Dan Leo's Blog, page 19

“For a Good Time Call Bubbles”

Addison deposited his nickel in the hallway phone outside his tiny fourth floor walk-up, dialed the number and waited. On the wall around the phone were scrawled various telephone numbers and names and cryptic admonitions, such as “for a good time call trixie”. After ten rings came a click – and her voice, that inimitable voice:



“Who the fuck is this and why are you waking me up.”

“Oh, hello, Bubbles! It is I.”

“Who is I?”

“I am he whom men, and, yes, women, call ‘Addison’ – not, as I think I mentioned last night, that that is either my actual Christian or family name, but, alas, for good or ill, or all that’s in between, it is the shall we say nom de guerre by which I am known to nearly all mankind but for my blood relations, among which latter cohort my pet sobriquet is – embarrassingly enough –”

“Just shut up a minute. Who is this again?”

“Addison?”

“Addison.”

“From last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes, we met at the San Remo Café, remember?”

Addison felt a trickle of cold sweat oozing down his back. Had he dreamt it all?

“Oh,” she said, after half a minute’s agonizing pause. “You.”

“Yes, dear Bubbles, ‘tis I!”

“What the hell are you doing calling me so early? What time is it, anyway?”

“It’s half past noon, on the dot, or at least it was when I dialed your number. You see you asked me not to call you before noon, and so I thought it might be wise to give you an extra thirty minutes, because, because –”

“Because why.”

“You said last night you needed your good ten hours at least. Your beauty sleep –”

“And just why are you calling me and waking me up out of a sound sleep?”

“Well, it just so happened that the postman brought me an envelope today, and in that envelope was a Hallmark birthday card and, better yet, a twenty-dollar bill, from my beloved old Aunt Edna.”

“Your who?”

“My Aunt Edna. You see she is quite devoted to me, God knows why, ha ha, but she has the most charming habit of sending me birthday cards two and sometimes three times a year, and always with a twenty dollar bill, well, sometimes only ten, but who am I to complain?”

“It’s your birthday?”

“Oh, no, my birthday is not until October, but you see my Aunt Edna, actually great aunt if we’re being precise, but to the point she is ninety-one and has difficulty remembering birthdays, and so –”

“So your great aunt sent you twenty bucks for your birthday even though your birthday is not till October.”

“What was that funny sound?”

“I just lit a cigarette. If I’m going to listen to your life story, Amberson, I’m gonna have to have a Philip Morris, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all! But by the way, it’s Addison, not Amberson, ha ha.”

“Okay, whatever, Magnificent Amberson, now what did you wake me up for?”

“Well, I wondered, since I’m now rolling in funds, heh heh, if perhaps you would like to join me for a spot of lunch.”

“A spot of lunch? I’m still in bed, buddy.”

“Call it brunch then.”

“Brunch.”

“Yes, that ever so civilized amalgam of the first two meals of the day, but with more of an emphasis on lingering at the table, while chatting of this and that, of world affairs, of the arts, of hopes, dreams, even schemes –”

“Amberson, I’ve got two questions for you. First, are you out of your mind, and, second, are you sure you’re not a raging fairy?”

“Ha ha, my dear lady, surely our little encounter last night answered your second question.”

“What?”

“The, uh, I think you so cleverly called it a Baltimore handshake.”

“Oh, right, it’s all coming back to me now. Okay, maybe you’re not a fairy, although you sure talk like one, but what about my first question. Are you some kind of a nut?”

“Define ‘nut’.”

“It’s a yes or no question, Amberson. Are you out of your mind.”

“Yes,” said Addison.

“Okay, good to know, and goodbye, and don’t call me again.”

“I am out of my mind over you, Bubbles.”

Addison felt a fresh trickle of cold sweat oozing down his spine.

“Bubbles,” he said. “Are you still there? I hope I didn’t speak out of turn. But you see I really am extremely fond of you.”

