"The Blowhard"

Yes, our dedicated staff of interns and graduate students are still feverishly preparing Volume One of the memoirs of Arnold Schnabel for publication as an actual "book" in time for the holiday gift-giving season, and so, in lieu of any new episodes of Arnold's magnum opus at this time, we present the opening paragraphs of another "lost" novel by Arnold's good friend Horace P. Sternwall...

Pete Willingham had opinions, lots of opinions, but the problem was that nobody in Wheeler’s Corners would listen to him anymore.



“Shut the hell up, Pete,” they would say when they came into Baxter’s General Store, where Pete had worked since he was fifteen years old.


“Stuff it, Pete,” they would say, “nobody wants to hear what you have to say.”



“For God’s sake, stick a sock in it, Pete,” they would say.



Finally Mr. Baxter realized he was losing business because of Pete, and so, after many warnings, one fine day he fired Pete.


Pete didn’t mind. Getting fired was just the push he needed. He had just finished a correspondence course in public speaking, and he had saved up close to one hundred dollars, so he packed up a cardboard suitcase and took the bus for New York City, where he intended to realize his dream of having his own radio program, and then people would listen to him, they would listen to him good.



The Blowhard, by Horace P. Sternwall (Top Shelf Books, 1951;  “paperback original”, one printing only, never republished).

(Cover painting by James Avati. Scroll down the right hand column of this page to find a listing of many more excerpts from the sadly-obscure oeuvre of Horace P. Sternwall.)

"A No Good Dame"

Our dedicated staff of interns and graduate assistants are still feverishly preparing Volume One of the memoirs of Arnold Schnabel in time for the holiday gift-giving season! In the meantime here's the opening sentence of yet another sadly out-of-print classic from the battered Royal portable typewriter of Arnold's pal Horace P. Sternwall:

“What a bunch of schlemiels I was thinking. Sitting around playing poker while a good looking dame like me was sitting over here on the couch drinking highballs, smoking Sweet Caporals, and cooling her heels. I guess it was then that I decided I was gonna take them for every penny they were worth, and that included Johnny — 'Cleveland Johnny' Doyle, my so-called fiancé — the big chump.”

A No Good Dame, by "Helen P. Steinmetz" {Horace P. Sternwall} (Acme Books, 1953; one printing only, never republished).

(Cover art by Rudy Nappi. Scroll down the right-hand side of this page to find a listing of links to the opening passages of many other immortal but deleted books by Horace P. Sternwall.)

"Cuban Missile Crisis"

Yes, our staff of unpaid interns and graduate assistants are still busily preparing Volume One of  Arnold Schnabel’s  memoirs for publication in time for the Festivus gift-giving season, and so once again in lieu of any new episodes of his chef-d'œuvre at this time, we present another of his classic poems, first published in the October 26, 1962 number of Arnold's neighborhood newspaper,  the Olney Times.

It is perhaps worth noting that Arnold suffered a complete mental collapse just a little over two months after writing this poem.

(This sonnet brought to you by the kind permission of the Arnold Schnabel Society, all rights reserved. Imprimatur: Bishop Fulton J. Sheen.)

"Cuban Missile Crisis"

An ash-grey morning, I stare at the sky;
will this be the day that the missiles fall?
There’s nothing to be done, except to pray
upon our knees, and ask the good Lord why
He cannot spare some of us, if not all,
if we promise to worship Him each day
and every night for the rest of our
portion of what He should grant us of life,
if only a year, or a month, or just
a week, or a day, or even an hour,
no matter how fraught with fear and with strife,
before we are blown into cosmic dust.
An ash-grey evening, I stare at the sky;
will this be the night that you and I die?

(Kindly turn to the right hand side of this page for a listing of links to other classic poems by Arnold Schnabel, as well as to his Schaefer Award-winning memoir, Railroad Train to Heaven.)

"They Call Him Cad"

Yes, our dedicated staff of volunteers are still busily preparing the first volume of Arnold Schnabel's memoirs for publication in time for the holiday gift-giving season, and so, once again, in lieu of any new episodes of Arnold's magnum opus at this time, we present the first page of another classic and sadly out-of-print novel by Arnold's good friend Horace P. Sternwall...

“So, Babs,” said Alexandra, after they had both taken their first appreciative sips of their bone-dry martinis, “how are things out on Sunnyville Manor Road?”

“Oh, fine,” said Babs, lighting up another cigarette. Fine, she thought. My husband is addicted to Dexedrine, my eight-year-old daughter insists on wearing a Davy Crockett costume everywhere, and my ten-year-old son wears a beret and affects an English accent. “Everything’s just dandy, Alex.”

“Yeah, I’m sure, but don’t you ever just miss the old days, Babs, in the WAVES?”

“Well, sometimes, I suppose,” said Babs. Right, she thought, sleeping in a barracks with a pack of gossiping man-crazy girls, typing up orders and memoranda all day while the fellows got to sail the seven seas and fight the Japs and Germans, sure, what jolly fun.

“Tell me, what do you miss about those days the most, Babsy?”

Never a good sign when Alex started calling her Babsy, but Babs considered the question for a few seconds and could honestly think of only one thing:

“I miss the uniforms,” she said. “It was nice not having to choose a new outfit every day.”

“Oh, Babsy, you’re such an absolute scream, but listen, doll, don’t turn around and don’t you dare look but there’s a fat fellow in a grey suit at the far end of the bar over there and he looks oddly familiar to me and I can’t quite place him but he’s looking quite blatantly at you, my dear.”

“What?”

Babs turned around and looked.

“Babs!” said Alex, “I told you not to look!”

“Oh, do shut up, Alex,” said Babs.

It took her a moment and then it all came back. He was older of course, and he had grown quite fat, and his hair had gone grey. But it could only be him. He raised his glass to her.

“Oh, dear,” said Babs.

“What?” whispered Alex, “What? Who is he?”

“Oh my,” said Babs.

He had gotten up off his barstool, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and now he was lumbering towards their table, smiling broadly.

“Hey, wait a minute,” said Alex, “that’s not --”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cad the Cad!” said Alex.

“Yeah, it’s Cad all right,” said Babs.

Tom “Cad” Cadwallader.

The man who had taken her virginity fourteen years ago one hot humid night at the Norfolk Naval Station.

Cad the Cad.

Her first love.

The bastard.

They Call Him Cad, by "Harriet P. Saint-Clair" (Horace P. Sternwall); a Popular Library paperback original, 1959.

(All-new episodes of Arnold Schnabel's memoirs are in the pipeline, and will be featured here after we've gotten the publishing of Volume One out of the way.)