds at least!”

“I know,” I said, “but I really want to get back.”

“You’re being a wet blanket, boy. Look, we got free drinks, music, a congenial atmosphere. What the hell more do you want?”

“I want to get back to the world before something else happens.”

“Something like what?”

“Something --”

I searched for a suitable word.

“Something untoward?” suggested Finch.

“Something horrible?” said Molly.

“Something untoward, anyway,” I said.

“Untoward,” said Mr. Jones. “Jeeze, Arnie, I didn’t realize what a lightweight you can be.”

“Look, Mr. Jones,” I said. “When we get back to our world I promise to buy you some drinks.”

“You do? How many?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Five?”

“Top shelf?”

“Well, I don’t know about top shelf,” I said. “I’m not sure if I have that much on me.”

“Okay, five regular drinks then?”

“I think I can manage that,” I said. “And if not I’ll owe you the rest.”

“All right then,” he said. “Can we at least get some beer to go? Couple quarts? We can take it out of your friend’s pile there."

“He’s not my friend,” I said.

“A matter of complete indifference to me. Bartender!”

“Yeah,” said the bartender, who was still standing there.

“Do you have quart bottles of beer?”

“We got Rheingold, Schaefer, and Falstaff. Oh, and Tree Frog beer.”

“No Schmidt’s?”

“No Schmidt’s.”

“Four quarts of Rheingold to go, please.”

“Mr. Jones,” I said, “really --”

“All right, make it two quarts then,” said Mr. Jones. “Two separate bags. Take it out of there.” He waved his hand at Lucky’s money.

I turned and looked over toward the stage. Gabriel was playing a solo again. Our eyes met through the smoke. I heard his voice in the sound of his trumpet. “Play it light, man,” he said. “I’ll catch you on the rebound.”

“Thank you,” I telepathically replied.

“I didn’t do nothing, man,” said his voice in the music of the trumpet.

“Well, thank you for the encouragement, anyway,” I transmitted. “I think it helped.”

“Don’t mention it,” the music said.

“Oh, by the way, Gabriel, you haven’t seen Josh, lately, have you?”

“No, man,” he said. “You ever catch up with him last night?”

“Yes, I did,” I said. “The last I saw he was in this bar, the Valhalla, on MacDougal Street?”

“Nice stopping place,” said Gabriel. “I gig there sometimes with Bird and Bix, Jelly Roll.”

I was about to ask him who Bird and Bix and Jelly Roll were but someone nudged my arm. I turned and it was Mr. Jones.

“Grab a quart, Arnie, we’re homeward bound.”

He was already holding one quart in a brown paper bag. Another one was on the bar, and I picked it up, at the same time putting down the Manhattan I had been holding ever since I had first picked it up.

“Aren’t you going to finish your drink, Mr. Schulman,” said Finch.

“Oh,” I said. “No, I don’t really want it.”

“Well, waste not,” said Finch, and he picked up the nearly full Manhattan and drank it in a gulp.

“Unfucking believable,” said Molly.

Mr. Jones and I both said goodnight to Finch and Molly, they said goodnight to us in their turn and then quickly turned their backs to us, leaning closer together on their stools. It occurred to me that they were perhaps married.

Mr. Jones and I headed for the door. I turned to the bandstand one last time and waved to Gabriel. He lifted his right hand briefly from the keys of his instrument and gave me a wave.

I opened the door and let Mr. Jones pass through, then followed him out into the foggy damp night.

(Continued here, with no end in sight.)

(Kindly look to the right-hand side of this page to find a listing of links to all other published episodes of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©, now available, for a modest fee, to that new Kindle you got for Christmas or Hannukah or Kwanzaa or for the Wiccan Winter Solstice Festival.)

tales of the hotel st crispian: chapter 42

2012-01-11T11:45:00.004-05:00

"enter flossie"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by konrad kraus and roy dismas

artistic supervisor: rhoda penmarq

for complete episode, click here

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 284: Gabriel

2012-01-07T02:35:00.012-05:00

Let’s rejoin our hero Arnold Schnabel in a bar called The Dead Man on the fog-shrouded island of lost souls, where his disembodied spirit has met up with a previous acquaintance, the trumpet-playing hipster angel Gabriel…

(Click here to read our previous episode; go here to return to the very beginning of this Gold View Award©-winning 49-volume masterpiece of the memoirists’s art.)

“Of the great writers who lived and worked in relative obscurity during their time on earth -- Emily Dickinson, Franz Kafka, Horace P. Sternwall -- perhaps the greatest of them all was the self-effacing and modest railroad brakeman Arnold Schnabel.” -- Harold Bloom, in Criterion.

“You didn’t kick the bucket, did you?” said Gabriel, or rather I suppose I should say, thought Gabriel, as he was still blowing on his trumpet all the while.

“No,” I said, or, rather, so my wandering spirit communicated telepathically. “I came to the, to this -- world?”

“Call it the next world,” said Gabriel. “We could call it a lot of things, but ‘the next world’ will do.”

“Okay,” I said, silently, “I came to the, uh, next world, to try to bring back my recently-deceased acquaintance Mr. Jones over there.”

“The little old dude?”

“That’s him,” I transmitted.

“I didn’t know you had these sorts of powers,” Gabriel said, thought, communicated (let’s just keep it simple and use “said”, otherwise this could go on forever).

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think I normally do have these powers, but I had a ring that some other old guy had given me to hold, and apparently it gave me certain, uh --”

“The ring gave you powers.”

“Yes. Or -- maybe more accurately put -- I was able to, to access the powers inherent in the ring?”

“I see,” he said.

“I know it sounds odd.”

“No, no, not at all. I mean, you know, this sort of thing is not entirely unheard of.”

“Well, that’s somewhat comforting,” I said.

“Oh, hey,” said Gabriel, glancing my way as he played his horn, even though I can only assume I was invisible, “this ring -- this wasn’t the ring of the Nibelung, was it?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, “but something like that.”

“Or maybe the ring from, what’s that book, The Fellowship of the Ring?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The old gent who gave it to me didn’t tell me what it was called, if anything.”

“And who was this old gent?”

“Mr. Arbuthnot? He runs a shop in Cape May, called the --”

“The What Gives Shoppe,” said Gabriel.

“Well -- the Whatnot Shoppe.”

“Yes, Whatnot Shoppe, sorry,” he said. “I know the guy. He gave you his ring?”

“Um, he didn’t exactly give it to me,” I said. “I was just sort of holding it --”

“Arbuthnot let you hold the ring.”

“Yeah, you see I was supposed to try to trade it for some stuff for him --”

“Some stuff? What stuff?”

“Again, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s called, it’s this stuff I got from this guy Wally --”

“Oh, no, not Wally from the cigar shop.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Not that stuff he sells in the little snuff tins?”

“Yeah, I think that’s it,” I said.

“Jesus Christ, Arnold, you’ve been getting involved in some heavy shit, man.”

“I know,” I said. “I didn’t mean to. All I wanted to do was buy my little cousin some comic books, but somehow things got out of hand. By the way, would you rather I wait till you’ve finished before we continue talking? I don’t want to distract you from your playing.”

“Okay,” he said, “let me just blow a few more choruses, then I’ll lay out for a bit, and we can rap.”

I hovered there and listened to the music. Over at the bar I could see that meanwhile I had been apparently conversing with Lucky, so I flew back into my brain so that I could participate.

“Well,” I was in the middle of saying, “I never went to college, but I think the rule is that if it’s the subject of the sentence it’s supposed to be ‘who’, and if it’s the object of a sentence or a phrase then it’s ‘whom’.”

“Here’s a who for you,” said Lucky. “Who gives a shit? I’ve got news for you, and for you,” he said, looking at Finch, “whatever your name is --”

“Finch,” said Finch, and once again he offered his right hand to Lucky and once again Lucky pointedly ignored it.

“I’ve got news for both of you,” said Lucky. “School’s out. And no one gives a shit about your pathetic little grammatical rules.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right, sir,” said Finch. (Once again he ostentatiously flexed the fingers of his hand, as if he had only raised it because of a recurrent stiffness or cramp, brought on by gout or by hundreds of thousands of hours of the repetitive lifting and downing glasses of alcoholic beverages.)

“I’ll tell you who gives a shit,” said Mr. Jones. “I give a shit. Sure, I myself might lapse now and then into the rough and hearty vernacular of the taproom, but nevertheless we must respect certain standards of speech, so that when the occasion demands it we may speak as educated men and women and not as base and vile guttersnipes.”

“Your point is well-taken, Mr. Jones,” said Finch, “but perhaps the gentleman has a valid point as well. After all, as long as his meaning is understood, and in a --”

“Oh, dry up, Finchie,” said Molly. “You’re only agreeing with the guy because he’s buying you drinks.”

“That’s not true,” said Finch.

“You’d take sides with Lucifer himself if he bought you a drink,” she said.

“Ha ha, that’s rich,” said Lucky. “That is really rich.”

“There’s more of that where it came from, handsome,” said Molly. “So, you got a girlfriend, a wife?”

“What?” said Lucky, “A wife? No. God forbid.”

“Oh Christ,” said Molly. “Ain’t it always the case.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean a good-looking, tall, dark-haired feller in a nice suit, well-groomed and all, lotsa money and not afraid to throw it around, don’t he always turn out to be queerer than a three-dollar bill.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Lucky.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” said Molly. “You can’t help it if you’re a pansy.”

“I am not a pansy.”

“Then why ain’t you got a wife or a girlfriend?”

“Why would I want one?” said Lucky.

“Ha ha,” said Mr. Jones, “well-said, my friend. Handsome young chap like you with lots of the do-re-mi to toss around, I’ll bet you get more ladies than Douglas Fairbanks.”

“Or William S. Hart,” said Finch, I think just so he could keep in the conversation somehow.

“If I wanted a lady you may rest assured I could have one,” said Lucky.

“Then why do you seem more and more like a fairy to me each second?” said Molly.

“A fairy?” said Lucky. “Did you see the way I broke the arm of that razor-wielding lout just a few minutes ago?”

“Sid the Shiv?” said Molly. “Even I could break that punk’s arm, and I’m a dame.”

“Okay,” said Lucky. “I really can’t stand any more of this. Arnold, finish your drink. You’re coming with me.”

“Hey, hold on a minute there,” said Mr. Jones. “Just who the hell do you think you are, buddy? Arnie ain’t going nowhere with you.”

“Oh?” said Lucky, “And who’s going to stop me?”

“Maybe you forgot about this?” said Mr. Jones, and he reached into his side jacket pocket, brought out Sid the Shiv’s switchblade again and flicked it open.

“And,” said Lucky, putting down his drink, which he had barely if at all sipped, “maybe you, old man, forgot about this?”

He reached into his own side jacket pocket and brought out the straight razor he had gotten from Sid the Shiv, and opened it up.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Finch.

The music continued to play, the people all around continued to laugh and shout, no one except our own little group seemed to have noticed this flashing of sharpened steel.

“Go ahead,” said Mr. Jones. “Make a move, hotshot.”

He had the burning butt of a cigarette between his dry old lips, and he still held his Manhattan in his left hand.

“You really think you stand a chance with me?” said Lucky.

“I may be old but I know how to stick a knife,” said Mr. Jones.

“Mr. Jones,” I said, finally getting back in the game, “let me handle this.”

“You want the blade, Arnie?”

“No,” I said. “I won’t need the blade.”

“Gonna take him barehanded, huh?”

“This I gotta see,” said Molly. “Get him, cabaña-boy.”

“Gentlemen, please,” said Finch.

“Shut up, you,” said Lucky.

“Yeah, put a lid on it, Finchie,” said Molly. “Just ‘cause you’re a coward.”

“Now, Molly,” said Finch, “I just believe that civilized people can resolve their differences without --”

“You,” said Lucky to Finch, “shut up.”

