October 03, 2005

• As Skrik hit "Post new comment", the sound of breaking glass tinkled in the floor below. Someone stirred and the sounds of "Celebrity Jeopardy" dimmed for the first time that night. "Could it be pirates?" he mused. Slowly he crept to the door and, breathing slowly and deliberately, strained to listen. A solitary trumpet began to blow outside, down the street - it was . . .
• ...Gabriel, the inebriated archangel.
• "Fear *hic* Not ye . . rrrabble rhou*urp*ushers!!" Gabriel called. With a deft flip of his forearm, the trumpet appeared at his lips, and he blew the first passage from Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland". "Hey B*hic* Baybeee!" He swaggered to the side of the walk, "If it isn't my ol' bhest buuuuuudy bud ol' budareeno *hic* pal," . . .
• I might try it this year.
• "Gabe must mean the pen. 'Cause Beiderbecke, he ain't," said Hoagy, as he peered down from under St. Peter's elbow at the festivities below, where puny mortals and slightly less puny immortals consorted..
• ...with consorts. Elbow rubbing and gluteal grinding of all sorts. The crowd heaved with tension.
• St Peter, a noteworthy prude and killjoy, turned on a thunderstorm, and as the gatekeeper was thus occupied, Hoagland Howard Carmichael availed himself of the oppostunity to return to the earth; landing with a thump on the roof of a red sedan amid torrential rain, he stepped down, and ran after the streaming folk on the sidewalk, hot on the heels of a well-drenched couple who ducked into a corner delicatessen, where he...
• ... was promptly devoured by two cannibalistic deli dwellers. "I love hoagies," blurted the first cannibal through a mouthful of Carmichael. The second absently murmured his assent. The second cannibal had been troubled recently by...
• ... acid reflux. He had been wondering if he was becoming human-intolerant. He hoped not, because he loved eating humans so much. He was, after all, the author of the book, How to Cook Forty Humans, published by Houghton-Mifflin and available in paperback for only $19.95. How would it look if the cannibal chef went on an all-cheese diet? But the thought was lost when some drunk jerk blew a horn in his ear.
• "WOOOOO!! YEAhhhhzzzsRight! Raiiiise *hic* Raise'r Roof!" Shouted Gabriel, a frosty cold pint of lager in one hand. His trumpet now sported several brightly colored streamers and seemed to be dancing on it's own with his frenetic movements. "Ah wanna 'nounce here today! *hic!* We're here to shellibrate one'nn th' best days EVAR! It's" . . .
• "...Re'ribution Day!" hiccuped Gabriel, who, obersving the uneaten head of Hoagy, suddenly extended his wings, knocking the cannibalistic duo straigth to hell with a practiced skill that left St Peter, who'd been peering down and regretting the thick cover of clouds that meant he had to use his Supervision (which always gave him a migraine), astonished enough to exclaim, "Good God!" "Yes, dear?" said God. "Oh -- I see where Gabriel's just sent two cannaiblas from New York City to hell for eating Hoagy Carmichael --oh, but now Gabiel's Restored Your favorite pianist, composer, and laid-back raconteur." "That's good of Gabe," said God, nodding approval. "But where's Louis? Did you find out yet what Gabe's's done with Louis Armstrong?" "I --" began St Peter, but...
• SUDDENLY, IN BURST THE SPANISH INQUISITION!
• (no one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition...)
• bearing their evil tools of torture: tennis racquets, hair shirts and undies, Whitney Houstin recordings, chinese fingercuffs, and the greatest evil of all--the garlic press.
• Slowly they approached the arisen Hoagy and the sloshing Gabriel. "Infidel!" they sneered at Hoagy. "Cardinal Breakwind!" cried the lead Inquisitor, "read the charges!" But as the Cardinal stepped forward with a musty scroll head aloft, Hoagy put up a hand. "Now just hold on here, fellas" he said. "I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable solution to all this." With that, he pulled a crumpled pack of Old 3-Day smokes out of his inside coat pocket, and effortlessly flipped a cigarette into his lips where it hung perfectly balanced between incineration and weightlessness. Hoagy strolled through the smoky club to a dusty upright, and sat down to play. He ordered a Rolling Rock from the passing waiter, and launched into a swinging bluesy version of . . .
