tales of the hotel st crispian: chapter 42

"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

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

"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

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”.)