The dwarf pulls out a bugle from somewhere and blows a series of notes.
As the final note vibrates and fades, so does the dwarf, until…
I turn and see a soldier outfitted in Yankee blue with matching wide-brimmed hat and a long coat brocaded with four stars on each shoulder and four sets of four brass buttons at the front. He is bearded with a serious countenance.
I realize I am sitting two stools away from Ulysses S. Grant.
He seems pleasantly bewildered, not by his presence in this bar but by his uniform, whose cuffs he studies with glee. “It’s been years since I fit into this,” he says. “My favorite coat.”
“You prefer a uniform to civilian garb?” I say.
“I prefer being a general to president,” he replies.
“But why?
“As a general, my subordinates are obliged to listen and if I give a command, by God, they are obliged to abide. If they do not, the consequences are deadly. But as president? Pishaw! Your subordinates pay lip service and then set about selling their services to the highest bidder.” Grant looks around in awe. “Say, do they serve champagne in this saloon?”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“What about whiskey?”
I know the drill by now and ease off the barstool forgetting I’m leg-less. But I’ve got my legs back! I can walk out!
But walk out on General Grant? I think not. Instead, I work my way around the bar and consult the whiskey shelf.
“Do you have a preference?” I ask, turning to face General Grant.
“Old Crow.”
I find a bottle, grab a shot glass, fill it to the brim.
Grant picks it up, studies amber liquid in the light and dispatches it down his gullet. “Gee-willikers!” He plunks the shot glass down. “That is damn fine whiskey! Fill ‘er up!”
“Yes, sir.” I oblige him. “Shall I address you as General Grant or Mister President?”
“Neither.” He drains the second shot. “Call me Sam.”
“Okay, Sam.”
“Ya know,” says Sam, “it might be better if you just put the bottle on the bar, I’ll do the rest.”
“Sure, Sam.”
I watch as he pours himself a third and then a fourth.
“In high school U.S. History,” I say, “I learned that you drank your way through the Civil War with Lincoln’s blessing. How were you able to manage that—and win?”
“Simple.” Sam winks. “I understand quarter-mastering.”
I wait for more.
But he doesn’t fill the void.
“Might you elaborate?” I ask.
Grant looks at me mournfully, like, he’s a man of a few words and, if I don’t get what he means, it’s my problem, not his.
But another whiskey lubricates his mouth sufficiently to expound. “Troops need to eat. Troops especially need to drink.” He raises his glass. “They need ammo and gunpowder to shoot. That’s what a quartermaster does. Its his job to make certain that troops at the front have everything they need to advance. If you don’t understand the importance of quarter-mastering, you’re doomed to defeat. But if you got what you need because of good quarter-mastering, you keep charging forward until the enemy surrenders unconditionally.
“And this…” he pours himself another whiskey and holds it up… “this is charging fuel.” He pauses to reflect. “Quarter-mastering is what I call learning from the ass up—and we had a lot of asses to teach and tame.”
“You mean mules for carrying supplies?”
There is a glint in Grant’s eyes. “I was thinking of the generals that came before me.”
“Is that the lesson I’m supposed to learn,” I demand, hoping to catch Sam off guard after a few shots. “One must always press their foes for unconditional surrender?”
“As opposed to just being an ass?” Sam studies me, a bemused expression on his face. “I’m not here to teach a lesson to you or anyone else. I’m a soldier, not a teacher. It worked for me. But that was only the first half of what I did.”
“What was the other half?” I ask hopefully, believing if I learn the lessons this predicament is supposed to teach me I can drink up and go home.
“Once the Confederates surrendered unconditionally,” says Sam, “I prevented everyone on the Union side from taking punitive measures against them.”
“No spoils of war?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because in my estimation our foes were us.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Nor did a lot of others on my side of the Mason-Dixon. But it’s pretty fucking simple: We were all Americans. Which was what our side was fighting for—to keep the Union together. If we punished the South we’d be differentiating between them and us, which would have defeated the whole purpose of what we in the North had been fighting to achieve. Instead, I instituted reconciliation. North and South needed to reconcile in order to reunite.”
“So that’s the lesson—reconciliation”
Sam shrugs me off. “I’m just here for the whiskey—and it tastes damn fine.”
“Is it true that lobbyism was born under your watch at the White House?”
Sam chuckles sourly. “Wasn’t my idea for them to wait in the lobby of the Willard and pounce on me when I made my way to the restaurant at lunchtime.” He pauses. “They’d ask for my support on something or other and I’d suggest the appropriate Secretary.” He shakes his head. “I’d hoped my assorted Secretaries would have the good sense to look at their requests objectively and not require gifts in return. I did not have time to police them. I had my work cut out for me, pulling the country back together from the turmoil left in the wake of war—and there wasn’t a lot of glory in that, just hard slogging.”
“So if it wasn’t your fault how did you get maligned as a corrupt president?”
“It happened under my command.” He looks at me with a gripping eye-gaze. “Don’t explain, don’t complain.”
“Is that the lesson?”
Sam rolls his eyes.
“Then why am I here?” I press.
He turns. “You’re asking me? I don’t even know why I’m here.” With that, he gets off his stool, nods and says, “Old soldiers don’t die…”
And then he just fades away, leaving the dwarf in his place. This time the dwarf is sporting a burgundy beret.
“I get it,” I say. “This is about hats, right?”
“Hats?” He fills his cheeks with air, slaps them and allows his face to explode with a drawn-out raspberry.
“Every time you reappear you’re wearing a different hat.”
“I like hats.”
“I get that. But I don’t get why you’re doing this to me.”
“I’m not doing shit to you,” says the dwarf. “You did it to yourself.”
“Did what?”
“Night-capped yourself.” The dwarf belches. “It’s that last drink that always nails you.”
“It has never nailed me like this before.”
“Wah!” the Dwarf mock bawls. “Cry me a fucking Niagara Falls!”
“Okay, okay,” I surrender unconditionally. “Who’s next?”
The dwarf pulls out a pocket watch and checks the time. “Well, it’s way past midnight.” He smiles. “Would you like to meet Dracula?”
“Dracula wasn’t a real person.”
“Who says they can’t be fictional?” The dwarf stink-eye’s me. “You think you make the rules? I’ll give you Vlad the Impaler from Transylvania—he was real. A real badass.”
I shake my head. “You already fucked up with Rasputin not speaking English, remember? I don’t speak Romanian either.”
The dwarf recoils as if I’d slapped him. “Smarty-pants!”
“But go for it,” I say. “If I surrender unconditionally I assume I’ll be able to reconcile with reality.”
The dwarf laughs. “You mean sobriety.” He folds his tiny arms. “I guess it’s time for you to meet someone who refused to surrender unconditionally.”
Before I can respond, the dwarf hops onto a barstool and twirls into the cartoon Tasmanian devil until…
…next Monday