PREVIOUSLY ON BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE…
PART 1 – “Oh no! I ate a toaster pastry full of concentrated lightning and died on the toilet! Ouch!”
“Say, what’s that light over there?”
AND NOW BOOKSHELF Q. BATTLER AND THE MEANING OF LIFE CONTINUES…
The light at the end of the tunnel grew brighter with every step I took towards it. Suddenly, the light took over, and all the darkness surrounding me faded away. I found myself in a sterile white hallway, staring at a door. I tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge.
I knocked on the door. A slit in the middle opened and a pair of angry eyes stared out at me.
“What’s the password, see?” the man behind the door asked.
“Umm…password?” I answered.
“Bah!” the man said. “I suppose they’ll just let just any old mook in here, see?”
I was transported to a 1930’s speakeasy. The joint was lousy with flappers, see?
The bolt snapped and the door opened. The man who had let me in was nowhere to be found. I stepped through the threshold and was instantly transported to an old-timey 1930’s speakeasy.
I was no longer in my pajamas. I was wearing a black zoot suit with wide white pinstripes, a spiffy fedora, and a pair of shoes so shiny I could see my reflection in them.
I took a look around. On stage, there was a big band playing The Charleston. On a couch to my right, a group of flappers (you know, those women in the fringe skirts and head bands with the one feather in front) were lounging about, calling each other “Dah-ling” and smoking through foot long cigarette filters.
It was odd. The whole scene felt like it was straight out of a 1930’s gangster flick. Yet, the inhabitants of the joint were all famous historical figures from every century imaginable.
At the bar, Albert Einstein, Cleopatra, Abraham Lincoln, and Jim Morrison were pounding shots like nobody’s business. They were in some kind of rousing competition to see who could drink the most without getting sick.
Einstein was drinking them all under the table.
“E=MC YOU ARE ALL SQUARES!” Einstein yelled just before tipping another brew down his throat.
“Four score and seven years ago, this forefather was ready to puke,” was Honest Abe’s reply. He pulled off his infamous stove pipe hat and used it as a barf receptacle. Jim and Cleopatra passed out. Albert just kept on drinking. That scientist sure could hold his liquor.
Utterly confused, I took a seat on a couch in the back corner of the room and sat down in the hopes that eventually it would all make sense.
Twenty minutes later, it still did not.
“Need a drink, doll face?”
I looked up. The waitress was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. I couldn’t remember her name, but I was certain I’d seen her somewhere before.
“No thank you,” I replied.
“Let me rephrase,” the waitress said. “You NEED a drink, sweetie. Newbies always freak out if they’re not sloshed.”
She took a shot glass of whiskey off her tray and set it on the table before me.
“Anything else just ask.”
And then she was gone.
Ed Sullivan took to the main stage and introduced Liberace, who was clad in his finest white fur coat. He waved to the crowd then proceeded to tickle the ivories of a majestic white piano.
Three songs in, a balding British gentleman with a Van Dyke beard and a cod piece walked up to the couch and parked himself in a seat right next to mine.
Assuming I was trapped forever in the 1930’s, I did my best to blend in.
“Say, whaddya think yer tryin’ to pull, see?” I asked. “This spot is reserved for my keister, see? Twenty-three skadoo somewhere else because I’m the cat’s pajamas in these here parts, see?”
What can I say? I felt threatened and said the first words that entered my mind.
The gentleman downed the last sip left in his martini glass.
“Forsooth! Gather and be merry, kind sir!” the man said. “To offer a proclivity of disrespect? ’Twas not my intention. Fi! For a jest in the name of foolery is a source of amusement but a jest at the expense of the dignity of my fellow man is an utterance that deigns to make fools of us all!”
My jaw dropped.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just mind your P’s and Q’s buster or I’ll have to jitterbug the foxtrot all over your face, see?”
The man set his glass on the table.