Silence, except for the faint and possibly imagined gentle sound of exhaled Philip Morris smoke.

“You’re fond of me,” she said at last.

“Very much so,” said Addison.

Another pause, and was that the sound of a Philip Morris Commander ash being tapped into an ashtray?

“You remember where the San Remo is?” she said into the silence.

“Oh, vividly,” said Addison.

“I’ll meet you there in an hour. They have a good lunch there. You like Italian food?”

“I adore Italian cuisine.”

“Swell. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“I’ll get there early and make sure we have a good table.”

“Whatever. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Splendid!”

“If I’m a little late, wait for me.”

“I shall wait until the cows come home!”

“You won’t have to wait that long. Later, Amberson.”

She hung up, the dial tone came on, and Addison returned the receiver to the hook.

An hour!

One hour to ecstasy. How would he ever fill the hour? He decided to go across the street to Ma’s Diner. He would have a cup or two of Ma’s chicory coffee, and perhaps he would meet someone he knew, or make the acquaintance of someone he didn’t know. He would converse with this person, and then, glancing at his watch, he would say, “Oh, please excuse me, but I really must run. I have a brunch date, you see, with a delightful young lady.”

 

And it would be true. He actually had a brunch date with a delightful young lady, and this world, which had seemed rather frightful all his previous life up until last night, this world was now full of possibilities for joy.  




{Kindly go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

 

“A Secret Memory”

Someone was knocking on Araminta’s door. She had been dreaming, of doughnuts. She was a little girl and she was looking up at her grandmother who was ordering the doughnuts at a glass counter. And then the rapping came, and the warm smell of doughnuts and hot cocoa.

The rapping halted and then came a voice: 



“Araminta? Are you awake?”

It sounded like Gerry Goldsmith.

“I’ve brought you doughnuts and hot cocoa.”

Araminta cleared her throat and then said:



“Wait.”

During one of her trips to the bathroom earlier she had gotten out of her clothes and thrown them on the floor, and then gotten back in bed. Now she sighed, deeply, pushed aside the covers and brought her legs over the side of the bed. Her kimono was draped over the bed’s brass foot rail. Without getting up, she leaned to her side and grabbed the robe, and then without getting up she pulled the kimono on.  

“Are you all right, Araminta?” came Gerry’s voice again.

“Wait,” she said again.

Why was everybody so impatient all the time?

It was only two minutes later when she opened the door.

“Don’t look at me,” she said.

Gerry obediently looked away, and held out two brown paper bags.

“I have brought you doughnuts and hot cocoa. The cocoa is still hot and the doughnuts are warm.”

The smell of the doughnuts and hot cocoa, and the warmth.

“You can look at me, Gerry,” she said. “Come inside.”


They sat at her little table in her little kitchenette. The doughnuts had been eaten, the two large Dixie cups of hot cocoa had been drunk, and Gerry had rolled two Bull Durhams, which he now lighted with a paper match. Araminta picked up the matchbook and read the cursive words



The St Crispian Hotel
where the service is swell!

and then she laid the matchbook down.

“What time is it?”

Gerry looked at his old Hamilton.

“Almost half past two.”

“Good God! Is it still snowing?”

“Flurrying still.”

“And yet you went out and got me doughnuts and hot cocoa.”

“I was already out. I was hungry, and had a quite satisfying brunch at Ma’s.”

“What did you have?”

“A double stack of buttermilk pancakes smothered in butter and maple syrup and washed down with copious lashings of Ma’s chicory coffee.”

“You really know how to live, Gerry.”

At some point since Gerry had put her to bed last night Araminta had washed her face, and this was the first time he had ever seen her without lipstick and makeup. She looked younger. Her hair was disordered, but somehow beautifully so. Her neck and collarbone were bare and white. The kimono’s colors were bright and swirling.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I should be toddling along now.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just up to my place.”

“To work on your book?”

“Yes. Maybe I can squeeze out a sentence.”

“Oh good.”

“Maybe it won’t be a bad sentence.”

