The Fantastic Adventures of Lefty Feep, page 42
“He forgets to shave today,” I explain.
Donglepootzer blinks. “All right,” he murmurs. “All right. Now — about that baby. The one that drinks gin and hits bartenders and curses.”
“He’s not a baby. He’s Subconscious Sigmund the psychiatrist.”
“That baby is a psychiatrist?”
“Sure. Don’t you ever hear of a child psychiatrist?”
Donglepootzer starts to tremble. “But he’s a baby — a mere babe in arms.”
“Who is a baby, sir?” lisps Subconscious Sigmund. “I’ll hwave you know I am an eminwent pfychiatric authworitwy, wif a Ph.D. and a graduate cwertificate fwom the beft colleges in the cwountry. And you, sir, are a clear cafe of dementwia pwaecox!”
He blows smoke in Donglepootzer’s eyes.
“Maybe I’m crazy after all,” he mutters. “I never expect such language from a baby. Confess — you’re a midget in disguise, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” Subconscious Sigmund plays up to him.
“And this is all a practical joke. You people are just wearing costumes, as you say?” Donglepootzer is almost pleading. He wants to believe it for the sake of his own sanity.
“That’s it exactwly!” lisps Subconscious Sigmund, through his baby bonnet. Then he lets out a sudden wail. “Oh gwacious! I think I will need to be changed!”
“Have you got a diaper handy, Your Honor?” asks Josephine.
That does it. Donglepootzer jumps up. “Eminent psychiatrist, eh?” he shrieks. “A psychiatrist who needs a change of diapers! And a gorilla who scratches himself for fleas; and two ends of a horse — the front end can’t talk but the rear end can!
“Lock them up!” he yells at the sergeant. “Lock them up and throw away the keys!”
The cops advance on us. The jig is up. The hour of doom is at hand. The hour of…
Just then the clock over the desk begins to strike. “Midnight!” I whisper.
And — it happens.
All in a moment. Subconscious Sigmund lets out a yelp and slips from Josephine’s arms. He is growing — bigger and bigger. Suddenly he stands there, a normal man, in his baby costume. I look at Gorilla Gabface and Dime-Mouth McCarthy. They are slipping out of their costumes. My own costume falls away.
“You see?” I yell at Magistrate Donglepootzer. “We’re all right. It’s you who must be crazy.”
With a wild scream, Donglepootzer jumps off the bench and runs out of the room. “Go away,” he yells. “Go far away. Get out!”
This is excellent advice to follow. We take it. On the lam. “Like Cinderella, Lefty,” Dime-mouth tells me. “Youse see? I am right when. I compare our masquerade to Cinderella’s brawl. We change back at midnight. That is what Herr Tonic does to us with his magic wand or whatever. Changes us until midnight only.”
“Then the folks at the ball must be returned to normal too,” Josephine says.
Subconscious Sigmund nods. “Of course,” he says. “I must apologize for this nasty trick on the part of my friend Herr Tonic. Of course he is a real wizard and able to perform such feats. But he would not do such a thing unless he were drunk and insulted. Just bad temper on his part.”
“We will forget him,” I say. “But what a night! I need a drink before I turn in,”
“Let’s stop here,” suggests Josephine, pointing out a cafe. We go in. Standing at the bar, high as next year’s taxes, is our old wonderworking friend, Herr Tonic.
“There he is!” 1 whisper. “Let’s get him!”
We sneak up very quietly. He doesn’t have a chance. I get his wand. The others hold his arms and legs. “What are you doing?” he splutters.
“Never mind,” I say, very grim. “Two can play at this magic game.”
So I make up my mind and wave the wand. Then I break it over my knee.
“What are you doing?” Subconscious Sigmund gasps.
“This is too dangerous to have around,” I tell him. “And especially in the hands of a foreigner with a bad temper. He should be interned anyway because he is not a citizen.”
“He certainly isn’t — anymore,” says Josephine.
And he isn’t. We take him outside. The others go home and I dispose of Herr Tonic and come in here for breakfast. But what a night!
Lefty Feeo sat back and mopped his forehead.
