IN THE DRUNKEN COCKROACH
We got the Aardvark settled quickly in a hotel near the center of town
and then decided to go out and eat someplace. Hawser Dawson wanted to
go along till he got his money and since he wanted it in cash and the
banks didn't open till the next day we decided to let him tag along.
There was but one stipulation: that he take a bath. This almost broke
Stinky's heart but he consented and when he met us in the lobby a few
hours later, he was (as he termed it) "disgustingly filthy clean."
Rubin was looking quite elegant in a rented tux which was a size
sixty-seven. The Schwartz girls were absolutely ravishing in their
two evening gowns that were strapless, hemless, backless, topless,
bottomless, frontless, and with a plunging neckline.
But the really dashing one was Cassius Q Aardvark. He was decked out
in a conservative green and red suit with a yellow tie, spats, a cane,
top hat and the perennial lavender earmuffs. We could never understand
it but the newspapers said the next day that about fifty cases of color
blindness and shock were brought into the hospital raving about an
Aardvark with a top hat and earmuffs.
That was really a queer night. We started out at the Stork Club. Sherm
Billingsley had gotten wind of the Aardvark and had a special room
reserved with a wall knocked out for the elephant Rubin. The men were
practically fawning all over the Schwartz Valkyries who calmly broke
Champagne bottles over their heads and continued to stay by their
erstwhile pal, the Aardvark. After we had gotten well well placed
I looked at the Aardvark. He was holding sway like a royal Sultan,
complete with dancing girls. The young blade was surrounded by the
chorus line and was having a rough time with them. But he had eyes only
for the Schwartz sisters. They sat there exchanging guttural sounds.
After we got finished at the Stork we took in rapid succession the
Mocambo, the 21, 22, 23, 24, and 25 Clubs, the Noire Pansy Club, and
the Hi, Low, Top, and Homburg Hat Clubs.
About nine o'clock we were just about pooped out when we noticed that
we had lost Hawser someplace. It was quite a relief to us as he had
poured the contents of a potted palm over himself at the Noire Pansy
Club to make himself feel more at home and he had begun to reacquire
the odor that was peculiar only to his body.
It was then that Cassius remarked, "Look at the neighborhood we're in.
This is lower than low."
Truer than true were his words. We were in a neighborhood that looked
like the inside of a shell-shocked oyster shell. We were surrounded by
broken down houses and buildings that looked as though they had been
old when Moxie's Army was chewing on rattles. At the end of the street
that we were on was a building that was a little better; just a little.
By better, I mean it was standing. There was a sign over the door that
proceeded to tell us in no uncertain terms that this was the "Drunken
Cockroach Nightclub."
I was all for turning back as was Cassius Q, but the Valkyries, Olga
and Ketanya who had consumed a great deal of wine (they learned how in
Valhalla, they told us) ran on ahead and without a backward hiccough
vanished into the rickety building which threatened at any moment to
fall on their heads.
With a shrug to the Gods of Chance Rubin, Cassius and myself proceeded
to the Spirit Hostelry, or as you choose, Beer Parlor.
The inside of the Drunken Cockroach was worse than the outside. It
looked like a nightmare by Dali on a night when he had run out of
brushes and had started using his feet.
The bar, which ran across the back of the smoke-filled room, was of
a seasick green color while the walls were a burnt umber tinged with
beige. The floor was ornamented with a five-pointed star that showed
several crawly type animals such as the kind that "... go bump in the
night." They were of various hues and were, in all, quite sickening.
The bartender was the worst. A small sign above the door related to the
fact that he was Oliver Absinthe. He was not only repulsive, he was
nauseating. A large bald head encased in folds of pink flesh was what
surmounted the largest bay window in the country, outside of Rubin's.
He was wearing an apron that showed the demise of many a martini. There
were also spaghetti, dirt, milk, coffee, and gravy stains on the apron
besides a group of green blotches that I couldn't quite place. It
looked like the remains of last week's spinach.
Have you ever heard a sick Hippo tell you about his operation? Well,
if not try to imagine how it would sound, since that was what this
fellow's voice sounded like. "What's ya pleasure," he said.
"Nothing much," I answered, looking for a quick way to get out if it
was needed.
We seated ourselves in a booth next to the Valkyries who were fast at
work guzzling beer. Rubin just stood with one foot on the brass rail,
which at the application of his weight, bent. He ordered another double
double scotch and in one gulp downed it. It was then that the elephant
began screeching in an unelephantlike way and kicking himself in his
more than ample posterior. We started shaking him by the trunk and
asked him what the trouble was and he yelled that the last drink was
one too many. He was seeing pink people.
After this outburst I returned to the booth to see that the Aardvark
was gone. My attempts at locating him were halted suddenly by the
screaming of another person. It seems as though that evening was
open season on howling. The person yelling was Oliver Absinthe, the
bartender, who was yelling at Cassius who was in turn yelling and
alternately beating with his fists and a cuspidor, a slot machine that
was not acting in the way Cassius expected it to. With a resounding
howl the machine exploded showering colored lights, nickels, pieces of
wire, and an Aardvark at me. The last was caught by Ketanya Schwartz in
one hand while downing a beer with the other. Absinthe was jumping up
and down behind his seasick green bar while the rather shady looking
patrons were scrambling for the nickels.
Absinthe, who had been systematically withdrawing each strand of hair
from his chest (his head was bald), let loose a barrage of verbal
abuse that even singed my ears. Besides that, he let loose a string
of whiskey bottles that sailed across the room and felled, one at a
time, the clientele on the opposite side. The bodies began piling up
as Oliver the bartender became not only bald on his head, but upon his
barrel chest also. I for one dove for safety under the table, and there
was pleasantly surprised to find the half-pickled Olga Schwartz still
swilling spirits. I raised my head in time to see the Aardvark swinging
across the nearly-ruined room on the trunk of Rubin, who was sitting
in the middle of the floor hitting himself and repeating, "Go away, go
away." Giving out a sound like Tarzan with the gout, he flew through
the murky smoke-filled air and with a sidearm that would do Bob Feller
credit, hit the still-bellowing bartender a resounding clunk in the
cranium. Absinthe fell like a poled ox.
By this time there was much yelling and hollering by everyone within
a radius of two blocks. In the distance we heard the mournful wail
that signals the entrance of the blue coated gendarmes. With a
significant look we aroused Rubin, whose moustache had begun to droop
sadly, climbed upon his back, and amidst the clatter and crash of beer
bottles, escaped the "Drunken Cockroach Nightclub." Like I said, what a
night!