Finch shut up at once.

“Ha ha,” said Molly.

“Okay, let’s go, Arnold,” said Lucky. “We can do it the easy way or the hard way. Personally I think I’d actually prefer the hard way.”

“Look,” I said, stalling, “why doesn’t everyone just put away their weapons.”

“Sure,” said Lucky, and with a smile he folded the razor and put it back into his jacket pocket.

“You too, Mr. Jones,” I said.

“Only if you say so, Arnie boy.”

“Please.”

He put down his drink, folded the knife and put it away.

“Okay,” said Lucky. “Time to go, Arnold.”

“Hold on,” said Mr. Jones. “Just where the hell do you think you’re taking my pal?”

“Just where the hell do I think I’m taking him?” said Lucky, followed by a very mirthlesss-sounding laugh, although, who knows, it may have been mirthful, “All right, I’ll tell you exactly where I’m taking your pal, and what I’m taking him to, and what’s going to happen to him when I get him there --”

Suddenly I noticed that the trumpet wasn’t playing any more and I disincorporated and flew back to the bandstand. Gabriel had his trumpet under his arm, and he was lighting up what looked like a marijuana cigarette.

“Gabriel,” I telepathically communicated. “Can you see what’s happening over there?”

Gabriel exhaled and gazed through the smoke over to where I stood at the bar.

“You and your elderly friend are talking to that dude in a white suit. Looks like a pimp.”

“Yes,” I said, “but don’t you know who that guy is?”

“Oh,” he said. “Shit, man, that’s not --”

“Yes.”

“Ol’ Beelzebub himself, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “But he calls himself Lucky.”

“Lucky, huh? Whatever. But what’s he doin’ here?”

“He wants me,” I said. “He wants to take me to hell.”

“Damn,” said Gabriel. “What you gonna do, man?”

“Well,” I said, “I was hoping maybe you could help me.”

“Damn, I wish I could, brother.”

“But -- you’re an angel, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you, like, uh --”

“Sorry, man,” he said. “But we’re not allowed to help humans. That’s a very common misconception.” 

“Oh," I said. "Not at all?”

“Well, we can give a little advice, maybe, but that’s as far as we can go, really.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Do you want me to give you some advice?”

“Yes, please.”

“Don’t give up, man. You can handle that dude. I knew that guy even before he was cast out of heaven. He was always an asshole. Go on, get back there. Show him who’s boss.”

“Well, okay.”

“Give him hell.”

“I guess you couldn’t give me any more specific ideas, or hints, about how I should --”

“Sorry, man. Rules are rules.”

“Okay,” I said.

“No harm in asking,” he said.

“Well, I guess I’d better get back into my body then.”

“Yeah.” He took a big drag of his reefer, staring at the empty space where my consciousness was.

“Okay,” I said, “Thanks anyway.”

“If I could do more you know I would,” he said, holding in the smoke.

“I understand,” I said, although of course I understood nothing. “I’ll see you later.”

“I hope so, man,” he said, and he finally exhaled another great cloud of marijuana smoke.

I was about to say something else, but I let it go and flew back into my head.

Lucky had apparently been speaking, and I caught up with him in mid-sentence.

“ -- and then, after say a billion years in this pit of boiling tar I’m going to take you to what we call the big cesspool, and --”

“Arnie,” said Mr. Jones, “you don’t have to stand here and listen to this guy’s bullshit. If you don’t poke him in the nose then I will.”

“Oh, just try it, you old fart,” said Lucky.

Just that moment it occurred to me. If I could travel outside my body and communicate telepathically with Gabriel, shouldn’t I be able to do so with Lucky?

I stared into his dark cruel eyes, something happened and then I was inside his brain, looking through his eyes at myself.

It was very disconcerting.

(Continued here; we have only just begun to scratch beneath the surface.)

(Please turn to the right-hand column of this page to find a listing of links to all other officially-authorized episodes of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©, now available on Kindle for a nominal fee which will be forwarded to the treasurer of the Arnold Schnabel Society™ of Philadelphia.)

tales of the hotel st Crispian: chapter 41

2012-01-04T19:44:00.005-05:00

"room 603"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo*

illustrated by konrad kraus

artistic supervisor: rhoda penmarq

*Ass’t Professor of Classics and Television Studies, Olney Community College; editor of Hail the Conquering Loser: Previously Uncollected Stories of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol.3 (1946-1950); Olney Community College Press, “The Sternwall Project”.

for complete episode, click here.

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 283: acid head

2012-01-01T02:23:00.014-05:00

On the fog-shrouded island of lost souls, in a noisy low tavern called The Dead Man, our hero Arnold Schnabel has once again encountered his old enemy the prince of darkness... (Hie thee hence to read our immediately preceding episode; or, if you must, click here to return to the very first chapter of this Gold View Award©-winning 56-volume memoir.) “Now that the alleged holiday season is finally coming to an end I look forward to devoting myself to the slow and luxurious close-reading of the ten newest volumes of Arnold Schnabel’s mammoth masterpiece, which my grandchildren were kind enough to chip in and have specially bound for me in the finest morocco leather.” -- Harold Bloom, in Parade magazine.

“LSD?” said Lucky. “Are you insane? Or, rather, are you so insane already that you long to increase your insanity a hundredfold through the ingestion of LSD?”

“Pardon me?” I said.

“Rèmy Sidecar,” said the bartender’s voice. “I.W. Harper Manhattan.”

I turned, all the lights in the place turning and swirling with me, much as the lights of a carnival at night must swirl when one rides one of the painted mechanical horses on a carousel (not that I have ever ridden on one), and I saw the gentle explosions of colors in the two beaded cocktails the bartender was ambidextrously placing before Finch and Molly, neither of whom wasted any time in picking them up and lifting them to their opened lips.

“Now,” said the bartender, “anybody want anything else right now?”

“No,” said Lucky. “And just take whatever it is out of that money there.”

“Wait,” said Mr. Jones.

“What?” said Lucky.

Mr. Jones tilted his head back and finished off his Manhattan.

“Ah,” he said, “that was good.”

He laid the empty glass on the bar.

“Encore, garçon,” he said. “S’il vous plaît.”

The bartender glanced at Lucky.

“Go ahead,” said Lucky. “Get him another one.”

“Y’know,” said Finch, “as long as you’re making Mr. Jones one, I’ll probably have another.”

“You got a full one right there in your hand,” said the bartender.

“Yes, but I was just thinking, you know, it might save you time since you were going to make one for Mr. Jones anyway --”

“Unbelievable,” said the bartender.

“I’m only thinking of your convenience, Jack,” said Finch.

“Oh, go ahead, make him another one too,” said Lucky.

The bartender now stared at Lucky, then at the Manhattan that Lucky was holding, then at Lucky again.

“What’s the matter with your drink?”

“With my drink?” said Lucky. “Nothing, as far as I know. Why? Should I be worried?”

“How come you ain’t drinking it then?”

“I’ve been conversing,” said Lucky.

“If you order a drink you should drink it,” said the bartender. “Especially a Manhattan cocktail. I go to a lot of trouble to make the drink properly, plus I even go the extra mile to chill the glass, and you stand there jabbering and letting the drink get warm. What’s the point of me making the goddam drink correctly if you’re gonna let it get warm as piss, huh? Why should I bother?”

“What do you care?” said Lucky.

“I care,” said the bartender. “I care very deeply. Maybe I care too much. Maybe that’s my problem. Now drink your goddam drink. This is not some hoity toity cocktail party. You wanta drink here, then drink, goddammit.”

“Okay,” said Lucky. “Fine.”

He lifted his glass, drank the entire cocktail in one go. Then he made a face of the sort nearly anyone would make after drinking a Manhattan all at once, and he laid the empty glass down.

“There,” he said. “I drank it. Are you happy?”

“No,” said the bartender. “In point of fact I am not happy. I am however partially -- infinitesimally -- mollified. For the time being. You want another one?”

“Yes,” said Lucky. “Yes. Go make another one. Make another one for everyone.”

“Not me,” I said. “I should probably see about getting out of here after this one I have.”

“I said everyone,” said Lucky.

“Yeah, what the hell, Arnie,” said Mr. Jones. “I’m having another one, so you’d just have to wait for me.”

“Well,” I said. “It really might be better if I didn’t. I mean, I don’t mind waiting while you finish your drink. In fact, go ahead and have one --”

“I was intending to,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “go ahead, you have another one and I’ll, um --” I had almost said that I was going to go try to talk to Gabriel about getting us back to the world of the living, but then I thought that this might not be such a good thing to say out loud in front of Lucky. “I’ll just, uh --”

“Look,” said the bartender, “I got other customers. How many Manhattans am I making?”

“Four,” said Mr. Jones. “And a Sidecar for the lady.”

“Right,” said the bartender.

“With Rémy,” said Molly. “More Rémy this time. It’s still too weak.”

“Look, Molly,” said the bartender, “if you want a double Rémy Sidecar just ask for one, but I gotta charge extra for it.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Lucky. “Just give the woman what she wants and take it out of my money there.”

“You got no call to talk to me like that,” said the bartender.

“Okay,” said Lucky. “I’m sorry.” He took out his money clip again, peeled off a twenty. “Here,” he said, “this is for you. I’m tipping you ahead of time. Take it.”

The bartender took the twenty.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Now will you please make our drinks?” said Lucky.

“That’s all you had to say,” said the bartender, shoving the twenty into his trousers pocket. “’Please.’ That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“No,” said Lucky. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Please and thank you,” said the bartender. “Two words we don’t hear enough of in this world.”

“I always say please and thank you,” said Finch.

“I guess I should say 'two phrases',” said the bartender. “'Expressions'?”

“'Locutions',” said Finch.

“Whatever,” said the bartender.

“I’m still waiting for my double Rémy Sidecar,” said Molly.

“See?” said Jack the bartender. He was addressing Lucky. “See the kinda clientèle I got in this joint?”

“I’m still waiting for my Manhattan, too,” said Mr. Jones.

“I’ll get you your goddam Manhattan, gramps,” said the bartender. “I’ll get everybody their goddam drinks. Just keep your fucking shirts on. Christ almighty.”

He went away.

“Mr. Personality,” said Mr. Jones.

“My God!” said Lucky. “How can you humans stand yourselves?”

“Watch it, pal,” said Mr. Jones. “Easy with the broad declarations.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Lucky. “What were we even talking about?”

“I have no idea,” said Mr. Jones.

“Who gives a shit,” said Molly.

“You were talking about Mr. Schroeder’s having taken a certain pill,” said Finch. “QED I think was the street name.”

“LSD!” said Lucky.

“Oh, was that it?” said Finch.

“Yes,” said Lucky. “This one,” he said, pointing at me. “High as a kite on LSD.”

“But,” I said, after perhaps too long a pause. It felt like a half hour, but it couldn’t have been that long; this crowd I was with would never have refrained from talking for that long. “But my leg was hurting terribly. Mr. Jones gave the pill to me for my leg. My leg, my leg, my leg.”

“Why do you keep repeating yourself?”

“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing that aloud. Sometimes I hear these sorts of echoes, echoes, echoes --”

“Damn it, man, didn’t you know what you were taking?”

“Well, it was for my leg. You see I have a bad leg, and I just fell a little while ago and hurt it all over again, so --”

“So you took LSD for a sore leg?”

I looked down at Mr. Jones, because I was still floating about six feet above his head, and above my own head, come to think of it, and everyone else’s in there.

“Mr. Jones,” I said. “Tell him. Tell him I took it for my sore leg.”

“Well, it was my idea, I’ll admit it,” said Mr. Jones. “You see, if I had had some opium then I should certainly have offered that to Arnold. But what can I say? LSD was all I was holding.”

“Mr. Jones,” said Lucky, “I’m really surprised at you. I mean I knew vaguely that you were a hopeless old drunk, but I had no idea of the depths of your degeneracy, or should I say perhaps your senility.”