“Quite a remarkable adventure,” I agreed. “No wonder you are touchy about mentioning horses. I’d say you had a real kick coming.”
Feep winced.
“But there’s one thing you forgot to mention,” I told him. “You say you caught this magician, Herr Tonic, and took his wand away and broke it.”
“Right.”
“But before you broke it, you waved the wand at him.”
“Also right.”
“Tell me, Lefty,” I said, fixing him with an accusing stare, “Just what did you turn him into?”
Feep blushed. “I am afraid you ask me that,” he said. “But I suppose I might as well admit it. We get Her Tonic down, and then Dime-Mouth McCarthy and I put the horse costume on him. Complete. And I wave the wand over him.”
“You mean to tell me Herr Tonic is now a horse?” I gasped.
Lefty Feep shrugged.
“Well, if he isn’t,” he chuckled, “then the glue factory I just sold him to will be awfully disappointed!”
Lefty Feep’s Arabian Nightmares
February 1944
“Meow!” yelled Lefty Feep. “Take it away!”
I stared up at the tall, thin racketeer raconteur as he stood trembling before my table in Jack’s Shack.
“Grab loose,” pleaded Feep. “Remove it out of here.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Why are you so upset when you see me eating spaghetti?”
“Spaghetti?” Feep breathed a sigh of relief. “I am nearly beating it when I see you eating it.”
“Why should spaghetti affect you?” I asked, as Feep sat down at the table beside me. “Doesn’t it agree with you?”
“It is not a question of my digestion,” said Lefty Feep. “I take one look at the spaghetti and I think I am seeing snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“Snakes give me the shakes,” Feep muttered. “I am not in hep style over a reptile.”
“Don’t like snakes, eh?”
“A boa constrictor is not a pretty picture, and I am not much fonder of an anaconda.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand this, Lefty. Have you been drinking and seeing snakes — is that it?”
Feep nodded slowly. “When I’m drinking, from snakes I’m shrinking,” he admitted.
I smiled. “Then if I were you, I’d stop drinking. If you stop drinking you won’t see any more snakes.”
Feep frowned. “But I do stop and I still see snakes,” he told me. “I see serpents in the present tense.”
A peculiar gleam came into Lefty Feep’s eyes. I recognized it only too well. Lefty Feep had another story. When Feep gets a gleam in his eyes, I generally get a pain in my ears. This time I decided to make my escape in a hurry. I rose from the table.
“I must be going,” I remarked.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Feep, pushing me back in my chair. “You are going to hear my story.”
“But—”
“I must tell you this,” said Feep. “I have a snake tale.”
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I am not interested in your peculiar anatomy.”
“Allow me to twist this tale for you,” said Lefty Feep. He held me very firmly in place.
I sighed. There was nothing else to do but sit there while Feep began to wail his tale. “It all starts,” said Lefty Feep —
It all starts the other day. I am feeling down in the dumps the other day, which is not surprising, because I am down in a dump — a place called the Oasis.
The Oasis is a little tavern located in a desert of clip joints. It has a sort of oriental atmosphere — because it is never aired out. Part of the desert charm lies in the fact that it is usually deserted. Then, of course, there is the sand and the palms. The sand is in the cuspidors, and the palms belong to the waiters, who are always holding them out for a tip. The owner of the Oasis is an oriental character generally known as the Sneak of Araby.
I do not know why I mention all this, because I am not particularly interested in the atmosphere of this joint. I am in here trying to drown my sorrows — only from the rate at which I inhale, I am more likely to drown myself. The more I spin the bottle, the soberer I get.
Do not get the wrong impression. I am not a drinking man. I seldom drink anymore — any more than I can get. But there is a reason. To speak rankly and frankly, I am in love with a dove — but she flies too high for me. The ginch in question is a burlesque cutie; a beauty but very snooty. Her name is Fanny, and for a while she and I are closer than Siamese twins.