• "Am I Blue?" followed by "Stardust" and then "Ol' Rockin' Chair Got Me", which put -- thanks to the master's deft touch -- the Spanish Inquisition to sleep for the next five hundred years. God, who had chosen to Manifest in plus-fours and a sleeveless argyle sweater so he resembled a bearded Bobby Jones, now applauded enthusiastically. "Hey, Gabe, been meaning to ask you, where'd you loose Louis?" Gabriel lifted his battered horn to his lips and answered with a few bars of ...
• ..Oh who was he kidding anyways. "Hold it Gabe". He stood there staring at the expectant crowd. The piercing lights of the stage forcing beads of sweat to appear. "Fuck", he began, his voice cracking. He paused to light the dangling cig. The nervous silence puctuated only by the click of his zippo and a heaving cough from the back of the room. The cool smoke tickled his throat. How had he ended up here? It didn't matter, she wasn't here. "I'm sorry, I can't do this", he mumbled, looking around confusedly. "I'm sorry." He headed for the door and paused outside to take the last drage of the stale cig and flick it into the gutter. The sun was out, and the birds chirping; perhaps it was going to be a good day...
• Gabriel's head moved back and forth in decreasing arcs signalling he had seen this all too often. "Oh Hoagy." Through the centuries, Hoagy had fallen deeper and deeper into a syrupy depression. Gabe had followed him, faithfully trying to pull him out of the quagmire, and instead lost himself in the bottle. Booze... whiskey, beer, wine, gin, vodka, but mostly absinthe margaritas. What is heaven to do with a sloshed angel? Nothing but...
• ...another one of Gabe's imaginative maunderings. The archangel with the golden horn was fond of playing drunk when among puny mortals, who seemed less frightened of him then. It is not easy in the mortal world if you are an archangel unable to shrink your Manifestations down below nine feet in height. And then, of course, there were his wings. Gabe tried to keep these tucked inconspicuously under the king-sized bed sheets he was in the habit of knotting about himself -- one of Hoagy's better suggestions, that, Gabe thought -- but the sheets kept coming untied and attracting attention. "Just tell 'em you're an actor, Gabe," Hoagy had suggested. Gabe eyed Hoagy uncertainly. "Would they believe me, do you think?" "Prob'ly not," said the pianist, "but they'll be more likely t' b'lieve you're drunk." Then Hoagy had suggested safety-pins. Which was how they both came to be cutting a hole in the back wall of a five-and-dime store at three o'clock in the morning. But...
• . . .where indeed was Louis? Only the greatest human-angel trumpet player the fertile earth had ever seen, Louis slowly opened his puffy eyes and glanced around. Man, that Gabe had some strong shit, that's for sure. And where was his damned trumpet?! Heh heh heh - he'd known better than to hide away with a drunk, weed-smoking angel and now here he was in some darkened back room, on cushions, trumpetless and listening to what sounded like construction down below. The city was relatively quiet, except for the haphazard growling of some tool or other. Louis had to get up and find that trumpet. Thankfully he'd woken up with his suit still in good shape, and he tugged at the sleeves and pants to remove some of the leftover wrinkles. He rubbed his face with a handkerchief and, leaned slightly out the window for fresh air. He drew a deep breath and was slowly exhaling just as he heard . . .
• ...JC. He was there. In all his majesty, glowing with the spirit of a love supreme. John Coltrane's horn blew by him, around him, and through him. Louis couldn't ascertain the source of Coltranes's righteous wail, but he could simultaneously feel and hear it. JC was near, and finally...
• they could play that dive bar over by Saint Peters.
• I bet you can't keep this going until the 30th.
• I don't think we did.