“Watch it, pal,” said Mr. Jones. “I don’t stand for no fancy Dan in a white suit accusing me of degeneracy nor senility. My buddy had a bum leg, so I gave him the only pill I had, the last one I had. Who gives a shit if it’s LSD or the distilled essence of the ambrosia of the gods, the point is, it worked. Hey, Arnold, let me ask you something, does your leg hurt now?”

“I can’t even feel my leg,” I said. “Either one of my legs.”

“There ya go,” said Mr. Jones, addressing Lucky again now. “Smart-ass. What do you know about LSD? You ever even tried it?”

“Well, no,” said Lucky. He noticed that the cigarette in his holder had burned down and gone out. He picked out the butt and dropped it to the floor. “But I’ve read about it. I saw an article in Man’s Life I think it was, or --”

“I don’t give a shit what you read in some cheap sweat rag,” said Mr. Jones. “Until you’ve tried it maybe you should just keep your opinions to yourself. Ever hear of Cary Grant?”

“Sure --”

Lucky took out his silver cigarette case.

“Cary Grant’s an acid head,” said Mr. Jones.

“Acid head?” 

“It’s slang for people who dig LSD. It’s shorter than calling somebody a lysergic acid diethylamide-head, y’know?”

“I see.”

Lucky clicked open the case.

“Hey,” said Mr. Jones. “What kinda cigarettes you got there?”

“Luckies.”

“Mind if I take one for later? These Soviet-made smokes taste like shit.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.”

Mr. Jones took a cigarette from the case and stowed it in his shirt pocket. Lucky offered the case to Molly and she took two, even though she, like Mr. Jones and Finch, was already smoking a cigarette. I declined a cigarette, but Finch helped himself to two. Lucky looked in his case. There were two cigarettes left in it. He took one out, then snapped the case shut and put it away.

“Aldous Huxley,” said Mr. Jones.

“Pardon me?” said Lucky. He was screwing his cigarette into his holder.

“What about Aldous Huxley, ever hear of him?” 

“Sure,” said Lucky. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Jones had taken out his Sid’s Tavern matches, and he gave Lucky a light. “Thank you,” said Lucky, and he exhaled a cloud of smoke in which I detected a distinct odor of sulfur. “I mean I don’t have much time for reading, really, but didn’t he write that book 1984?”

“No, that was George Orwell,” said Mr. Jones. “This was Aldous Huxley, the guy who wrote Brave New World --”

“That’s what I meant to say,” said Lucky.

“Well, he was an acid head too, Huxley,” said Mr. Jones. “Even did acid on his death bed.”

“Well, fuck it,” said Molly, “if that Cary Grant takes this stuff then it’s okay in my book. I seen that fella in that Mae West movie, what was it called?”

“And I haven’t read Aldous Huxley,” said Finch, “but I’ve heard that he’s a simply marvelous author. But you know who’s really my favorite among the younger authors? James Branch Cabell --”

“Since when did you ever read a book, Finchie?” said Molly.

“I read,” said Finch. “You may not see me reading, but I read. At home, in my room, in the dark watches of the night, when I am unable to sleep --”

“Hey, Pops,” said Molly, “You know where we can score some of this LSD?”

“I wish I did,” said Mr. Jones.  

“Good stuff, huh?”

“Oh, excellent.”

“I must admit I wouldn’t mind trying some,” said Finch.

“Me, I love it,” said Mr. Jones. “Take it every chance I get.”

“Oh, my, I really want to try some,” said Finch.

“Yeah, me too,” said Molly.

“It’s the best,” said Mr. Jones. “I used to think that peyote and mescaline were pretty good, but LSD? No contest.”

“Pretty good, huh?” said Finch.

“The best,” said Mr. Jones. “Right Arnie?”

“Um,” I said. But it came out like a long, drawn-out “om”, don’t ask me why.

“All right,” said Lucky. “Everybody. Let’s just shut up about LSD.”

“You’re the one who brought it up, pal,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes, I suppose I did,” said Lucky. “And you know what? I’m sorry I did.”

“I find it a fascinating subject though,” said Finch. “Modern chemistry, that is. It’s so wonderful that a single pill could cause Mr. Schnabel’s leg to cease to hurt --”

“I said can we please not talk about it any more,” said Lucky. “Okay?”

“Sorry,” said Finch.

“I still say if that Cary Grant takes that stuff then it must be good,” said Molly.

“I don’t care,” said Lucky, enunciating each word distinctly and separately.

“Oh, well, pardon me for having an opinion,” said Molly.

“I don’t want to talk about LSD any more,” said Lucky.

“It’s a free country,” said Molly. “You don’t want to talk about it, don’t talk about it. Just don’t tell us what we gotta talk about.”

“I’m merely asking you all to please change the subject. And after all I am buying the drinks.”

“Oh, you’re gonna hold that over our heads, are you?” said Molly.

“I hate guys like you,” said Mr. Jones. “You wanta be a big spender, show off, buy everybody drinks, but you want everybody to kiss your ass for it. Well, let me tell you, pal. You can kiss my ass.”

“You don’t know who you’re talking to, old man.”

“And I don’t give a shit.”

“Tell him who he’s talking to, Arnold,” said Lucky.

“What?” I said.

“I said tell Mr. Jones who he’s talking to.”

“Excuse me,” said Finch, “something I always wondered, and I could be wrong, but shouldn’t it be ‘whom he’s talking to’?”

“What?” said Lucky.

“'Whom' as opposed to 'who',” said Finch.

“Shut the fuck up, you,” said Lucky.

“Oh, sorry,” said Finch.

“Ha ha ha,” said Molly.

“Actually I think it is 'whom',” said Mr. Jones.

“Here’s your drinks,” said the bartender. He was there with a cork-lined tray, with four Manhattans and a Sidecar on it. He laid each drink near its prospective drinker.

Somehow the Manhattan I had been drinking had become empty, so I picked up the fresh one that was closest to me, even though I had flown over to the bandstand. I hovered right next to Gabriel’s head as he blew into his trumpet’s mouthpiece. He was sweating profusely. His suit was shimmering sharkskin, and his hat was of the porkpie style, made of straw and narrow-brimmed, with a paisley-patterned band with a red and black feather in it.

“Arnold, brother,” he said, even though he was blowing on his trumpet, his cheeks distended. “What are you doin’ here, man?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. Or rather so my disincorporated spirit said, as my body still stood over there at the crowded bar, sipping my drink, and looking at Lucky, the prince of darkness.

(Continued here; it’s way too late to turn back now.)

(Kindly turn to the right-hand side of this page to find an up-to-date listing of links to all other published episodes of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©. For those lucky enough to have gotten a Kindle for whatever holiday you celebrated, you may now, for a nominal fee, access Arnold’s adventures here; all proceeds in aid of the Arnold Schnabel Society’s “Schnabelia Project”.)

Happy New Year from Arnold Schnabel

2011-12-30T22:39:00.003-05:00

By special request we present again this classic Arnold Schnabel sonnet, dating from that dour period immediately preceding Arnold’s complete mental breakdown, originally published in the Olney Times for January 4, 1963; two weeks later he would be in a padded cell at the Philadelphia State Mental Hospital at Byberry.

If the present poem appears particularly gloomy even for this time of the year, please remember that this particular new year's eve was a mere two months after the Cuban Missile Crisis, during which the destruction of mankind suddenly loomed as a very actual possibility, and concerning the horror of which Arnold Schnabel had already versified so beautifully.

(The “Chew Avenue” of the title refers to the location -- on the corner of Chew and Lawrence -- of the local Veterans of Foreign Wars post, now sadly defunct.)

New Year’s Eve on Chew Avenue

It’s New Year’s Eve, it seems we’ve made it,
If only barely, through another year;
The terror, if not gone, has abated
Into a dull and grey persistent fear.
My mother’s sound asleep by eleven,
So I go to the VFW,
Shove to the bar of this drunkard’s heaven,
And say, “Pat, if you please, I’ll trouble you
For a Schmidt’s, backed with an Old Forester,
And keep them coming till I say not to,
Or until you throw me out; whatever;
Do what your conscience says that you’ve got to.”
I take that first sacred drink of cold beer:
“Happy new (let’s hope it’s not our last) year.”

(Republished for the first time since 1963 with the permission of the Arnold Schnabel Society of Philadelphia, PA. Kindly look to the right hand side of this page for a listing of links to many other fine poems by Arnold Schnabel, many of them suitable for recitations and toasts at family, business or social gatherings, weddings, and funerals during this holiday season. Be sure also to visit our ongoing serialization of Arnold's classic memoir Railroad Train to Heaven.*)

*"I read a page or two every night before retiring." -- Bertrand Russell

"The Martian Invasion Caper"

2011-12-29T00:39:00.003-05:00

I was polishing the .45 when Rudy came back into the room with a worried look on his face.

"You hear the news?" he said. "The goddam Martians have invaded, over in Jersey."

"No kidding?" I said. "What about the job? We still on for tonight?"

"Sure," he said. "Martian invasion or no Martian invasion, the job is on."

The Martian Invasion Caper, by Horace P. Sternwall, serialized in Fantastic Crime Stories, Jan.-Feb.-March, 1940 {never published in book form}.

(Scroll down the right-hand side of this page to find a listing of links to the opening passages of various other unjustifiably-obscure classics from the prolific Royal portable of Horace P. Sternwall. “Why Sternwall has not yet been given the full-blown Library of America treatment is a mystery to me. I can't believe that not a single one of his books is currently in print. It's a goddam disgrace.” -- Harold Bloom, on The Charlie Rose Show.)

"They Called Her Clementine"

2011-12-28T23:52:00.001-05:00

I liked her face; it was a sweet, open face, a face that seemed to say springtime and flowers and happiness; oh, how wrong I was."

They Called Her Clementine, Horace P. Sternwall, a Gold Medal paperback original;1949

"My Friend the .45"

2011-12-28T23:45:00.001-05:00

‎"He had a face that looked like it had been run over by a truck a few times; I turned away but then he spoke, the face spoke: "Hey, buddy, no disrespect, can I ask ya a question?"

My Friend the .45, by Horace P. Sternwall, a Behemoth Books paperback original; 1952

"Princess of the Bowery"

2011-12-28T23:35:00.003-05:00

"She had a face that reminded me of my mother's face in the casket at the funeral home: painted, hard, and dead, with just the ghost of a smile; I decided to buy her a drink."

Princess of the Bowery, by Horace P. Sternwall, an Ace paperback original; 1954

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 282: hammered

2011-12-26T20:12:00.011-05:00

Let’s return to that fog-shrouded island of lost souls and to a low dockside tavern called The Dead Man, amongst the dubious denizens of which our memoirist Arnold Schnabel has recognized his old nemesis the prince of darkness...

(Please click here to refresh your memory of our immediately preceding episode; go here to return to the far-off misty beginnings of this 79-volume Gold View Award©-winning masterpiece.)

“Oftentimes at night when I lie in bed plagued with thoughts of the ineffable meaninglessness of existence I switch on the lamp, pick up the volume of Arnold Schnabel from my bed table (for there is always such a volume there), open it, read a paragraph or two, perhaps a page, and soon enough and invariably a great feeling of peace and beauty suffuses my personal sense of being.” -- Harold Bloom, on The Merv Griffin Show.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t my old bosom pal Arnold Schnabel. And, oh, let me just flick through my mental Rolodex.” By now he was standing right in front of us, smiling broadly as he spoke, which when you think about it is not only hard to do but somewhat frightening even if it is sincere, as I’m sure it wasn’t in this case. “Mister,” he said, addressing Mr. Jones, “Mister --”

“Go on,” said Mr. Jones, “I can tell you almost have it.”

“Ah, that crusty wit! Mr. Jones, of course! I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. Lucky is my name.”