But a few days ago she comes and tells me that she is going to abandon her art and try for a job in a classical ballet. She is getting persnickety about terpsichore, and sure enough, she lands a spot in the rehearsals of a ballet troupe. Right away she starts putting on the dog about going from Minsky to Nijinsky in one easy lesson, and I can see that she is giving me the colder shoulder.
I question her and find out she has a new flame— none other than the personality who is backing the ballet. He is Herman Sherman, an overgrown hunk of vermin. I do not like Herman Sherman, or classical dancing, or her attitude. But instead of punching Herman Sherman in the nose and spoiling Fanny’s chances, I walk out of her life like a gentleman. I am really gone on the damsel, and so I bow out gracefully and head for this Oasis tavern like I say. And there I stand all alone at the bar in the afternoon, trying to drown my sorrows.
I am just going down for the third time when I happen to notice this whisker standing next to me at the bar. He comes in very quietly, because I do not hear him approach at all. The first thing that attracts my attention is when I reach for a glass and get a handful of beard instead.
I put the beard back on the bar, not being a beard-drinker, and stare at the face attached to it. It is a dark brown face, hiding in back of a big nose. It is not exactly the kind of a face you find on barroom floors, so I examine the owner more carefully. He is dressed in a long white night gown and has a towel wrapped around his head. Unless he is a fugitive from a Turkish bath, I cannot place him.
Then I notice he carries a big, long wicker basket. And I think I figure things out.
He must be the Oasis version of a cigarette girl. I know there is a shortage of help these days — they can’t get cigarette girls because they are all working as welders. The whisker smiles at me, but I pay no attention you can mention to this clown in the nightgown, because I am too busy drinking. In fact, I am getting wobbly. Almost at the stage where I expect to see snakes.
I do.
Suddenly, on the bar in front of me, I see the snakes gliding along. They are lean, mean, and green. I mutter and utter a swell yell, then cover my face with my hands. I do not like to see snakes. I wish that they would go away.
But they don’t.
When I look again, the snakes are still there. I cover my eyes once more and brace myself. It can’t be true. I sneak another peek, very meek and weak. And then I shriek. Because the snakes are more than just wriggling on the bar, now. They are coiled up. Coiled up in front of me. Coiled up, five of them in a line. They twist and turn and then lie still. And I see they are coiled up in a word.
Yes, those snakes are lying on the bar, each with its body twisted to spell out a letter. All together, they spell out the word— “S O U S E.”
I can’t understand it.
And I can’t stand it!
Five snakes, spelling out the word, “SOUSE,” in front of me on the bar! One flash and I am ready to dash. I get myself braced to run out of the joint. At this moment the guy in the nightgown suddenly notices the snakes. He just blinks and winks. Then he bends down and whispers to them.
Yes, he whispers through his whiskers at the snakes!
“My little green friends,” he croons, “It is very naughty of you to escape once more.” Naughty is no word for it — revolting is my idea. But the whisker is not revolted. He grins at the serpents and then he reaches into his nightie and pulls out a little two-by-four tuba and begins to blow it.
He begins to blow this tuba, and it is lucky for him that there is nobody in the joint and the bartender is sweeping the floor, because he really sets up a squeaking that is reeking. The tune he plays is certainly an eerie earful, but it is evidently number one on the snakes’ Hit Parade, because they suddenly uncoil and wriggle back into the wire basket from which they emerge. The snake that makes the “E” in “SOUSE” almost fractures its pelvis trying to uncoil again.
I almost fracture my neck staring at this far from delectable spectacle.
The whisker notices my noticing, and when he finally puts the lid back on the basket, he blinks his lids at me with a smile. At least I think there is the sunshine of a smile lurking under the silver lining of his beard. “Ten thousand apologies, my honored and esteemed sir,” he says, in a high voice. “I am humbly sorry if my little friends in any way disturb you. You like my little friends?”
“They are no friends of mine,” I tell him. “I do not care to have any friends that crawl around on their bellies and make fun of honest drunks.”
“Allah willing, it shall not happen again, I assure you,” says the whitey in the nightie.
Then curiosity gets the better of me. “Am I nuts,” I inquire, “or do I see these snakes spell out a word?”
