tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 92: "blue moon"

by Horace P. Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo* 

illustrations by roy dismas , danny delacroix and eddie el greco

*Associate Professor of Sumerian Literature, Assistant Water Polo Coach, Olney Community College; editor of How’s Tricks on the Outside? The Prison Poems of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 1; Olney Community College Press; underwritten in part by a generous grant from The Pep Boys: “Hey, you know you can’t afford a new car! Let Manny, Moe & Jack help keep that old jalopy of yours running just a little bit longer!”

I say again, Mr. Sternhagen," bellowed Lord Wolverington, "don't you agree that youth is wasted on the young? Haw haw haw!" Harold P. Sternhagen returned from the story (or was it a first chapter?) that had just passed through his brain, to the here and now, to this table in the Prince Hal Room of the Hotel St Crispian, and to the sight of the horrible gaping rictus of that old pansy Lord Wolverington across the table, to the leering wizened painted mask of his companion Miss Charlton, to the terrified pale face of that Michael fellow (or was it (100) Henry?) squeezed in between those two ancient wrecks. “Farmer” Brown clapped Harold on the shoulder, bringing him ever more fully into this world, the one people called reality.  "Oh, I completely agree!" said the Farmer. "My own youth was entirely wasted on me!" "As is your middle age," muttered Fred Flynn, sitting to Harold's left. "What's that, Mr. Flynn?" said the Farmer. "I said as is your middle age being wasted, and as will your old age and senescence, should you live so long." "Ha ha!" said the imperturbable Farmer, leaning across Harold, so that Harold could smell the man’s Old (200) Spice aftershave and the Brylcreem in his harshly dyed bright-brown hair. "So right you are, Mr. Flynn! But I shouldn't have it any other way! Ha ha! No other way indeed! Ha ha!" "Haw haw!" bellowed Lord Wolverington. Miss Charlton made a cackling sound, like the sound an old hen makes as she's being throttled for the stew pot.  Michael or Henry continued to look terrified. And Shirley, Shirley De La Salle, continued to sing, over there across the smoky room.  “Blue moon,” she sang, “You saw me standing alone…”

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