“I’ve seen you around town,” said Mr. Jones. Neither the little old man nor the tall handsome devil made the slightest move to shake the other’s hand.

“As have I seen you,” said Lucky. “Making your rounds of the bars of old Cape May.”

“And as I have noticed you as well in those selfsame bars, in your elegant suits and with your haughty demeanor. And I’ve seen plenty other fancy Dans like you in my long life. Guys who think their shit don’t stink like everybody else’s. You don’t impress me. But on the other hand I gotta hand it to ya for the way you handled that delinquent Teddy Boy. Not that me and Arnie needed help, mind you.”

“Oh, did you not?” said Lucky.

“No,” said Mr. Jones. “My pal Arnie here already knocked the little bastard down for the ten-count once already, and I had my hand all the time on this little friend in my pocket.” And saying this Mr. Jones brought his right hand out from his suit-jacket pocket, and with it Sid’s switchblade, the blade of which flicked out, its tip pointed toward Lucky’s throat. “But thanks, anyway, pal.”

“Tough old fellow, aren’t you?” said Lucky.

“Tough enough to live eighty-seven years,” said Mr. Jones.

He folded up the knife and dropped it back into his jacket pocket.

“You had a good long run, didn’t you?” said Lucky. “But now, alas, death has finally caught up with you as it must with all men, hasn’t it.”

“Fuck death,” said Mr. Jones. “Me and Arnie are on our way back, buddy.”

“Your way back? Back to where?”

“Back to that green and pleasant land of the living,” said Mr. Jones. “Soon as we have another refreshment or two that is.”

“But you can’t do that,” said Lucky.

“What, have another drink or two?”

“No,” said Lucky. “You can’t return to the land of the living. Once you have passed over to what I think Shakespeare called --”

“Fuck Shakespeare,” said Mr. Jones, “’Cause we’re goin’ back.”

“But that would be, oh, how shall I put it, heh heh, highly irregular,” said Lucky.

“Who gives a shit?” said Mr. Jones, “From what I’ve seen the afterlife is at least as irregular as life is, maybe even more so.”

“But you can’t,” said Lucky, “you can’t just, you know --”

“Oh yes we can,” said Mr. Jones. “We can because we got the okay from St. Peter himself.”

“From Peter?”

“Himself,” said Mr. Jones.

“That jumped-up fisherman.”

“I got nothing against fishermen, per se, but I confess I did meself find him to be a bit of an asshole,” said Mr. Jones. “But Arnie here got through his hard bark.”

“Oh. Did you, Arnold?” said Lucky.

“Pardon me?”

Once again my attention had wandered. There was a blond woman sitting on the barstool closest to Mr. Jones, and she had on a rather low-cut sparkly red dress which revealed much of her large bosom. Her face was almost as frightening as Lucky’s; it wasn’t so much that she was ugly, although she wasn’t exactly pretty, it was just something about the way she was grimacing at the tall and handsome devil as if she were a chained dog and he was a bowl of fresh chopped meat just out of her reach. Anyway, not to put too fine a point on it, despite myself I had been staring at her breasts and not paying close attention to the conversation between Mr. Jones and Lucky (and it has only been through the deepest concentration and putting myself into a sort of hypnotic trance with the aid of a rather strong marijuana cigarette that I have been able to bring back from oblivion and transcribe this aforementioned dialogue, which, now that I think of it, may bear little resemblance to what was actually said, but no matter, let’s move on).

“I said,” said Lucky, “’Did you?’”

“I’m sorry,” I said. Another distraction was the loud music. I glanced over at the bandstand, and Gabriel -- who was not playing his trumpet at the moment, while the organist played a solo -- gave me a wave of recognition and greeting. I turned back to Lucky. “Did I what?”

“Something about having some sort of influence on St. Peter.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Yeah. You see, I had come back here --”

“To the nether world,” butted in Finch, who I think had been looking for an opportunity to get into the picture.

“Yes,” I said, “to bring back Mr. Jones.” I was really getting tired of explaining all this to everyone. This was proving to be another way death was like life. All this tedious repetition. I almost wished I had a card I could hand out that would briefly summarize the situation and save me the trouble. “So, anyway,” I went on, doggedly, “I talked it over with him --”

“With St. Peter,” said Lucky.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re saying you talked it over with St. Peter.”

“Yes --”

“And Peter actually listened to you?”

“Yeah, I just explained to him that --”

“St. Peter actually listened to what someone like you had to say.”

“Hey. No need to take that tone, buddy,” said Mr. Jones.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Lucky. “I’m just surprised, that’s all. Surprised, and -- I must confess -- a little disappointed. Dismayed. Appalled.”

“What the fuck,” said Mr. Jones.

“There used to be some standards up there,” said Lucky.

“Now, wait a minute, you, you popinjay --” said Mr. Jones.

“I think all the gentleman is saying,” said Finch, “is that it used to be notoriously hard to sway St. Peter one way or the other, and --”

“I don’t remember asking you for your two cents,” said Lucky.

“Sorry,” said Finch. “My name is Finch, by the way,” and he extended his little cold fish of a hand, which Lucky pointedly ignored.

“St. Peter’s a stuck-up jackass,” spoke the woman sitting next to Mr. Jones. “I never done nothing wrong to nobody my whole life and he wouldn’t let me through the damn door. Wouldn’t even let me up the steps to the porch. Just waved me away like I was a beggar with leprosy and told me to get back down the hill and don’t come back.”

“Sounds like good old St. Peter,” said Finch, flexing the fingers of his right hand as if that were the reason he had raised it up in the first place, to get the kinks out from the strain of lifting his beer glass. “Why, when I tried to walk up the hill he actually came down from the porch and began throwing pebbles down at me --”

“Shut up, Finch,” said the woman. “No one cared what you had to say when you was alive and they certainly don’t give a flying fuck now that you’re dead.”

“Hey, I like your style, lady,” said Mr. Jones.

“You’re pretty cute too for an old fart,” said the lady. “But not as cute as tall dark and handsome here in the white suit. What was your handle again, big boy?”

“Oh, just call me Lucky.”

“And are you lucky?”

“Everyone always asks me that.”

“Answer the question, bucko.”

“I will not answer it.”

“That means you ain’t been so lucky.”

“No, it doesn’t. It simply means that I choose not to speak of myself and my personal affairs or indeed of anything at all to every random person I run into the way you Americans typically do.”

“Don’t you insult my country you goddam foreigner.”

“May I ask what country you hail from, sir,” butted in Finch again. “I cannot quite place your accent, which is something many people say of me, which I think is the result of --”

“Shut the fuck up, Finch,” said the woman. “Stop buttin’ in and I ain’t gonna tell ya again.”

“But you’ve been telling me that for years, Molly,” said Finch. “Decades even.”

“Keep it up, marshmallow man, I’ll poke your eye out with a hatpin and don’t think I won’t.”

“Hey, Finch!” The bartender yelled and we all turned, all except for Lucky, who was already facing toward the bar. “I got two I.W. Harper Manhattans here, plus a glass of Rheingold. You said you was buying. You owe me four-twenty-five.”

“Oh,” said Finch. “Yes. Of course. How much was that again?”

Finch had his wallet in his hand, but it seemed that he was having trouble getting it open.

“You heard me,” said the bartender. “Four dollars and twenty-five cents. Get it up.”

“Excuse me,” said Lucky. “Bartender, let me get that.”

He reached into his trousers pocket and brought out a roll of bills folded into a gold money-clip. He peeled off a twenty and tossed it onto the bar.

“I’ll take a Manhattan, too,” he said. “The same way.”

“Hey, what about me, big shot,” said the woman, Molly I gathered her name was.

“What? Oh, all right,” said Lucky, “one for the, uh, charming young lady as well.”

“Make mine a Sidecar then, Jack,” said Molly, “with sugar on the rim, and use Rémy Martin, not that Christian Brothers swill.”

Without a word the bartender went away, presumably to the part of the bar where he mixed the cocktails.

“Um, uh,” said Finch.

“What?” said Lucky. He was flipping through his roll of bills with his thumb. I couldn’t help but notice that they all seemed to be twenties and fifties. “Speak up, man.”

“Um, uh, thank you,” said Finch, “for the, the beer --”

“You’re welcome,” said Lucky. He put the roll of bills back into his pocket.

“Ha ha. Dodged the bullet, didn’t ya, Finchie,” said Molly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Finch.

“I mean you got out of buying a round, cheapskate.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Look at this bum,” said Molly. “I’ve seen him nurse a glass of flat beer for two hours, hoping some damn fool will include him in a round, and as soon as somebody does include him then all of a sudden he switches to top-shelf Manhattans and Martinis and Old Fashioneds, don’t ya, Finchie.”

“Now that’s not true, Molly, why --”

He had been gripping his wallet throughout all of this, but now he shoved it back safely inside his jacket.

“So, Arnold,” said Lucky.

He had stopped smiling for a while there but now he was smiling again.

“Yes?” I said.

“You tricked me a couple of times before, didn’t you?”

“Um,” I said.

“Yes, you did,” he said. “I fully admit it.”

“Aw,” said the woman Molly. “He twicked the big tall man. Naughty boy!”

“Miss,” said Lucky, “do you mind? I’m trying to have a conversation with my friend Arnold here.”

“What’re you, a fairy? You got me sitting here on this stool and you’d rather talk to this jerk wearing Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt and Keds? What do you think this dive is, pal?” she said, addressing me now. “A beach bar down at Miami Beach, or Key West maybe?”

I had suddenly realized that I had a fresh Manhattan sitting there untouched, and had just taken a good gulp of it.

“Well, uh,” I said -- the Manhattan tasted better than the previous one had. The I.W. Harper really did seem to make a difference -- “in fact I did just come from a beach resort, and so --”

“As I said, Arnold,” said Lucky, more loudly now, “I admit you tricked me a couple of times, but now --”

“Uh,” I said.

“What?”

“It was actually more than a couple of times,” I said.

“Don’t please let’s quibble.”

“Well, I’m only saying.”

I took another sip, the whiskey and vermouth seemed to help me remember, the music helped me remember, Gabriel was blowing his horn again while the girl sang into the microphone, the song was “Don’t Explain”.

“It was more like three, no, four times really,” I said. “There was that one time in the men’s room at the Prince Edward Room at the Chalfonte. Then there was that time late at night in the street in Cape May, where was it, on Hughes Street --”

“Okay, that’s two,” said Lucky, “let’s move on.”

“Then last night when I was trapped in Miss Evans’s novel I tricked you again, remember? In my little apartment on the Bowery?”

“That one didn’t count. It was a fictional universe --”

“Well, I think it counts,” I said, “and then earlier today I tricked you again at the Pilot House, with Miss Evans --”

“That also hardly counted as ‘tricking’ me. I merely chose not to make a move then, in front of so many witnesses --”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Now I think you’re the one who’s quibbling.”

“Ha! Tell him, Arnold!” said Mr. Jones.

“Yeah, let him have it both barrels, beach boy,” said the woman.

“Heh heh,” Finch laughed in a perhaps not completely mirthless way.

“So,” I said, “just saying, I tricked you at least four times.”

For once Lucky was at a loss for words, and he wasn’t smiling any more.

“Hey, I got your drinks here.”

It was the bartender. He laid the drinks down.

“I.W. Harper Manhattan,” he said. “Rémy Martin Sidecar. Plus the previous round. That makes it --”

“Just take it out of the twenty there,” said Lucky. “In fact, here.” He took out his roll of money again and peeled off another twenty, threw it down, peeled off one more, threw that one down. “Keep ‘em comin’,” he said.

“What,” said the bartender. “For everybody? Even Finch and Molly?”

“Sure,” said Lucky, “why not.”

Suddenly Finch lifted his previously untouched glass of beer and drank it in one go.