“Your sanity is sublime and beyond question,” the dark man assures me. “The serpents do indeed spell out a word.”
And he goes ahead talking, introducing himself to me. He is Ali Ben Alikat, an ornamental oriental from Iraq and Mesopotamia. An Arab, in other words. He claims that back in the East he is a sort of priest — only in his country the term is “dervish”. He is one of these whirling dervishes, and according to him, he certainly gets around, until Axis gunfire disturbs his sleep one Arabian night.
I ask him why the Axis should bother him, and he bows and tells me. “It is because of the treasure, of course,” he whispers, waggling his beard and looking around to see if we are still alone.
“What treasure?”
“The sceptre,” he mutters, from under his beard. “The sceptre of the great Caliph, Haroun Al Rashid.”
“Come again?” I invite him.
“Haroun Al Rashid, Caliph of Baghdad,” he tells me. “It is a sacred relic, hidden and guarded by dervishes throughout the centuries. If the Axis could but lay hands on it, they would boast of this possession. Legend has it that he who owns the sceptre is a conqueror none can stand before. And my simple countrymen, learning that the Axis has the sceptre, would bow before German agents and give in. As a dervish, it is my sacred duty to guard that sceptre with my worthless life.” He goes on to mention that he flees to this country with the sceptre and also takes the snakes. The sacred snakes.
“Sacred snakes?” I inquire.
“Ah, but yes, effendi,49” he answers.
“Feep is the name,” I come back. “But what is this about sacred snakes?”
“Hatched under the Kaaba stone,” he whispers. “In the holy of holies. Raised in the mosques by the followers of the Prophet. Full of the wisdom of the serpent. Direct descendants of the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”
“What good are they?”
“Ah, effendi, they constitute what you in the west would call oracles. They can be used in soothsaying. When I play to them the music of the dervishes, they will give warnings and foretell the future by spelling out words,” explains this Bagdaddy.
“Wait a minute, now,” I object. “That I cannot swallow. I hear a lot about snake-charmers, I admit, but I still think I have hallucinations when I see them spell out a word.”
“Behold, then,” drones Ali Ben Alikat. “By the beard of the Prophet, observe.”
And he whips the cover off the wire basket. I take a look. Then I wish to take a powder. Eight snakes are coiled there on the side and bottom of the basket.
“By the sacred cuticle of Mohammed,” says the dervish, “this is not the work of djinn or efreet. There is no sorcerous enchantment involved. These are the veritable serpents of wisdom, who foretell the future and act as auguries, divinators, and —”
“Snakes alive,” I interrupt. “Kindly close the basket. I don’t like the way they look at me.”
“They will not harm you,” says Ali Ben Alikat. “Wait, and I will introduce you. My little ones, meet Lefty Feep.”
“Hello,” I gulp, having nothing else to say.
The snakes writhe into a heap and suddenly they are lying coiled up in the bottom of the basket, spelling out the word, “HELLO.”
Absolutely, that’s what they do!
And as the snakes coil, I recoil. “Why do you carry them around?” I gasp.
“Merely to warn me if the Axis or its agents get on my trail,” explains Ali Ben Alikat.
“But you’re not a Baghdad lad anymore,” I reason with him. “You escape, don’t you?”
“The Axis has agents everywhere,” Alikat sighs. “And they still wish to secure this sceptre. I am going to give it to a museum for safekeeping, I believe. But I have not made arrangements to turn it over. Consequently, it is still in my possession.”
“Where is it?” I ask.
“Here,” says Ali Ben Alikat. He whips up the corner of his nightie. I bend down and see it strapped to his leg. Sure enough, it is a long golden sceptre, with beautiful designs on it.
“The serpents will warn me and tell me when to turn this over to authorities in your country,” the dervish explains. “They are my spiritual guides. Are you not, my little green brothers?”
He smiles at the snakes in the basket and lowers his nightie again. Suddenly he frowns. He stares down and points at the snakes with a skinny finger. I look at them. The serpents coil up furiously and I read their message. “LOOK OUT,” is what seven of the snakes spell, and the eighth one is just trying to form itself into an exclamation point when —
Donglepootzer blinks. “All right,” he murmurs. “All right. Now — about that baby. The one that drinks gin and hits bartenders and curses.”