“I’m sure it won’t be.”

“I’m not so sure, but I’ll try to squeeze out a sentence anyway.”

“It sounds as if you’re speaking of going to the bathroom.”

“It’s a not dissimilar process.”

“Did we do anything last night?”

“Oh.”

“You can tell me. I won’t be angry.”

“We did nothing but talk. And drink. And eat. And talk.”

“And drink.”

“And drink.”

“And you put me to bed?”

“I successfully got you into your bed, yes.”

“I hope – I hope I didn’t get fresh with you, Gerry.”

“Not at all.”

“Did you get fresh with me?”

“Not at all.”

“I want to thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Terry came knocking at my door this morning.”

“Oh. Terry.”

“I made him go away. I had drunk far too much last night to deal with him. I think he was miffed.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I suppose he will. Should I tell him I got drunk with you?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“But you’re a philosopher. You’re supposed to know things.”

“I am a philosopher who doesn’t know things.” 


She turned and gazed toward the window, which was coated with snow, but some soft light came through. 


“I want to go back to bed,” she said.

“That sounds like a good idea.”

“I can’t drink like that every night.”

“No one should drink like that every night. Even me.”

“But I wouldn’t not have done it, Gerry.”

“Nor I.”

“I wish I could remember what happened after we left that Kettle of Fish place.”

“Nothing much. I found us a cab, the cab took us home, I got you upstairs and into your bed.”

“So I didn’t miss much.”

“No. Not really.”

Araminta had kissed him in the cab, and said that she loved him, but Gerry wasn’t going to tell her any of that. He would keep that for himself.

{Kindly go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

“Bachelors of the Bowery”

The snow had not stopped, and so Gerry managed to find them a cab. He had gone way over his budget this night, but what did it matter? He had not had an evening like this since – since when? Since never. He had never had an evening like this. It was as if his whole life had been leading up to this evening…

When the cab pulled up to their building Araminta was asleep, her head on his shoulder.

Gerry paid the driver, and then he pulled Araminta out of the car. The snow fell all around them, and he held her around the waist with one arm, holding his umbrella and Araminta’s purse in his free hand.

“Gerry,” said Araminta, looking up at him, “mon cher Gérard!”

And then she laid her forehead on his chest, and he felt her body slump.

It took Gerry three minutes to get her up the steps, another two minutes to get the front door open while trying to keep Araminta upright, another two minutes to drag her to the foot of the stairway.

Now came the hard part. Araminta’s flat was only on the second floor, but the question was, could Gerry get her up there without incurring a heart attack?

He didn’t try to carry her, but he pulled her and lifted her, step by step, taking frequent rests, and at last, some fifteen minutes later, he dragged her to her door. He tried the doorknob, and, yes, the door was locked. He allowed her body to slide down the wall, then he opened her purse, and, amidst a profusion of strange objects, he found a rabbit’s foot with a couple of keys attached to it. One of the keys fit the door lock, and he opened it.

He put the keys back into her purse, hooked the strap of the purse and the handle of his umbrella over his arm, then lifted Araminta by her shoulders and dragged her into her flat. Fortunately she had left the lights on. He got her to her bed, unbuttoned her coat and pulled it off her, and her beret. He hung the coat and beret up on her clothes tree, then went back and pulled her legs up onto the bed.

He didn’t dare undress her. He covered her with a sheet and a blanket, and then he stood there, sweating, and breathing heavily. Yes, it would be very embarrassing to have a heart attack right now.

Araminta lay on her side, with her hands under her cheek.

Gerry left her purse on her night table. He got his umbrella, went to the door and turned the little switch on the lock so that the door would lock behind him. He was about to leave when he remembered the lights, so he went back and switched them all off, then he went out into the hall and closed the door behind him, turning the knob to make sure the door was locked. 

And now what? Up to his own tiny apartment on the sixth floor?