“As long as you’re here, Jack,” he said, putting the empty glass down, “I suppose I’m ready.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Jack.

“The beer’s starting to make me feel a little bloated though. I wonder if I might switch to an I.W. Harper Manhattan as well.”

The bartender looked from Finch to Lucky.

“Go ahead,” said Lucky. He was still holding his money roll in his right hand, tapping it against the knuckles of his left hand. “Give him a Manhattan.”

“With I.W. Harper,” said Finch.

“Ha ha,” said Molly. “Fuckin’ Finch.” But she laid her glass down too, and it was empty. “Hit me up again, too, Jack, and a little more Rémy in it this time.”

I took another good sip from my Manhattan. It tasted even better, but I knew this was no time to get caught up in a drinking fest.

“Well, drink up, Mr. Jones,” I said. “We really should go.”

“What’s the hurry,” he said. “We got a live one here, Arnie, let’s stay for at least one more.”

“Yes,” said Lucky. He pocketed his money roll, then reached past me to pick up his Manhattan. “What’s the rush?”

“I have errands to do,” I said.

“Errands? Like what? Since when do you do anything at all productive with your day? Certainly not since your little psychotic episode.” 

“It’s true,” I said, “I have been on a sort of vacation. But nevertheless I told this gentleman I know, Mr. Arbuthnot --”

“Arbuthnot, I know him,” said Lucky.

“Well, I told him or I would get some fresh seafood for his cat. Shnooby.”

“That’s not going to happen, Arnold.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But we’re still leaving. Or attempting to leave. As soon as we finish these drinks. I hope.”

“Wait a minute,” said Lucky. “I just realized something. You’re drunk. You’re hammered.”

“Um --”

“Or, no, wait -- you’re high, that’s it, isnt it? You’re on drugs.”

“Well, just one pill,” I said.

“What kind of pill?”

I turned to Mr. Jones. For some reason I was once again floating about six feet over his head, even though he was standing right next to me.

“Hey, Mr. Jones,” I called down. “What was that pill you gave me?”

“Stop shouting,” he said. “It’s not that noisy in here.”

“Sorry,” I said, I hoped in a more normal tone. “What was that pill again, the one you gave me?”

“Oh, it was one of them newfangled pills,” He said.

“Newfangled?”

It suddenly occurred to me that no one ever said oldfangled. Why was that?

“LSD,” said Mr. Jones.

“Pardon me?”

“LSD,” said Mr. Jones. “The pill you took. They call it LSD.”

(Continued here, and onward into the new year and God only knows how many more to come.)

(Turn to the right-hand column of this page to find a rigorously compiled listing of links to all other “street-legal” episodes of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©. All contents vetted and approved by the Holy See™ of Rome. Nihil Obtat, Bishop John J. “Jocular Jack” Graham, SJ.)

tales of the hotel st Crispian: chapter 40

2011-12-24T17:11:00.004-05:00

"the cabbie's tale"

by manfred skyline and horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

for complete episode, click here

A Christmas poem from Arnold Schnabel

2011-12-23T22:43:00.003-05:00

Some of the boys from the Heintz plant, at the Green Parrot, Christmas Eve 1962

We will return to our ongoing unexpurgated serialization of Arnold Schnabel' s mammoth masterwork Railroad Train to Heaven after the Christmas weekend, but in the meantime we give you again one of Arnold's most beloved poems, first published in the Christmas 1962 number of the Olney Times...

“Christmas Eve in Olney”

It’s Christmas Eve, the factories are closed,
The boys from Heintz and Budd and Tastykake*
Are free, the Proctor & Schwartz crew have hosed
Themselves down and gone home, each lad to take
Out his one good suit from off the Sears rack,
A crisp white shirt with tab collar from Krass
A thin dark tie, Thom McAn shoes of black;
Splash some Old Spice, then off to Midnight Mass;
But first a brief stop, but just for the one
At the Green Parrot, the Huddle, or Pat’s,
And perhaps also a shot, one and done,
Make it Four Roses, and backed with a Blatz;
Five to midnight, we have time for one more --
Who would dare bar us from Helena’s door?

*"Nobody bakes a cake as tasty as a Tastykake." -- Editor

(Check the right hand column of this page for listings of links to many other fine poems by Arnold Schnabel, as well as to our exclusive ongoing serialization of his classic Schaefer Award-winning memoir Railroad Train to Heaven.)

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 281: saints

2011-12-16T22:16:00.009-05:00

On the fog-shrouded island of lost souls, in a riverfront tavern called The Dead Man, our intrepid hero Arnold Schnabel and his aged companion the sybaritic Mr. Jones are in conversation with a chubby little man named Finch...

(Go here to read our immediately preceding episode; newly matriculated students may click here to return to the very beginning of this 68-volume Gold View Award©-winning memoir.)

“Previously only available in a severely edited and now almost impossibly rare one-volume ‘paperback original’ edition under the Delray imprint, the first several volumes of Arnold Schnabel’s sprawling masterpiece have now finally become available in all their resplendent glory to a salivating public.” -- Harold Bloom, in The New York Review of Books.

“Now, that’s no way to talk,” said Finch. “Nice old gent like you.”

“Who ever said I was nice?” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes but still,” said Finch. “I was only trying to be helpful. Mr. Schultz,” he said, looking up at me, “you understand, don’t you?”

I was floating five or six feet above him, even though he was sitting right next to where I stood.

“I’m sorry,” I called down. “What do I understand?”

“You needn’t shout at me,” said Finch. “It was only a civil question.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you’re so far down there.”

“You’re scaring me,” he said.

“Ha ha,” I think it would be fair to describe Mr. Jones as cackling here. “Arnie just took a pill, that’s all. It’s got him high as a kite.”

“A pill?” said Finch, looking from Mr. Jones to me and and back to Mr. Jones. “You’ve got pills? Do you have any more?”

“Sorry, pal,” said Mr. Jones. “I gave Arnie the last one on accounta he’s got a bum wheel.”

“I wish I had a pill,” said Finch.

“Well, you still got your beer,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes,” said Finch. He raised up his stubby, greasy glass, with its two or three inches of yellow liquid that looked like nothing more nor less than a urine sample. “I still have my beer.”

“I always wondered if they would have beer in heaven,” said Mr. Jones.

“Ah, but my dear Mr. Jones, we are not in heaven, no, not by a long shot. However, I don’t know but I’ve been told that in God the father’s house they have taps in the bathrooms that dispense only the finest chilled German lagers and Belgian ales.”

“Arnie here has visited the big house,” said Mr. Jones. “Ain’t that true, Arnold?”

Suddenly I realized that I was now back at the level of my brain, if not quite within my brain entirely.

“I’m sorry,” I said. It was very hard to concentrate, what with the loud music, the shouting of men, the shrieking of women, the continual outbursts of mirthless-sounding laughter from both sexes. “What was the question?”

“Finch here says the bathrooms up in God’s house have fine German lagers and Belgian ales on draft. Is that true?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I never used the bathroom there.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Finch. “You were really in God’s house?”

“Yes,” I said. “But only briefly.”

I decided all at once that I wasn’t going to go into the whole business of my trying and failing to find a bathroom up there in God’s house.

“I’ll bet it was really nice, huh?” said Finch.

“Yes,” I said. “It was -- it was --”

“Class all the way I bet.”

“Uh, yes,” I said, “it was, uh, very --”

“I heard that for mouthwash there they use only the finest Napoleon brandy, and that in the ladies’ bathrooms they have genuine French champagne on tap. I heard you can eat steak three times a day if you like.”

“Well, uh, I wouldn’t know --”

“Try getting a decent steak in this joint, or anywhere in this town.”

“Um --”

“I heard there’s perpetually-filled cigar humidors and silver cigarette boxes on every table -- and good cigars too, Cubans, and excellent cigarettes, Luckies, Camels, Old Golds, that’s what I heard. You didn’t happen to grab any free smokes while you was there, did you?”

“Um, no --”

“This is all we can get here.” From his shirt pocket he brought out a crumpled, almost-empty packet of cigarettes with foreign writing on it. ”Soviet-made. Cut with sawdust, and dried horse shit too probably, judging from the taste. You want one?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“I’ll take one,” said Mr. Jones.

“Certainly,” said Finch, and he extended the pack to Mr. Jones.

“Mind if I take one for later?” said Mr. Jones, taking two.

“Oh, no, uh, go right ahead,” said Finch, since Mr. Jones had already stuck one behind his ear and the other between his dentures.

With a sigh Finch took one out for himself. Looking at Mr. Jones in a sheepish way he said, “You wouldn’t have a light would you?”

“I certainly do,” said Mr. Jones, and, producing his book of Sid’s Tavern matches he gave first Finch and then himself a light.

“Ah, thank you,” said Finch. “I’m afraid matches are another commodity not so easy to come by here. May I see those?”

“Sure,” said Mr. Jones, and he handed over the matches. Keeping his cigarette in his mouth, Finch lifted his glasses with one hand and examined the book of matches. “Sid’s Tavern. Cape May, New Jersey. So bars still give away free cigarettes?”

“Sure,” said Mr. Jones.

“Nice place, Sid’s?”

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Jones.

Finch sighed again, and nodded, putting the matches into his side jacket pocket.

“Hey, partner, can I have them matches back?” said Mr. Jones.

“Oh, sorry,” said Finch. “Absent-minded of me. Heh heh.” He extricated the matches and gave them back to Mr. Jones, who quickly pocketed them again.

Finch looked at me through his own cloud of smoke that did smell distinctly of burning sawdust and of horse manure.

“How come you didn’t stay there, Mr. Schoendienst?”

“Pardon me?”

“In God’s house. Why did you leave? I hope they didn’t kick you out.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It was -- well, they decided I didn’t have to die after all, I guess, so I was able to come back to the world of the living.”

“And you’re still trying to get back,” he said, smirking slightly.

“Oh, no, I made it back all right.”

“Wait, you made it back? To the world of the living?”

“Yes,” I said.

“But why are you here then? I don’t understand.”

“Well, I came back here again, to, uh, this world --”

“The world of the dead. What they call the next world in the previous world.”

“Yes,” I said. “I just came back again this afternoon actually, because Mr. Jones had died and I wanted to try to bring him back.”

“To the world of the living.”

“Yes,” I said.

“So you’re able to travel back and forth at will from the world of the living to the world of the dead?”

“Well, not exactly at will,” I said. “It’s only been a couple of times.”

“And you’re even able to bring the dead back with you.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s what I’m trying to do, but --”

“You know what this means,” said Finch. “It must mean you’re a saint.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“A saint or a devil.”

“Ha ha!” Mr. Jones cackled again. “Arnold! A devil! Ha ha!” He clapped me on the back. “Arnold’s no devil. Nicest guy in the world. Nicest guy in any world. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, wouldja, Arnold?”

Here again I chose not to reveal something about myself, namely that I was on friendly terms with a talking fly. I didn’t want to appear to be boasting.

“A saint,” said Finch. He tapped his cigarette with the index finger of the hand that held it and the ash fell to his lap. He had an ashtray in front of him, a scuffed tin one filled with butts, I don’t know why didn’t use it. “Here on the island of lost souls, a saint,” he continued. “May I have the honor of purchasing you a fresh libation, sir?”

“Well,” I said, “we really were intending to move along, you see, to -- to --”

“To return,” said Finch.

“Yes,” I said.

“To the world of the living.”

“Yes,” I said. “We hope to, anyway.”

“And I wish you godspeed on your journey and all the best of luck. But please, just have one more drink. On me. It would be my pleasure.”

“What about me?” said Mr. Jones.

“And a drink for you too, Mr. Jones, of course,” said Finch. “Why, any friend of a saint must needs be a saint himself!”

“Hey,” said Mr. Jones. “You hear that, Arnold? We’re a pair of saints you and me!”  

“So you’ll do me the honor?” said Finch, addressing me.