“He’s not a baby. He’s Subconscious Sigmund the psychiatrist.”
“That baby is a psychiatrist?”
“Sure. Don’t you ever hear of a child psychiatrist?”
Donglepootzer starts to tremble. “But he’s a baby — a mere babe in arms.”
“Who is a baby, sir?” lisps Subconscious Sigmund. “I’ll hwave you know I am an eminwent pfychiatric authworitwy, wif a Ph.D. and a graduate cwertificate fwom the beft colleges in the cwountry. And you, sir, are a clear cafe of dementwia pwaecox!”
He blows smoke in Donglepootzer’s eyes.
“Maybe I’m crazy after all,” he mutters. “I never expect such language from a baby. Confess — you’re a midget in disguise, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” Subconscious Sigmund plays up to him.
“And this is all a practical joke. You people are just wearing costumes, as you say?” Donglepootzer is almost pleading. He wants to believe it for the sake of his own sanity.
“That’s it exactwly!” lisps Subconscious Sigmund, through his baby bonnet. Then he lets out a sudden wail. “Oh gwacious! I think I will need to be changed!”
“Have you got a diaper handy, Your Honor?” asks Josephine.
That does it. Donglepootzer jumps up. “Eminent psychiatrist, eh?” he shrieks. “A psychiatrist who needs a change of diapers! And a gorilla who scratches himself for fleas; and two ends of a horse — the front end can’t talk but the rear end can!
“Lock them up!” he yells at the sergeant. “Lock them up and throw away the keys!”
The cops advance on us. The jig is up. The hour of doom is at hand. The hour of…
Just then the clock over the desk begins to strike. “Midnight!” I whisper.
And — it happens.
All in a moment. Subconscious Sigmund lets out a yelp and slips from Josephine’s arms. He is growing — bigger and bigger. Suddenly he stands there, a normal man, in his baby costume. I look at Gorilla Gabface and Dime-Mouth McCarthy. They are slipping out of their costumes. My own costume falls away.
“You see?” I yell at Magistrate Donglepootzer. “We’re all right. It’s you who must be crazy.”
With a wild scream, Donglepootzer jumps off the bench and runs out of the room. “Go away,” he yells. “Go far away. Get out!”
This is excellent advice to follow. We take it. On the lam. “Like Cinderella, Lefty,” Dime-mouth tells me. “Youse see? I am right when. I compare our masquerade to Cinderella’s brawl. We change back at midnight. That is what Herr Tonic does to us with his magic wand or whatever. Changes us until midnight only.”
“Then the folks at the ball must be returned to normal too,” Josephine says.
Subconscious Sigmund nods. “Of course,” he says. “I must apologize for this nasty trick on the part of my friend Herr Tonic. Of course he is a real wizard and able to perform such feats. But he would not do such a thing unless he were drunk and insulted. Just bad temper on his part.”
“We will forget him,” I say. “But what a night! I need a drink before I turn in,”
“Let’s stop here,” suggests Josephine, pointing out a cafe. We go in. Standing at the bar, high as next year’s taxes, is our old wonderworking friend, Herr Tonic.
“There he is!” 1 whisper. “Let’s get him!”
We sneak up very quietly. He doesn’t have a chance. I get his wand. The others hold his arms and legs. “What are you doing?” he splutters.
“Never mind,” I say, very grim. “Two can play at this magic game.”
So I make up my mind and wave the wand. Then I break it over my knee.
“What are you doing?” Subconscious Sigmund gasps.
“This is too dangerous to have around,” I tell him. “And especially in the hands of a foreigner with a bad temper. He should be interned anyway because he is not a citizen.”
“He certainly isn’t — anymore,” says Josephine.
And he isn’t. We take him outside. The others go home and I dispose of Herr Tonic and come in here for breakfast. But what a night!
Lefty Feeo sat back and mopped his forehead.