He looked at his old Hamilton wristwatch, Great-Aunt Edna’s Andover graduation present: good God, was it really this early? How had so much happened in such a short span of time? He felt he had lived more in the past half-dozen hours than he had lived his entire previous life. Was this proof of Einstein’s theory of relativity? At any rate, Gerry might not be young, but, yes, the night was still young, or at least it was by his standards. He wasn’t the least bit sleepy, and he still had a few bucks in his wallet, ergo, he felt the call of Bob’s Bowery Bar, just around the corner. Why not go around and have a bock or two, have a bit of a chat with whoever was there, or maybe just sit quietly and ponder the strange and wonderful events of these past hours?

Gerry went down the stairs and out the door. The snow still fell, unrelentingly, and it was beautiful, turning this impoverished quarter of the city into something beautiful, something even magical, something – dare he say it? Something holy.

He opened his umbrella and went down the steps, and then he heard a voice, muffled by the falling snow.



“Gerry! I say, Gerry, old man!”

Gerry turned to his right. Could it be? Of course it could, and it was.

Addison called again, approaching through the snow under his own umbrella.

“I say, Gerry, old boy, wait up!”

Gerry waited up, as Addison drew closer. Normally Gerry would sigh whenever he encountered Addison, but now, strangely, he didn’t mind. He didn’t even mind that undoubtedly Addison would have no money, and Gerry would have to stand him to drinks.

And then Addison was there, his umbrella white with snow.

“Hey, old chap, quo vadis?” he said, as if he didn’t know.

“Just thought I’d pop round to Bob’s for a bock,” said Gerry. “Would you like to come?”

“I’m afraid I spent all my filthy lucre at that San Remo Café place,” said Addison.

“Then please allow me to treat you,” said Gerry.

“Gee, thanks, Gerry,” said Addison.

“Don’t mention it,” said Gerry.

And off the two gentlemen headed through the falling snow. Each of them, in his own way, had just spent the richest evening of his life, and the night was not yet over.

{Kindly go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

“Everybody’s Got a Story”

Through the falling snow and arm in arm under Gerry’s umbrella they walked up MacDougal Street, and within a matter of seconds, because this was Greenwich Village, a bar appeared on their right, and its vertical neon sign said, simply:  

B
A
R

A hanging sign shaped like an oval bisected by a smaller oval elaborated:

The 

KETTLE

OF FISH

BAR

“I gather this is a bar,” said Araminta.

“So it would seem,” said Gerry.

There was a menu in the window.

“Oh, good – food!” said Araminta. “Shall we go in, mon cher Gérard?”

“I think we should,” said Gerry. “You see, Araminta, for me the best bar has always been the nearest bar.”

“This is why you are a philosopher, Gerry. But first –” She removed her arm from his and opened her purse. Gerry was a patient man, and he enjoyed the moment. Watching a pretty girl searching for something in her purse was more enjoyable than looking at a brick wall, or at a Picasso, or even at Picasso himself, whom Gerry had seen once long ago in Paris, sitting at a table at the Dôme with some other people who were possibly just as famous…

“Voilà,” said Araminta, and she brought out a fat hand-rolled cigarette. “Let’s fire up, old chap.”

“Oh, wait,” said Gerry.

“For what?”

“Araminta, may I ask if that is a reefer?”

“It most certainly is. We need to smoke a little gage, old bean, in order to heighten our gustatory delectation.”

Who was Gerry to say no? What had saying no ever gotten him?

“Splendid idea,” he said, and five minutes that felt simultaneously like five hours and five seconds later they were inside the door and Gerry was closing up his umbrella.

Yes, once again they were in Bar World, amidst the chatter and laughter and shouting of human beings, the swirling of smoke and the gleaming of bottles of liquor, the smells of beer and whiskey and perfume and aftershave, the sounds of what Gerry presumed to be jazz on a jukebox.