“Well, um,” I said.

“Sure, pal,” said Mr. Jones.

“Oh, splendid,” said Finch. “So what will it be? A couple more beers?”

“Well, okay,” I said.

“No, fuck that noise,” said Mr. Jones. He quickly finished his Manhattan and put the empty glass down on the bar. “Manhattans.”

“Oh, Manhattans,” said Finch.

“Yeah, except this time tell the bartender to use I.W. Harper instead of Schenley’s.”

“I.W. Harper,” said Finch. He seemed nervous.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Jones.

“Um, what about you, Mr. Schwartz,” said Finch, meaning me.

“Oh, just a beer,” I said.

“Two Manhattans,” said Mr. Jones.

“Two?” said Finch. I noticed he was starting to sweat, and he was getting short of breath again.

“Two,” said Mr. Jones. “You should have one too.”

“Oh, no, thank you, I’ll just stick to my draft Rheingold, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Yes, quite. Oh, Jack!” He was calling the bartender, the one who looked like Wallace Beery. There was another bartender there who also looked like a movie actor, although I couldn’t quite place him. Wallace Ford? “I say, Jack!”

Jack turned his head.

“Can’t you see I’m waiting on someone else?”

And it was true, he was filling a glass mug at a beer tap.

“Sorry,” said Finch. “When you get time.”

“Wait your fucking turn,” said Jack, and he went back to filling the mug.

“Heh heh, he’s a card that Jack,” said Finch, and he took a sip from his greasy-looking beer glass.

“You’d better get your money ready,” said Mr. Jones.

“My money?”

“For the drinks.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I suppose I better had, heh heh.” He reached inside his suit jacket and brought out his wallet. It was old-looking and brown, a worn brown. “You gentlemen notice that I keep my wallet in the inner breast pocket of my coat, a pocket into which I have had my tailor add a button and buttonhole for additional security. One can’t be too careful in this world.”

“Maybe you should get like a little chain attached to the wallet,” said Mr. Jones.

“A chain?”

“Yeah, a sturdy steel chain. Lock the other end of it to your belt maybe.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Finch.

Suddenly the bartender was standing in front of Finch with a fresh stubby glass filled with yellow liquid, with a small but noticeable head on it which evaporated before my eyes in a matter of a second.

“Two bits,” said the bartender.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Jack, but I would like also to buy a round for my two friends here.”

“For real?” said the bartender.

“Yes,” said Finch.

“What, two glasses of Rheingold?”

“No,” said Finch. “Uh, two Manhattans please.”

“Two Manhattans,” said the bartender.

“Yes,” said Finch.

“With I.W. Harper this time,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes,” said Finch. “Make it, uh, I.W. Harper.”

Now the bartender glared at me with an angry look on his face.

“What the fuck,” said the bartender.

“Um, uh,” I said, but then I realized he was looking past me.

I turned around. That little fellow in the zoot suit, Sid the Shiv, was standing in the open doorway of the bar. His pompadour was still deflated, the strands spreading like long dark fingers down over his pale face, and he was slightly bent forward, with his left hand on the pit of his stomach. In his right hand he held what looked like an opened straight razor. He was looking all around but he showed no sign of recognizing either me or Mr. Jones. Then he reached inside his jacket with his left hand, took out a folded-up pair of eyeglasses, and, flicking them open with just the one hand, he put them on. He quickly glanced around again, and his magnified eyes locked on mine.

“There you are!” he yelled.

“You!” bellowed the bartender. “Sid! Outa here! You’re banned and you know it!”

“Fuck you, Jack!”

And Sid staggered forward, his razor held out to the side. The music continued to play, people continued obliviously to laugh and shout at one another. I already had my empty beer bottle in my hand, and I had some vague notion of throwing it at the fellow, when suddenly a tall man in a cream-colored suit stepped out from somewhere to the left of Sid, grabbed his wrist and, stepping behind him, twisted the little man’s arm around his back. Sid gave out with a horrible scream which coincided with a snapping sound, and he pitched to the floor, still screaming, his glasses falling off his face. The man in the cream suit stood over him, folding up the razor. He put the razor in his suit-jacket pocket. He was smoking a cigarette in a black holder. Besides the white suit he was also wearing a cream-colored panama hat with a black band. He had a thin black moustache and I realized that he was my old nemesis, Lucky, also known as Nicky Boskins, more popularly known as Lucifer.

Sid was writhing on the floor, holding his limp right arm, screaming.

Without saying a word, but with a smile at me, Lucky bent down, with his cigarette holder between his teeth, grabbed Sid with one hand by the collar of his zoot-suit jacket, and dragged him back to the doorway, which was still open. He tossed Sid, still screaming all the way, out into the grey fog, and then he closed the door.

The music had never stopped, but much of the chatter and laughter had subsided as people had noticed the altercation, if you could call it that. Now that Sid was outside and his screams were all but inaudible the crowd returned to their interrupted laughter, their shouting and shrieking.

Now Lucky came forward toward us, toward me. He was smiling, still with his cigarette holder in his teeth.

Then behind him I saw the door open again. Sid kneeled in the doorway.

The place grew somewhat quieter again.

“Jesus Christ!” yelled Jack the bartender. “What the fuck’s the matter with you, Sid?”

Sid said something, called something.

“What?” yelled Jack.

Sid said something again. The place got a little quieter still, although the music continued. The girl singer was singing a different song now, I think it was “Gloomy Sunday”.

“What did he say?” asked Mr. Jones.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Now Lucky spoke, addressing Sid.

“What the hell are you saying?”

Again Sid belched something unintelligible.

“Asses?” said Lucky. “You’re calling us asses?”

Sid belched again.

“I think he said molasses,” said Finch. “God knows why.”

Sid yelled now, and finally I understood.

“Glasses,” I said, pointing to Sid’s eyeglasses, which were just a few inches away from Lucky’s feet, toward the bar. “He wants his glasses.”

“Oh,” said Lucky. He stepped forward, then, using a sideways swiping movement with his foot -- he was wearing white bucks -- he kicked Sid’s eyeglasses across the floor and to the doorway. Sid picked them up with his one good arm, his left arm, and put them inside his jacket. Then he closed the door.   Once again the chatter, the laughing and the shouting resumed.

Lucky came toward us. He was smiling.

(Continued here, and onward; to do any less would be to ignore one’s mission in life.)

(Kindly turn to the right-hand column of this page to find what one only hopes is an up-to-date listing of links to all other published chapters of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©. Stumped for ideas for holiday gifts? Give that special someone on your list a subscription to this blog on your Kindle! All proceeds to go directly to the Arnold Schnabel Society’s Arnold Schnabel Project™.)

tales of the hotel st Crispian: chapter 39

2011-12-14T15:25:00.008-05:00

"nothing like a lady"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo*

illustrated by rhoda penmarq, roy dismas and konrad kraus

*Ass’t Professor of Classics and Medieval Philosophy, Olney Community College; editor of “Sincerely, Horace”: Collected Letters of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 2: the war years (1942-1945); Olney Community College Press.

(Go here for the entire thrilling episode!)

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 280: Finch

2011-12-10T02:52:00.010-05:00

Let’s rejoin our hero Arnold Schnabel and his companion the aged degenerate Mr. Jones, who have just entered a tavern called The Dead Man, somewhere in a world beyond this world...

(Click here to read our previous episode; anyone with way too much time on their hands may go here to begin this 52-volume Gold View Award©-winning memoir at the very beginning.)

“In these hundreds of neatly handwritten black marble copybooks this unassuming former railroad brakeman left a literary legacy unparalleled in its depth and scope since the days when Shakespeare so vigorously stomped upon the terra.” -- Harold Bloom, on The Les Crane Show.

Mr. Jones turned and looked up at me, and I looked down at him.

“Why are you so far down?” I called.

“I’m always this far down,” he yelled, his voice reverberating up through the six or seven feet of smoky air that separated his upturned face from my downturned one. “It’s just that pill you took. Took, took, took,” his voice echoed.

“Oh,” I said, “then that also explains why my voice sounds like someone else’s voice. Voice, voice, voice,” my own voice echoed.

“Yes, of course. But you feel okay, right? Right, right, right...”

I decided just to ignore the echoes.

“Never better,” I said.

“You’re going to feel better still once we get a drink or two in us.”

“A drink. Yes. But then --”

“Then what?”

“Then --” I had to think about it for a moment. It was distracting that he seemed so far away even though he was standing right next to me. But I decided that this was something else (like so much in life, and, yes, like so much in death too I supposed) better left ignored.

“Take your time,” said Mr. Jones.

“I forget what I was going to say.”

“Fine, let’s get our load on.”

“Oh, wait, now I remember.”

I paused, for no reason that I was aware of.

“Speak freely,” said Mr. Jones.

“After we get a drink,” I said, “we have to try to --”

“After a couple of drinks,” said Mr. Jones.

“Okay, after a couple of drinks we have to try to figure out a way to --” it felt as if it were taking me forever to say this sentence; I quickly rushed to the finish line: “-- we gotta find a way to get back to the world of the living.”

“Ah, yes, the world of the living,” he said. “Although I must say this place looks pretty lively.”

The joint was packed, the bar was jammed, and all the tables and booths were full. On a low stage down to the right the jazz band played, and a Negro woman was stepping up to the microphone stand. She nodded to the fellow playing the trumpet, a slim Negro man in a shiny grey suit and a porkpie hat...

“Holy cow,” I said.

“What?” said Mr. Jones.

“I recognize one of those musicians,” I said. “The trumpet player.”

Mr. Jones turned and looked, and listened.

“Cat’s blowing a mean horn,” he said. “Who is he?”

“His name’s Gabriel. Gabe.”

“And you know him. From the real world.”

“We’ve met a couple of times.”

  “In Cape May?”

“Yes, and also, uh, when I was trapped in the world of this novel I was reading, I met him again in this bar in Greenwich Village, I think it was called the Kettle of Fish.”

“Okay, you’re losing me. But look, let’s belly up and get those drinks.”

“He might be able to help us,” I said.

“The trumpet player.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s a trumpet player gonna help us?”

“He’s a friend of Jesus.”

“Friend of -- okay.” He put his arm in mine. “Let’s have a glass or two, and we can talk about it.”

“Okay,” I said, and Mr. Jones was guiding me toward the bar. He was moving much more quickly now, or at least so it seemed to me; I suppose the prospect of alcoholic refreshment had added, if not a spring to his step, then some vitality to his customary shuffle.

The area along the bar had appeared to me to be as filled with people as it could possibly get, but somehow Mr. Jones managed to squeeze both of us into a standing space. He already had a five-dollar bill out, undoubtedly one of Sid’s bills, and he held it aloft.

“Mr. Bartender, sir!” he called, loudly, his high thin voice cutting through the babble of voices, the music, and the amplified voice of the girl on the stage, who was singing “Blue Moon”.

One of the two bartenders who were back there came over. He looked like Wallace Beery.

“What’ll it be, pops?”

“Two shots of house bourbon, please, and two beers, any kind, as long as they’re cold.”

“Draft or bottle?”

The man was good, he already had two shot glasses on the bar and was pouring out two shots of I.W. Harper.

“Better make it bottles,” said Mr. Jones, “and don’t bother with glasses.”

The man went away and Mr. Jones picked up both shot glasses and handed me one.

“Don’t trust draft beer in places like this,” he said. “Don’t trust their glasses to be clean either. Now with a whiskey glass it’s different. The whiskey proves an excellent sterilizing agent. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I said, and we both drank our shots in one go. I felt the whiskey sloshing like lit lighter fluid down my throat and when it reached the bottom of my neck it almost instantaneously spread downward through my body, all the way to the tips of my toes.

“Ah,” said Mr. Jones. “Now we’re talking.”

The bartender was there already with two opened bottles of beer, as I said, he was good.