“Quite a remarkable adventure,” I agreed. “No wonder you are touchy about mentioning horses. I’d say you had a real kick coming.”
Feep winced.
“But there’s one thing you forgot to mention,” I told him. “You say you caught this magician, Herr Tonic, and took his wand away and broke it.”
“Right.”
“But before you broke it, you waved the wand at him.”
“Also right.”
“Tell me, Lefty,” I said, fixing him with an accusing stare, “Just what did you turn him into?”
Feep blushed. “I am afraid you ask me that,” he said. “But I suppose I might as well admit it. We get Her Tonic down, and then Dime-Mouth McCarthy and I put the horse costume on him. Complete. And I wave the wand over him.”
“You mean to tell me Herr Tonic is now a horse?” I gasped.
Lefty Feep shrugged.
“Well, if he isn’t,” he chuckled, “then the glue factory I just sold him to will be awfully disappointed!”
Lefty Feep’s Arabian Nightmares
February 1944
“Meow!” yelled Lefty Feep. “Take it away!”
I stared up at the tall, thin racketeer raconteur as he stood trembling before my table in Jack’s Shack.
“Grab loose,” pleaded Feep. “Remove it out of here.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Why are you so upset when you see me eating spaghetti?”
“Spaghetti?” Feep breathed a sigh of relief. “I am nearly beating it when I see you eating it.”
“Why should spaghetti affect you?” I asked, as Feep sat down at the table beside me. “Doesn’t it agree with you?”
“It is not a question of my digestion,” said Lefty Feep. “I take one look at the spaghetti and I think I am seeing snakes.”
“Snakes?”
“Snakes give me the shakes,” Feep muttered. “I am not in hep style over a reptile.”
“Don’t like snakes, eh?”
“A boa constrictor is not a pretty picture, and I am not much fonder of an anaconda.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand this, Lefty. Have you been drinking and seeing snakes — is that it?”
Feep nodded slowly. “When I’m drinking, from snakes I’m shrinking,” he admitted.
I smiled. “Then if I were you, I’d stop drinking. If you stop drinking you won’t see any more snakes.”
Feep frowned. “But I do stop and I still see snakes,” he told me. “I see serpents in the present tense.”
A peculiar gleam came into Lefty Feep’s eyes. I recognized it only too well. Lefty Feep had another story. When Feep gets a gleam in his eyes, I generally get a pain in my ears. This time I decided to make my escape in a hurry. I rose from the table.
“I must be going,” I remarked.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Feep, pushing me back in my chair. “You are going to hear my story.”
“But—”
“I must tell you this,” said Feep. “I have a snake tale.”
“Sorry,” I murmured. “I am not interested in your peculiar anatomy.”
“Allow me to twist this tale for you,” said Lefty Feep. He held me very firmly in place.
I sighed. There was nothing else to do but sit there while Feep began to wail his tale. “It all starts,” said Lefty Feep —
It all starts the other day. I am feeling down in the dumps the other day, which is not surprising, because I am down in a dump — a place called the Oasis.
The Oasis is a little tavern located in a desert of clip joints. It has a sort of oriental atmosphere — because it is never aired out. Part of the desert charm lies in the fact that it is usually deserted. Then, of course, there is the sand and the palms. The sand is in the cuspidors, and the palms belong to the waiters, who are always holding them out for a tip. The owner of the Oasis is an oriental character generally known as the Sneak of Araby.
I do not know why I mention all this, because I am not particularly interested in the atmosphere of this joint. I am in here trying to drown my sorrows — only from the rate at which I inhale, I am more likely to drown myself. The more I spin the bottle, the soberer I get.
Do not get the wrong impression. I am not a drinking man. I seldom drink anymore — any more than I can get. But there is a reason. To speak rankly and frankly, I am in love with a dove — but she flies too high for me. The ginch in question is a burlesque cutie; a beauty but very snooty. Her name is Fanny, and for a while she and I are closer than Siamese twins.
But a few days ago she comes and tells me that she is going to abandon her art and try for a job in a classical ballet. She is getting persnickety about terpsichore, and sure enough, she lands a spot in the rehearsals of a ballet troupe. Right away she starts putting on the dog about going from Minsky to Nijinsky in one easy lesson, and I can see that she is giving me the colder shoulder.