A half hour and a pizza with mushrooms and hot peppers later, sitting at a small table by the window with the snow still falling outside, two Bull Durhams lighted and a half-full pitcher of Rheingold on the table, Araminta said:

“Someday, when I am old, I will look back on this evening, and think, ‘I was young, and full of life.’”

“And I,” said Gerry, “when I am old, or I should say when I am older, I shall also look back on this evening, and say, ‘I was middle-aged, and as full of life as I ever was.’”

“If only,” said Araminta.

“Yes?” said Gerry.

“If only you were twenty years younger.”

“Yes,” said Gerry, “or, perhaps, if you were twenty years older.”

“Ha ha. But it wouldn’t be quite the same then, would it?”

“No,” said Gerry, “but nothing is quite the same as anything else.”

“What would you say, old bean, if I were to take you back to my flat and make savage love to you?”

“I should say that it might be quite embarrassing to have me suffer a myocardial infarction in your bed.”

“Yes, that would be a bother. Would you mind terribly if that happened and I dressed you and just dragged your body out into the hallway and let Mrs. Morgenstern deal with it?”

“I shouldn’t mind in the least. Although I doubt that Mrs. Morgenstern would be pleased.”

“A landlady’s work is never done.”

“Anyway, you have a boyfriend, Araminta.”

“Oh, yes. Terry. But he is so – inchoate, Gerry.”

“He’ll become less inchoate in time. Give him a few more years.”

“I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

“Most of life is waiting. And then when what you’re waiting for comes you start waiting for something else.”

“There you go with your philosophy again!”

“Yes, it’s a habit with me, and if I were a better philosopher I might be able to tell if it’s a good habit…”

“Didn’t you ever want to have any sort of job, Gerry?” asked Araminta, in that way she had of changing the subject without transition.

“No,” said Gerry. “Never.”

“And so you’ve never had a job?”

Gerry paused for a moment.

“Does being drafted into the army count?”

“I should think so. What did you do in the army?”

“I was thirty-two, completely out of shape, and completely lacking in militaristic spirit, however I had a degree from Harvard, and so the army in its wisdom gave me a desk job at Fort Dix. I shuffled papers, and read lots of books. When I was finally discharged in November of 1945 I had risen to the exalted rank of corporal.”

“So that was it, your one job.”

“I shuffled papers, and I shuffled them well.”

“Do you think I should get a job?” asked Araminta.

“Before I answer that, may I ask how you pay your rent and buy groceries at present?”

“My father pays my rent, and he also gives me an allowance of fifty dollars a month.”

“Then my advice to you is not to get a job.”

“I’m so glad you said that. I mean, what sort of job could I get, with a B.A. in English Lit from Vassar?”

“Nothing interesting, I’d warrant.”

“The other girls I graduated with have all gotten jobs on Vogue or Mademoiselle or Harper’s Bazaar.”

“I don’t see you working for a ladies’ magazine.”

“What about if I got on the New Yorker?”

“That might be better.”

“I could maybe write those little Talk of the Town pieces, about the city’s oldest doorman, or a good place to buy bagels.”

“Yes, but would you want to?”

“I could write a Talk of the Town piece about you, Gerry. A philosopher living on the sixth floor of a tenement at Bleecker and the Bowery.”

“Oh, I’m sure that would go over well.”

“Ha ha.”

“No, Araminta, you asked my opinion, and – bearing in mind that it’s coming from me and should be taken with several handfuls of salt – my opinion is that you should try to do as I have done, and never take a job if you can help it.”

“So just live off my allowance all my life?”

“Someday you’ll finish your novel, and it just might become a bestseller.”

“I doubt that.”

“Take it from me, Araminta. For three-and-a-half years in the army I worked in an office, and there wasn’t a second when I didn’t wish I were somewhere else. No, jobs are for those who have no choice but to work, or who have nothing better to do with the precious moments they have left on this planet.”

“What have I done to meet such a wise man as you, Gerry?”

“You moved into the same building that I live in.”

“A happy chance.”

“Yes, happy for me as well.”


