Directed by Edward F. Cline
Written by W.C. Fields (as Mahatma Kane Jeeves), Richard Carroll
Starring W.C. Fields, Shemp Howard
It was, I believe, last Wednesday night. Whichever night it was raining and that fog seeped in. I was taking the train home from work when I became convinced by a completely illogical premonition that the conditions would somehow cause us to derail. I made it a point to disembark at the next stop.
I found myself in a part of town that I had never seen before. It smelled like it was laundry day, and everyone had washed their clothes in urine before hanging them out to dampen in the mist. I was shivering and pulled my coat up tight. But I needed a different kind of warmth in my belly.
I walked toward where the fog was at its brightest yellow-grey. I found there a tavern lit by gas lamp, with a better-than-average weeknight crowd, no doubt driven by the same impulses as myself.
Edgar Allan Poe and Mark Twain were arm wrestling in a booth. A lively game of Texas Hold ‘em was underway in the middle of the room. Colonel Sanders was holding a cigar and looking very confident. Minnie Pearl and one of the Monkees each had a decent stack of chips. Paul Lynde appeared to be out of the game and was just hanging around to chat. Poor Elisha Cook was obviously about to be dealt out.
There was one open stool at the bar and I worked my way over, careful to avoid a collision with Carmen Miranda balancing a tray of drinks atop her head.
Shemp Howard was moving faster than I would have imagined him capable, applying a lemon twist to a martini on his left and pouring a jigger of amaretto on his right, then quickly turning around to tighten up a faulty beer tap. I didn’t want to interrupt his work to place my order just yet, and looked to the neighbor on my left.
“It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast!” said W.C. Fields, and threw down a shot. He had his own bottle of rye, and immediately poured another.
“What an apt phrase,” said the silly old bear to my right. He turned up his hunny jar and then, licking his lips, offered it to me. I politely declined, but then the bear leaned in and whispered to me in confidence.
“It isn’t really hunny, you see. Or at least it hasn’t been in some time. Do you, sir, imbibe of mead?”
It was a libation I had never tasted, but my curiosity was piqued. I hefted the hunny jar in both hands (it was surprisingly large), took a cautious whiff, and drank in a large gulp.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” the bear continued. “None of my friends know, but then none of us are very bright. I feel I’ve been sending warning signals for years, vainly hoping for intervention.” He sighed loudly. “How very silly of me.”
I had drunk more than I’d intended, and I passed the jar back to my gracious host. But his expression changed to one of consternation.
“Oh bother, all gone.”
On my left, Fields stopped his glass halfway to his lips. He glanced nervously at our companion. “Everything OK there, Mister Saunders?”
“How very, very silly of me,” the bear repeated, swaying awkwardly on his stool.
By now his behavior had drawn Shemp’s attention. He poured a glass of ice water and placed it before the drunken old bear. “You uh, want us to call that boy to come get ya?”
Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. The bear knocked back his stool and stood on his haunches. “That boy -- is never coming back!”
And then, his balance lost, he fumbled his paws around the hunny-mead jar just as his body rolled over with a crash. Somehow he worked the jar over his entire head and then pawed and clawed in the air like a turtle on its back.
Aghast, I looked to Fields, but he had already returned to his rye. “Silly old bear,” he muttered.
The mead was burning in my stomach. I’d gotten what I came for. Sensing that the place would be closing and perhaps ceasing to exist very soon, I made for the exit and never looked back.
Written by W.C. Fields (as Mahatma Kane Jeeves), Richard Carroll
Starring W.C. Fields, Shemp Howard
It was, I believe, last Wednesday night. Whichever night it was raining and that fog seeped in. I was taking the train home from work when I became convinced by a completely illogical premonition that the conditions would somehow cause us to derail. I made it a point to disembark at the next stop.
I found myself in a part of town that I had never seen before. It smelled like it was laundry day, and everyone had washed their clothes in urine before hanging them out to dampen in the mist. I was shivering and pulled my coat up tight. But I needed a different kind of warmth in my belly.
I walked toward where the fog was at its brightest yellow-grey. I found there a tavern lit by gas lamp, with a better-than-average weeknight crowd, no doubt driven by the same impulses as myself.
Edgar Allan Poe and Mark Twain were arm wrestling in a booth. A lively game of Texas Hold ‘em was underway in the middle of the room. Colonel Sanders was holding a cigar and looking very confident. Minnie Pearl and one of the Monkees each had a decent stack of chips. Paul Lynde appeared to be out of the game and was just hanging around to chat. Poor Elisha Cook was obviously about to be dealt out.
There was one open stool at the bar and I worked my way over, careful to avoid a collision with Carmen Miranda balancing a tray of drinks atop her head.
Shemp Howard was moving faster than I would have imagined him capable, applying a lemon twist to a martini on his left and pouring a jigger of amaretto on his right, then quickly turning around to tighten up a faulty beer tap. I didn’t want to interrupt his work to place my order just yet, and looked to the neighbor on my left.
“It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast!” said W.C. Fields, and threw down a shot. He had his own bottle of rye, and immediately poured another.
“What an apt phrase,” said the silly old bear to my right. He turned up his hunny jar and then, licking his lips, offered it to me. I politely declined, but then the bear leaned in and whispered to me in confidence.
“It isn’t really hunny, you see. Or at least it hasn’t been in some time. Do you, sir, imbibe of mead?”
It was a libation I had never tasted, but my curiosity was piqued. I hefted the hunny jar in both hands (it was surprisingly large), took a cautious whiff, and drank in a large gulp.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” the bear continued. “None of my friends know, but then none of us are very bright. I feel I’ve been sending warning signals for years, vainly hoping for intervention.” He sighed loudly. “How very silly of me.”
I had drunk more than I’d intended, and I passed the jar back to my gracious host. But his expression changed to one of consternation.
“Oh bother, all gone.”
On my left, Fields stopped his glass halfway to his lips. He glanced nervously at our companion. “Everything OK there, Mister Saunders?”
“How very, very silly of me,” the bear repeated, swaying awkwardly on his stool.
By now his behavior had drawn Shemp’s attention. He poured a glass of ice water and placed it before the drunken old bear. “You uh, want us to call that boy to come get ya?”
Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. The bear knocked back his stool and stood on his haunches. “That boy -- is never coming back!”
And then, his balance lost, he fumbled his paws around the hunny-mead jar just as his body rolled over with a crash. Somehow he worked the jar over his entire head and then pawed and clawed in the air like a turtle on its back.
Aghast, I looked to Fields, but he had already returned to his rye. “Silly old bear,” he muttered.
The mead was burning in my stomach. I’d gotten what I came for. Sensing that the place would be closing and perhaps ceasing to exist very soon, I made for the exit and never looked back.