I question her and find out she has a new flame— none other than the personality who is backing the ballet. He is Herman Sherman, an overgrown hunk of vermin. I do not like Herman Sherman, or classical dancing, or her attitude. But instead of punching Herman Sherman in the nose and spoiling Fanny’s chances, I walk out of her life like a gentleman. I am really gone on the damsel, and so I bow out gracefully and head for this Oasis tavern like I say. And there I stand all alone at the bar in the afternoon, trying to drown my sorrows.
I am just going down for the third time when I happen to notice this whisker standing next to me at the bar. He comes in very quietly, because I do not hear him approach at all. The first thing that attracts my attention is when I reach for a glass and get a handful of beard instead.
I put the beard back on the bar, not being a beard-drinker, and stare at the face attached to it. It is a dark brown face, hiding in back of a big nose. It is not exactly the kind of a face you find on barroom floors, so I examine the owner more carefully. He is dressed in a long white night gown and has a towel wrapped around his head. Unless he is a fugitive from a Turkish bath, I cannot place him.
Then I notice he carries a big, long wicker basket. And I think I figure things out.
He must be the Oasis version of a cigarette girl. I know there is a shortage of help these days — they can’t get cigarette girls because they are all working as welders. The whisker smiles at me, but I pay no attention you can mention to this clown in the nightgown, because I am too busy drinking. In fact, I am getting wobbly. Almost at the stage where I expect to see snakes.
I do.
Suddenly, on the bar in front of me, I see the snakes gliding along. They are lean, mean, and green. I mutter and utter a swell yell, then cover my face with my hands. I do not like to see snakes. I wish that they would go away.
But they don’t.
When I look again, the snakes are still there. I cover my eyes once more and brace myself. It can’t be true. I sneak another peek, very meek and weak. And then I shriek. Because the snakes are more than just wriggling on the bar, now. They are coiled up. Coiled up in front of me. Coiled up, five of them in a line. They twist and turn and then lie still. And I see they are coiled up in a word.
Yes, those snakes are lying on the bar, each with its body twisted to spell out a letter. All together, they spell out the word— “S O U S E.”
I can’t understand it.
And I can’t stand it!
Five snakes, spelling out the word, “SOUSE,” in front of me on the bar! One flash and I am ready to dash. I get myself braced to run out of the joint. At this moment the guy in the nightgown suddenly notices the snakes. He just blinks and winks. Then he bends down and whispers to them.
Yes, he whispers through his whiskers at the snakes!
“My little green friends,” he croons, “It is very naughty of you to escape once more.” Naughty is no word for it — revolting is my idea. But the whisker is not revolted. He grins at the serpents and then he reaches into his nightie and pulls out a little two-by-four tuba and begins to blow it.
He begins to blow this tuba, and it is lucky for him that there is nobody in the joint and the bartender is sweeping the floor, because he really sets up a squeaking that is reeking. The tune he plays is certainly an eerie earful, but it is evidently number one on the snakes’ Hit Parade, because they suddenly uncoil and wriggle back into the wire basket from which they emerge. The snake that makes the “E” in “SOUSE” almost fractures its pelvis trying to uncoil again.
I almost fracture my neck staring at this far from delectable spectacle.
The whisker notices my noticing, and when he finally puts the lid back on the basket, he blinks his lids at me with a smile. At least I think there is the sunshine of a smile lurking under the silver lining of his beard. “Ten thousand apologies, my honored and esteemed sir,” he says, in a high voice. “I am humbly sorry if my little friends in any way disturb you. You like my little friends?”
“They are no friends of mine,” I tell him. “I do not care to have any friends that crawl around on their bellies and make fun of honest drunks.”
“Allah willing, it shall not happen again, I assure you,” says the whitey in the nightie.
Then curiosity gets the better of me. “Am I nuts,” I inquire, “or do I see these snakes spell out a word?”