Louie the waiter stood by the espresso machine smoking a Lucky Strike and gazing at that new odd couple sitting by the window, a man in his forties, a girl in her early twenties? What was their story? A father and daughter? Uncle and niece? If the guy was the girl’s sugar daddy, then why was he wearing that shabby old suit? It looked like a good cut, a Donegal tweed maybe, but it was twenty or twenty-five years old if it was a day, and the elbows were worn bald. The girl wore a black beret and a black sweater, straight black hair and red lips, and she was looking at the man like she was hanging on his every word. The man in his turn looked at the girl almost like he was shy. What was their story? Everybody who came in here had a story, and each story was different, just like Louie had his own story.

The man in the worn tweed suit turned and looked at Louie and raised his finger, but in a nice way, a kind of shy way. Louie put his Lucky in the ashtray on the shelf with the cups and saucers and went over. They wanted to know what was good for dessert, and he recommended the German chocolate cake with the cherry sauce.

{Kindly go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…”

"Ode to Joy"

“All right, tough guy,” said Bubbles, “it’s been fun, and thanks for the spaghetti dinner and drinks, but I need my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, but it’s early yet,” said Addison.

“Early for you, maybe, but I have better things to do than sitting in bars until the wee hours. Like sleeping. And, look, I know you’re not exactly John D. Rockefeller, so I’ll take care of Joe’s tip.”

“Gee, but that’s not necessary, Bubbles.”

“Yes, it is, because this joint is one of my regular hangs, and I like to take care of my bartenders, because they take care of me.”

“Well, only if you insist,” said Addison, and he of course did not insist. “But may I walk you home?”

“Sure, just don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh, heaven forfend!”

“You really slay me, daddy-o. Where’d you say you come from? Pittsburgh?”

“Philadelphia, actually.”

“Are they all like you down there?”

“I doubt that very much, Bubbles.”

“Ha ha. Now help me on with my wrap.”

Outside the snow still fell, thick fat flakes falling through the light of the corner street lamp, tinged with the orange red glow of the San Remo’s neon sign. Addison opened his umbrella, Bubbles took his arm, and they trudged along the white-blanketed sidewalk down Bleecker Street. When they got to Bubbles’s building Addison held the umbrella over her while she dug her key out of her red purse that matched her red pillbox hat.

“Bubbles,” said Addison, “I don’t mean to be forward.”

“Now what is it?”

“But I wonder if I might stop up for a cup of coffee?”

“Coffee?”

“Hot cocoa?”

“What is it with you and cups of coffee and cocoa? I already told you I am not a Horn & Hardart’s.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Besides, I am a civilized girl, and when I want coffee or cocoa I go out to a coffee shop like a civilized person.”

“Would you like to go to a coffee shop?”

“Lookit, buddy, I hate to repeat myself, but I need my sleep. If I don’t get my good ten hours I can’t even show my face to the world.”

“I think you have a lovely face.”

“And it won’t stay lovely if I don’t get my required quota of shut-eye.”

“I wonder – oh, no, I’d better not say it.”

“Say what?”

“You’ll think me frightfully importunate.”

“Out with it.”

“Um –”

“You’ve been talking nonstop all night, and now you’re at a loss for words?”

“I feel somewhat constrained by social custom.”

“You’re not gonna ask to borrow some dough, are you?”

“God forbid!”

“Well, that’s a relief. So what is it, because I’m cold and want to crawl into the sack.”

“I wonder if I might have a kiss?”

“A kiss?”

“Yes. Just a small one.”

“A small kiss.”

“Yes. If it’s not asking too much. You see, well, you may not believe this, but, dash it all, why should I stand on pride? You see, I have never been kissed by a woman before.”

“You’ve never been kissed.”

“Well, I suppose when I was a lad I was kissed once or twice by my grandmother.”

“Christ, Addison, you really are a weirdo.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that.”

“And that’s all you want, a kiss?”

“I know it’s more than I deserve.”