“And, now, sir,” said Mr. Jones to the barman, “whilst my uncle and I are disposing of these --” he picked up the bottle nearest to him and glanced at the label, “Tree Frog Premium Lagers, would you be so good as to prepare us two Manhattans, icy cold, cold like an old nun’s kiss -- please chill the glasses in ice for a minute first -- oh, and if you don’t mind, use just a tiny splash of sweet vermouth. And you can hold the cherries.”

The man went away again, muttering, and Mr. Jones turned and looked up at me.

“Drink up, Arnold. God knows you’ve earned it today.”

We both lifted our beer bottles and drank. The cold beer coursed down my throat, soothing the delicate internal passages that the whiskey had so recently ravaged. It tasted good, which is to say no better or worse than the million mouthfuls of cheap beer I had previously drunk, so good in fact that I took a breath and took another two or three good gulps, and I saw Mr. Jones doing the same.

We both sighed, and then gazed at each other with that look that says, Yes, once again alcoholic beverages have successfully done what little (and yet so much) we have asked them to do.

“Whiskey and beer,” said Mr. Jones. “And Manhattans -- tell me, what more does life have to offer?”

I thought about this for a moment.

“I’ll tell you what,” said a man sitting on a stool to my right.

“What?” said Mr. Jones.

“I said I’ll tell you what more life has to offer,” said the man. He was a small, pudgy fellow, with uncombed greying hair. “If you want to know.” He had a raspy, squeaky voice, sort of like he was out of breath.

“And what’s that?” said Mr. Jones.

“Jack-shit,” said the man.

“Jack-shit?” said Mr. Jones.

”That’s it,” said the man. “That’s what else life has to offer: jack-shit and fuck-all.”

“Jack-shit and fuck-all you say?” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes, and, if you’re lucky, an occasional moment of non-alcoholic ecstasy, via either the right hand or the wrong woman, or through the means of one of those other substances, both organic and artificial, which the good lord has given us to escape the tedium and meaninglessness of existence. But all that goes without saying of course.”

“Sir, you are a man after my own heart,” said Mr. Jones, and he took another swig out of his bottle.

“Finch is the name,” said the man, including me in this self-introduction, and he offered his hand. I was closer to him, so I took it and gave it a shake. His hand felt cool and damp, like a small butterfish just when you take it out of the refrigerator. I quickly extricated my own hand and picked up my beer bottle as the man leaned over and down to shake Mr. Jones’e hand.

“Jones is my name,” said Mr. Jones. “Please to meet you, Finch. My somewhat socially-inept friend here is Arnold, Arnold Schnabel.”

I was busy gulping beer as he said this, but I quickly took the bottle away from my mouth. It was empty now anyway.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it,” said the man. He wore a wrinkled off-white suit, he had beady blue bloodshot eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and he needed a shave. “I haven’t noticed you fellows here before. New in town?”

“Brand new,” said Mr. Jones. “Just got off the boat.”

“I hadn’t heard about any new arrivals.”

“It was an accident,” said Mr. Jones. “This idiot boatman was supposed to take us back to the world of the living --

“Harry, right?” The man smiled broadly. His teeth were small and yellow, and at least a couple of them were missing. “Great big heavyset guy? Harry?”

“Yeah, that’s the guy,” said Mr. Jones.

“Left you off here by mistake, did he?” He was almost panting. “What a dummy!”

“Yeah, he’s a moron all right,” said Mr. Jones.

“Ha ha, poor Harry!”

“Poor him? What about us?”

“Oh, poor you two as well.” He stopped smiling, abruptly. “But don’t worry, gents, it’s not so bad here.”

The bartender was back and he laid down two Manhattans in front of me and Mr. Jones.

“There you are, my good man,” said Mr. Jones, and he held out his five dollar bill toward the man.

“It’s five-fifty,” said the bartender.

“Five-fifty?” said Mr. Jones.

“Two shots, two beers, two Manhattans. Five-fity.”

“You didn’t use top-shelf whiskey for those Manhattans, did you?”

“No,” said the bartender. “I used Schenley’s. Cheapest whiskey we got.”

“Seems awfully dear for a place like this.”

“I don’t make up the prices.”

“Tell you what -- Jack?” said this man Finch, addressing the bartender. “Let me buy this round.”

“Okay,” said the bartender. “Five-fifty.”

“I’ll pay for it when I pay for my next glass of beer.”

“Five-fifty,” said the bartender.

“Can’t I just pay for it when I pay for my next one?”

“You could, but if you want to play the big shot then you gotta put the money on the wood and make the betting good.”

“Oh, all right.”

Finch had had both his hands around his half-full beer glass, but now he very slowly began to draw his right hand away.

“Mr. Finch,” I said. “It’s okay, I’ll buy the drinks.” And I started to get my wallet out.

“Oh, no, I insist,” he said. He was still drawing one hand away from his beer glass, along the top of the bar, but very slowly, as if his arm were partially paralyzed.

“Five-fifty,” said the bartender.

I finished taking my wallet out, opened it up.

“Really, I’ll get it,” said Finch, but his right hand was still only about four inches distant from his beer glass, and moving if anything even slower, as if some invisible force was pulling on it in the opposite direction.

I took out a five and a one, and I gave them to the bartender.

“You can keep the change,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, and he went over to the cash register.

Now all of a sudden Finch had his wallet out, and he started to open it.

“Oh,” he said. “I wanted to get that.”

“That’s okay,” I said.

“So,” said the man. He quickly put the wallet away, then picked up his glass of beer. “To your very good health, gentlemen. Mr. Jones. And Mr. Schneider --”

“Schnabel,” I said.

“Schnabel?”

“Yes,” I said. “S-C-H-N-A--”

“Oh, I know how to spell Schnabel. Known a few Schnabels in my time.” He took a sip of his drink, and then put it down. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”

“No, I said.” I tasted my Manhattan. I’d tasted worse.

“Lutheran?” said the man.

“No,” I said. “I’m Catholic.”

“Excellent religion. Not that it matters anyway,” he said. “Nobody gives a hoot about any of that stuff here.”

“Never could stand bible-thumpers,” said Mr. Jones, taking a good drink of his Manhattan. “Live and let live, that’s my motto.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that now, Mr. Jones,” said Finch. “Everyone’s already dead here. Ha ha. But seriously I can give you fellows some tips if you like. Help you get settled in. I know where there might be a cheap room available. You chaps mind sharing a room?”

“Hey, pal,” said Mr. Jones, “we got no intention of staying here long enough to need a room.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Arnie and me’re gonna have a few drinks, just enough to get a little merry, and then we are out of here, gone like Satchmo, man, way gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Where? Back to the world of the living, where do you think?”

“But you can’t go back to the world of the living. No one leaves this island.”

“Hey, we managed to get here, we’ll manage to leave here, pal.”

“But it’s not allowed. That’s like asking to get out of being in hell if that’s where they send you. You’re not allowed to leave. Even in purgatory or limbo you just can’t get up and leave whenever you want to.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Look, fellas, I bleed for you guys. From the heart I bleed. I know it’s tough, ‘cause as you say, seemingly Harry was meant to take you over to the land of the living and all --

“Not seemingly was meant to,” said Mr. Jones. “He was actually meant to take us back to the world of the living. But he fucked up.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, it really is,” said Finch, “that’s really unfortunate, and like I say my heart bleeds, but, I’m sorry, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but once you’re here, I’m sorry, but that’s it. You’re here. For life. Except your life never ends. Because, you know, you’re dead. But don’t worry about it, like I said, I’ll help you fellows get settled in. Just leave it to me. Just leave it to old Finchie, boys. Why, for just a modest fee --”

“Okay, here we go, should’ve seen it comin’,” said Mr. Jones.

“Seen what coming?” said Finch.

“The bite. Why didn’t you just come right out and ask us for a handout?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make a living,” said the man. “Or a death I suppose I should say. A life in death. A living death. Trying to.”

“And this is what you do to make a living?” said Mr. Jones.

“A dying,” said the man. “Trying to make a dying.”

“By taking advantage of newcomers?” said Mr. Jones.

“We all have to do what we can to get by, sir. Everyone here. You’ll learn that, soon enough. And I can help you there, too. I know a host of likely grifts I can steer a hearty pair like you two toward. Like you, Mr. Schaefer --”

“Um,” I said. I had been sipping my Manhattan. It wasn’t the worst Manhattan I’d ever had. In fact I’d probably put it in the top 50% more or less.

“Yes?” said the man.

I forgot what I wanted to say again. Then I remembered that I had been about to correct him about my name. But I decided to let it go. It didn’t matter what he called me.

“Never mind,” I said. “Go on.”

“Take a strapping fellow like you, Mr. Schuster, and a wily well-spoken old gent like Mr. Jones here, why, what you could do is use Mr. Jones as the Judas goat, have him come on all innocent-like and ask passersby on the street to help him with something, like he dropped his watch or his wallet in a dark alleyway but he can’t find it ‘cause he’s old and nearsighted, and then when he lures the greedy son-of-a-bitch into the darkness, then you Mr. Schmidt can jump out from behind an ash can and knock the sucker on the head with a sap.”

“Um --” I said.

“I could help you find some good marks. I’m good at that. All I would ask for my share would be say twenty percent of the take.”

“Um, hold on,” I said.

“Ten percent,” he said.

“Listen,” said Mr. Jones. “You slimy four-flusher --”

“Five percent,” said Finch. “That’s more than fair.”

“Look, pal,” said Mr. Jones. “We are not a couple of cheapjack back-alley muggers.”

“Okay, then, maybe some other grift,” said the man. “I certainly didn’t mean to offend you. What about three-card monte then?”

“Nor are we grifters of any sort.”

“But you have to be on some kind of grift. Unless you want to be bumming for spare change, but let me tell you, you won’t make much beer money that way round here. No, sir. Now, me, I always try to give a bum a penny, if I can spare it, but most of the low-class scum around here? Forget it. Never saw so many misers in my life, squeeze a nickel so hard they make the Indian ride the buffalo’s back.”

“Look, ”said Mr. Jones. “Like we already told you. We ain’t staying here.”

“Oh, very funny. That’s what I said, what, forty-two years ago, and look at me, I’m still here.”

“You been on that barstool for forty-two years?” said Mr. Jones.

“Not continuously, no,” said Finch. “I do have a room to go home to. Which is more than some of these birds in this dump can say. It may not be the Ritz, or the Waldorf-Astoria, it might not even be the Hotel St Crispian, but it’s okay. Maybe you fellows would like to share it with me? You could have the bed. I really don’t mind sleeping on the throw rug. Split three ways, the rent would be --”

“No, thanks,” said Mr. Jones.

“But I’m hardly ever even home. You would barely even know I was there.”

“Listen very carefully,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes?”

“Fuck you,” said Mr. Jones.

(Continued here, and damn the torpedoes!)

(Kindly look to the right-hand column of this page for a current listing of links to all other cybernetically-available chapters of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©, now available, for a modest fee, directly to your Kindle. All proceeds to be forwarded to The Arnold Schnabel Society of Philadelphia to use as that august organization deems fit.)

tales of the hotel st Crispian: chapter 38

2011-12-05T09:59:00.007-05:00

"in a civilized manner"

by horace p sternwall

illustrated by roy dismas and rhoda penmarq

for complete episode, click here

“Railroad Train to Heaven”, Part 279: Dead Man

2011-12-03T02:12:00.011-05:00

Let’s rejoin our hero Arnold Schnabel and his aged companion the disreputable Mr. Jones, walking through the fog in a place with no name towards an unknown destination in a world beyond this world...

(Kindly go here to read our immediately preceding episode; the intrigued and the perplexed both may click here to start this 77-volume Gold View Award-winning memoir at the very beginning.)

“If Proust’s great accomplishment was to conquer time, then that of Arnold Schnabel was to render meaningless the very concept of time.” -- Harold Bloom, on The Sally Jessy Raphael Show.

