Dos Passos Dream

I had a dream I was Dos Passos and the flappers were sucking on my toes, the vermouth was garnished with cabbage leaves and
the Hittites were brandishing exotic weapons of Croat manufacture. This other writer came up to me and offered a story about
quirky butchers but I had to refuse it because you don't eat meat and I aim to be inoffensive to those that appreciate me.
The band was playing Patsy Cline but they couldn't figure out what key “I Fall to Pieces” was played in because she hadn't been invented yet. The bandleader just smiled a gap-toothed smile and asked if anybody could play the pedal steel guitar. Red Grange stepped forward and said he'd give it a shot before suddenly tucking the clunky device under his arm and galloping off between two marble pillars.
I winked at the woman with ruby-red lips and she mistook it for a coy dismissal, throwing her drink on me and abruptly exiting the soiree. "Good bye," I said, "Don't expect to be in my next book."
I told my banker I'd had enough to drink and needed to pound out a few more chapters about wobblies and doughboys. He reached into my pocket and borrowed two bits.
As I was walking out the door, I met Woodrow Wilson, who grabbed me by the knee and said, "Dos Passos, remember to tip your
hat to the ladies and please don't call me Woody."