“Good and noble sir,” the man said. “Doubtless am I that spirits of the alcoholic variety doth embolden thine own spirit to an uproarious crescendo but I pray thee- do not turn a potential friend to a foe. For the world is filled with little more than men in search of friends who do nothing to find them but everything within their power to find enemies in every corner.”
“Why the expletive deleted are you talking like that?” I asked.
“Me?” the British man said. “Good sir, you are the one saying ‘twenty-three skadoo’ and ‘see!’”
“I thought that’s what I’m supposed to do!” I said. “It looks like Al Capone’s gin joint in here!”
The waitress returned. Under normal conditions, her bright eyes, long hair, and perfect smile would have been welcome. However, my heart was already racing from the strange circumstances I found myself in, and her gorgeous appearance only exacerbated my malady.
“Another martini Bill?” the waitress asked.
“Bill,” I thought. “Who do I know who is British, speaks fancy, wears a codpiece, and is named ‘Bill?’ Hmmmm.”
“Please,” Bill replied. “Shaken…not stirred.”
“That joke never gets old, Bill,” the waitress said as she rolled her eyes.
“Skyfall!” Bill said. “Have you seen it yet, dear?”
“Not yet,” the waitress said. “Been too busy keeping the newbies soused to the gills.”
“Oh you must!” Bill said. “It is a delightful romp!”
The waitress smiled at Bill and placed another shot in front of me.
I wasn’t fighting it anymore. The waitress was right. Booze was the only thing keeping me from going completely bonkers from the stress of not knowing what was going on.
I drank the shot immediately. Bourbon this time. She was changing it up.
“Good sir,” Bill said to me. “Hast thou gazed thine eyes upon Skyfall?”
“Yeah, like three years ago,” I said.
“Ah yes, well we do get new releases a bit late here,” Bill said. “I have nary an idea how they do it but the fellows in charge of Hollywood manage to bleed every last six-pence from these moving pictures before they are finally released here for us to watch for free.”
“You get free movies here?” I asked.
“Free everything here,” Bill answered. “The waitress hasn’t charged you for a drink yet, has she?”
“She has not,” I said. “Should I tip her?”
“Why bother?” Bill said. “Everything here is free so a tip would be meaningless. Besides, there is no currency here so what would you tip her with?”
“Applause?” I asked.
“I suppose,” Bill said. “Or a general display of exuberance over her prompt serving abilities would do just the same.”
Bill’s drink of choice.
The waitress returned and handed Bill a fresh martini. She took the empty shot glass from me, removed the fedora from my head, and replaced it with a yellow construction worker hard hat. Attached to either side of the hat were two forty ounce plastic containers, each filled to the top with beer. Each had a straw that dangled down until they merged into one straw. She placed that into my mouth.
“Listen sweetheart,” the waitress said. “I’m not trying to turn you into an alcoholic here. I’m just saying I see about a hundred of you guys a week..and..well..just trust me.”
“I trust you,” I said as I sipped from the straw.
Across the room, a fight broke out. The three of us watched as a team of bouncers moved in to control the situation.
“Lucille Ball just punched out Teddy Roosevelt over a fixed card game and I still feel like I’m the most ridiculous thing in this room,” I said.
“Indeed, good sir,” Bill replied. “But fear not, for we have all walked in your shoes before.”
“I notice you keep switching back and forth between fancy old English talk and a plain modern style,” I said.
“Which do you prefer?” the man asked.
“The plain style is easier to understand,” I said.
“Then I will do my best to speak plainly,” Bill said. “Although know that what you call plain I call lazy.”
“I did like the old English style though,” I said. “It almost made you sound like…”
My jaw dropped. Again.
“Like who?” the man asked.
“Like the greatest writer of the English language,” I said.
I sipped from my beer hat vigorously.
“Oh my God!” I said. “Are you…”
Who the heck is this guy? Find out next time on Bookshelf Q. Battler and the Meaning of Life!
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Flapper and martini photos via a shutterstock.com license
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