Sid’s voice diminished behind us, and the jazz music grew louder. Mr. Jones pretty soon was walking so slowly as to be barely moving at all, and I took his arm and tried to give him what support I could, given that even despite the pill I had taken a shuddering bolt of pain ignited in my right knee with each step my right leg took. I could see nothing but my ancient companion and the damp cobblestones within a couple of yards' radius of our feet; everything else was that grey and gently breathing cloud all around us and above us. It had been daylight when we had first embarked on that foggy river, but now what little light that had been filtering slowly through the fog from above was fading; night was falling in this world beyond the world, which seemed strange, but then on second thought no stranger than anything else I had seen or experienced here beyond the pale.

I noticed that the air had a fishy smell to it, the smell of the docks, but a river smell as opposed to an ocean smell. There was also an odor of wet leather, of rope and of motor oil, and -- I am only trying to be as honest as I am able here -- a slight but distinct smell of feces.

We limped and shuffled on through the fog, Mr. Jones and I.

The music grew louder, I didn’t recognize the tune, or rather it sounded somehow like hundreds of tunes I had heard thousands of times but didn’t know the names of, songs on jukeboxes or diners in bad neighborhoods or in the sort of gangster movies that play as second features (which, to be honest, I tend to enjoy more than the main feature).

I could no longer hear Sid the Shiv at all. I wondered if I should have tried to help him in some way, even if he did say he intended to kill both Mr. Jones and me. But what could I have done really? I could barely walk now myself; it would have been extremely difficult for me to have carried or dragged him. But then I thought: yes, difficult, and certainly painful, but probably not impossible. Let’s face it, I had left him there because he had said he intended to kill me and Mr. Jones. But wouldn’t a good Christian have tried to help the man anyway? And, having helped him, wouldn’t that improve my (and Mr. Jones’s) chances of not being killed by the fellow?

I stopped. And since I was holding Mr. Jones’s arm, he stopped too.

“Mr. Jones,” I said. “I think we should go back and get that guy.”

“Are you completely insane?”

“Well, I might be --”

“Now I know why they put you in that loony bin.”

“Well, uh, heh heh, it just seems a little cruel to leave him lying there, incapacitated, on the cobblestones.”

“He tried to rob us, Arnold. He threatened you with a switchblade.”

“That’s true,” I said.

“What’re you, bucking for sainthood?”

“Well, uh, I just think we should, or anyway I should, go back and, uh, I don’t know --”

I paused. Mr. Jones stared at me. Then:

“You know what I should do, Arnold?”

“Um, go on ahead? While I go back for the guy?”

“Yes, I should go on ahead,” he said. “But, however, if you are so foolishly insistent upon pursuing this absurd course of action I shall accompany you. And why, you ask. You ask me why.”

“Um --”

“Ask me why.”

“Um, why,” I said.

“Why you ask? I’ll tell you why. Because I’m afraid he’ll get the drop on you and try to bump you while you’re helping him. How do you know he ain’t got another shiv secreted on him somewheres? Or a rod.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I shoulda patted him down good when I lifted his wallet. I must be getting old. What am I saying, I’m eighty-seven, of course I’m old. But look, I still got his shiv.” He patted his right side pocket. “So I’ll come with you and sorta ride shotgun. He tries to pull anything while you’re helping him and I’ll stick him like a Christmas turkey.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “But only as a last resort, okay?”

“Only if he tries some monkey business.”

“Tell you what,” I said, “maybe it’s best if I just frisk him first.”

“Okay, that’s a good idea.”

“Just to make sure he doesn’t have a gun or another knife,” I said.

“Or a razor,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes,” I said.

“Or a blackjack. Brass knuckles maybe. Or an icepick.”

“Right,” I said, and already I was starting to have second thoughts. What if he knifed me or shot me or coshed me before I had a chance to frisk and disarm him? What if he also killed Mr. Jones? It would be my fault. “You know --” I said.

“What?”

“Now I’m worried."

“That he’ll get the drop on you.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Slit you ear to ear before you have a chance to frisk him.”

“Yes.”

“Or pull a belly gun, maybe a derringer, and plug us both.”

“Well, you know,” I said. “I doubt if he has a gun. I mean, if he did, he would probably have pulled it on us when he tried to rob us.”

“That’s true,” said Mr. Jones. “I’ll grant you that one. But he still might have another blade on him. I mean his name is Sid the Shiv after all.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Good,” said Mr. Jones, “let’s get those drinks.”

“I still feel bad though,” I said.

“You’re killing me, Arnold. I mean, I know, I know, I’m already dead, but you’re killing me, boy.”

“Okay,” I said. “Here’s an idea. What we’ll do is we’ll go to this bar or whatever it is, and we’ll phone for an ambulance.”

“Phone for an ambulance.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Arnie, we’re in the afterworld, in some place that’s apparently neither heaven nor hell nor limbo. What did he call it?”

“I don’t know. Island of Lost Souls or something.”

“Port of Grim Shadows.”

“Place With No Name.”

“Nowheresville,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Point being, do they even have ambulances here?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said.

“But, look,” said Mr. Jones. “We’ll ask.”

“Right,” I said.

“We’ll ask the the bartender,” said Mr. Jones.

“Yes,” I said. “The bartender will know. And he’ll probably know what number to call.”

“Indeed he will,” said Mr. Jones. “If there is a bartender. If there’s even really a bar out here and not just this endless fog.”

“But there’s that music,” I said.

“That could mean nothing,” said Mr. Jones. “It could just be, what, the music of the spheres. But, look, let’s go find out. I’m tired of standing here jabbering.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Kill you,” said a voice.

“What was that?” said Mr. Jones.

“Oh, shit,” I said. “Pardon me.”

“You’re pardoned. What was that?”

“Kill yez,” said the voice, louder now.

“It’s him,” I said, in a whisper.

“Who?”

“That guy. Sid. The Shiv.”

“Shit.”

“Fucking kill yez,” said the voice.

“Shit,” whispered Mr. Jones. “What’s he saying.”

“Kill yez,” said the invisible Sid, louder.

“He’s saying, ‘Kill yez,’” I whispered.

“That can’t be good,” said Mr. Jones.

“No,” I said.

Mr. Jones took the switchblade out of his jacket pocket.

“You good with a knife?” he asked in a whisper.

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Weren’t you in the army?”

“Yes, but I was an engineer.”

“Okay, I better hang onto the knife then. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s keep heading for that music,” I said. “Maybe we’ll be safe there.”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Jones, and he put the knife back into his pocket “But even if we aren’t we might still be able to get a drink. Let’s move.”

“Okay.”

I took his arm again and off we went into the fog, moving as fast as we could, which I’d estimate was about one yard every half-minute or so.

Behind us in the fog Sid’s voice followed us, saying variously, “Kill yez...murder yez...kill yez both...fuckin’ kill yez…”

But his voice never seemed to get any louder or to sound closer, so I could only assume that he was moving as slowly as we were, either because he chose to, or, more likely, because he was physically unable to thanks to my head-butt and to the injuries he had sustained as the result of his attendant fall on those hard paving stones.

The music however continued to increase in volume with each shuffle and limp Mr. Jones and I completed, and, finally, after a few minutes in which we spoke not even in a whisper (not wanting to reveal our position and also perhaps because neither of us had anything to say), a few minutes during which I thought enough thoughts to fill a book the size of the Bible with gibberish, I saw a red and orange glow in the fog ahead.

“Mr. Jones,” I whispered, “can you see that?”

“What?” he whispered back. “I see nothing, only a thick greyness which might be the external manifestation of my own soul.”

“I think I see a neon sign.”

“Oh, thank God,” he said. “Or whomever. Let’s hurry before that bastard catches up with us and we’re forced to fight for our lives, if one can fight for one’s life in death.”

We quickened our pace to perhaps two yards every half minute, and pretty soon I saw cursive thick letters take shape out of the fog, orange letters outlined by red, and near these letters I saw other smaller blotches and smears of yellow and red and orange.

“What’s it say?” whispered Mr. Jones. “Can you read it?”

“Yes,” I whispered back.

“Well, what is it?”

“The Dead Man,” I said.

“The Dead Man?”

“Yes,” I said.

We shuffled and limped a few more feet toward the neon and the music. I could no longer hear Sid, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

“I can make out some other words now,” I whispered. “Smaller ones.”

“What do they say.”

“Cold Beer and Fine Cocktails. Live Music. Crabs.”

“Crabs. That’s somehow encouraging.”

“Yes,” I said.

Finally a building began to take shape ahead of us; what with the fog I couldn’t tell how tall it was, or even how broad it was, but now along with the neon signs I could see walls of dark reddish-brown brick, windows made out of yellowed glass bricks, a dark green metallic-looking door, a cracked flagstone sidewalk.

Night seemed to have fallen almost completely now, but as we drew closer to the bar the light of the neon and a much dimmer glow from the other side of the glass bricks cast faint gleamings on the damp pavement and on the cobblestones below the curbing in front of the building. A crooked sign on the scratched and dented door became visible and then legible: NO LOITERING. The dockside and fecal smells now became subsumed by the rich odors of beer and whiskey and tobacco smoke, with undercurrents of frying-grease and of urine.

The jazz music was loud and now I could also hear muffled harsh laughter and shouting.

“At last,” said Mr. Jones. “At long fucking last. Now that we’re here it don’t seem too bad.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It looks pretty rough.”

“You wanta stay out here and deal with Sid the Shiv?”

“No,” I said. “Let’s go in.”

I helped Mr. Jones step up from the curb and now I suddenly realized that I had somehow become separate from the pain in my knee.

“Hey,” I said. “I think that pill’s really starting to work now.”

“Of course it is. I wouldn’t lay bad shit on a pal.”

“It’s like I know the pain is there but the pain doesn’t bother me. Like it’s someone else’s pain. In someone else’s leg. That’s weird. Both my legs feel like someone else’s legs.”

“Yeah, it’s working all right,” said Mr. Jones.

“Everything feels somehow beautiful now,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s working,” he said. “Come on, let’s get outside those drinks.”

“I love drinks,” I said.

“Okay, you can let go of my arm now, Arnie boy.”

I let go of his arm.

“I really love you, Mr. Jones,” I said.

“Yeah, sure, kid.”

“I feel like you have the wisdom of the ages.”

“Sure I do. Let’s go.”

We made our way across the pavement to the door. Mr. Jones shuffled, I floated along beside him. The door had a big curved brass handle, tarnished and scarred. I pulled the door open and a blast of music and smoke and human voices and little blobs and points of liquid color and shadows and human faces all assaulted us. The bar inside was crowded with the people who belonged to these faces.

“Looks like a nice stopping place,” said Mr. Jones.

I held the door open for him. Mr. Jones went in, and I floated in after him.

(Continued here, despite all the dictates of common sense.)

(Please turn to the right-hand column of this page to find an up-to-date listing of links to all other officially-authorized chapters of Arnold Schnabel’s Railroad Train To Heaven©. Sign up now for our “Annual Christmas Walking Tour of Arnold Schnabel’s Olde Cape May”, followed by a “beef ‘n’ beer bash” at the VFW, musical entertainment provided by Freddy Ayres and Ursula™ with their “Swingin’ Songs of the Seaside” (special guest “Magda” on the Fender Rhodes and vocal stylings)!)

tales of the hotel st Crispian: chapter 37

2011-11-28T19:03:00.004-05:00

"My name is Hyacinth Wilde"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo*

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

*Ass’t Professor of Epistemology, Ass’t Homeroom Coordinator, Olney Community College; editor of A Foul Wind; “The Ben Blagwell” Novels of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. I: A Foul Wind for Jakarta; A Devil Called Minnie; Backstreets of Bangkok; Tramp Steamer; Olney Community College Press.

for complete episode, click here