“Your sanity is sublime and beyond question,” the dark man assures me. “The serpents do indeed spell out a word.”
And he goes ahead talking, introducing himself to me. He is Ali Ben Alikat, an ornamental oriental from Iraq and Mesopotamia. An Arab, in other words. He claims that back in the East he is a sort of priest — only in his country the term is “dervish”. He is one of these whirling dervishes, and according to him, he certainly gets around, until Axis gunfire disturbs his sleep one Arabian night.
I ask him why the Axis should bother him, and he bows and tells me. “It is because of the treasure, of course,” he whispers, waggling his beard and looking around to see if we are still alone.
“What treasure?”
“The sceptre,” he mutters, from under his beard. “The sceptre of the great Caliph, Haroun Al Rashid.”
“Come again?” I invite him.
“Haroun Al Rashid, Caliph of Baghdad,” he tells me. “It is a sacred relic, hidden and guarded by dervishes throughout the centuries. If the Axis could but lay hands on it, they would boast of this possession. Legend has it that he who owns the sceptre is a conqueror none can stand before. And my simple countrymen, learning that the Axis has the sceptre, would bow before German agents and give in. As a dervish, it is my sacred duty to guard that sceptre with my worthless life.” He goes on to mention that he flees to this country with the sceptre and also takes the snakes. The sacred snakes.
“Sacred snakes?” I inquire.
“Ah, but yes, effendi,49” he answers.
“Feep is the name,” I come back. “But what is this about sacred snakes?”
“Hatched under the Kaaba stone,” he whispers. “In the holy of holies. Raised in the mosques by the followers of the Prophet. Full of the wisdom of the serpent. Direct descendants of the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”
“What good are they?”
“Ah, effendi, they constitute what you in the west would call oracles. They can be used in soothsaying. When I play to them the music of the dervishes, they will give warnings and foretell the future by spelling out words,” explains this Bagdaddy.
“Wait a minute, now,” I object. “That I cannot swallow. I hear a lot about snake-charmers, I admit, but I still think I have hallucinations when I see them spell out a word.”
“Behold, then,” drones Ali Ben Alikat. “By the beard of the Prophet, observe.”
And he whips the cover off the wire basket. I take a look. Then I wish to take a powder. Eight snakes are coiled there on the side and bottom of the basket.
“By the sacred cuticle of Mohammed,” says the dervish, “this is not the work of djinn or efreet. There is no sorcerous enchantment involved. These are the veritable serpents of wisdom, who foretell the future and act as auguries, divinators, and —”
“Snakes alive,” I interrupt. “Kindly close the basket. I don’t like the way they look at me.”
“They will not harm you,” says Ali Ben Alikat. “Wait, and I will introduce you. My little ones, meet Lefty Feep.”
“Hello,” I gulp, having nothing else to say.
The snakes writhe into a heap and suddenly they are lying coiled up in the bottom of the basket, spelling out the word, “HELLO.”
Absolutely, that’s what they do!
And as the snakes coil, I recoil. “Why do you carry them around?” I gasp.
“Merely to warn me if the Axis or its agents get on my trail,” explains Ali Ben Alikat.
“But you’re not a Baghdad lad anymore,” I reason with him. “You escape, don’t you?”
“The Axis has agents everywhere,” Alikat sighs. “And they still wish to secure this sceptre. I am going to give it to a museum for safekeeping, I believe. But I have not made arrangements to turn it over. Consequently, it is still in my possession.”
“Where is it?” I ask.
“Here,” says Ali Ben Alikat. He whips up the corner of his nightie. I bend down and see it strapped to his leg. Sure enough, it is a long golden sceptre, with beautiful designs on it.
“The serpents will warn me and tell me when to turn this over to authorities in your country,” the dervish explains. “They are my spiritual guides. Are you not, my little green brothers?”
He smiles at the snakes in the basket and lowers his nightie again. Suddenly he frowns. He stares down and points at the snakes with a skinny finger. I look at them. The serpents coil up furiously and I read their message. “LOOK OUT,” is what seven of the snakes spell, and the eighth one is just trying to form itself into an exclamation point when —