“Nobody deserves anything. Pucker up.”

Addison had seen many movies, and so he puckered up. Bubbles gave him a quick peck on the lips, then she drew her face back.

“Happy now?”

“Oh, ecstatic,” said Addison, without irony.

Bubbles looked at him for a moment, with his shining puppy dog eyes. She had been holding her door key this whole time, and now she put it into the door’s lock, turned it, opened the door.

“I wonder if I might see you again?” said Addison.

She turned.

“What do you mean?”

“When I get my next envelope from home, I wonder if we could, oh, I don’t know, meet for drinks.”

“Drinks.”

“Yes, and, even, if you were hungry, perhaps I could take you to dinner again. We could have spaghetti at the San Remo again, or, if you would like to try something different I know an excellent place across the street from where I live called Ma’s Diner, she has some superb daily specials –”

“Dinner.”

“Yes.”

“You want to take me to dinner.” 

“Yes. Only because I feel there’s so much more we could talk about.”

Bubbles paused for a moment, holding the door knob.

“How’s your memory?”

“Like a steel trap.”

She rattled off a phone number, a SPring-7 exchange. Addison repeated it.

“You got it?”

“Emblazoned permanently on the inner wall of my egg-like skull.”

“Don’t call me earlier than noon, ‘cause like I said, I like my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, yes, of course –”

“Swell. Nighty night then.”

“Oh, wait!”

“What?”

“I said I would give you any money I had left over.” Addison reached under his coat and brought out his old Boy Scout wallet. “Look,” he said. “I have, uh, three dollars left.”

“Keep it.”

“But.”

“I said keep it. I’m not gonna take your last three bucks.”

“You won’t?”

“No, I won’t. Well, good night, hard guy.”

“Wait, Bubbles.”

“Yeah?”

“If you won’t take the three dollars gratis I wonder if I could give them to you in exchange for another, you know, what you did earlier?”

“Another Billie Burke?”

“I thought it was called a Baltimore handshake?”

“Yeah, they call it that, too.”

“Yes. One of those.”

“Aren’t you the frisky puppy?”

“Just a quick one, and I promise I’ll leave posthaste afterwards so you can get your beauty sleep.”

“You are really too much, pal.”

“Yes, I am aware. I have always been too much. Too much, and too little.”

“Tell you what, Addison, if I wasn’t tired and dying to dive into the rack I’d maybe take you up on your offer. Who knows, maybe I’d even let you have a tug on the house.”

“Gosh, Bubbles, I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you in that way.”

“Hey, I do what I want to do. But, look, save your three bucks, because I’m gonna hit the hay.”

“Yes, of course,” said Addison.

She went inside, and as she was closing the door she said, “Remember, no phone calls before noon.”

“I’ll remember!” said Addison.

The door closed, and after standing there for half a minute Addison went down the stoop and headed off through the falling snow back to the San Remo. He still had three whole dollars to spend!

And as he walked he repeated Bubbles’s phone number over and over again, aloud, “SPring-7, SPring-7, SPring-7 –” to the tune of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”…

{Please go here to read the “adult comix” version, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq.}

“Killer McGurk”

“And so you see, Bubbles, my novel, now that I think of it, might just possibly prove to be only the initial installment of a grand multi-volume roman-fleuve which will perhaps someday be to American literature – which I consider still to be in its infancy – what Proust’s masterwork is to French letters. Because even though the volume I am currently working on will probably run to at the least a thousand printed pages, I feel that I can yet explore so much terribly more through the vehicle of my hero Buck Baxter, and…”

Bubbles wasn’t listening, but she didn’t mind. Addison’s babbling was just another soothing element in the smoky drunken symphony of the bar, along with the jukebox music and the laughing and shouting voices of all these other idiots in this place.

“Please, Mr. Johnson,” sang a lady on the jukebox, “don’t play them blues so sad…”

“Hey, Addison,” said Bubbles, “let me interrupt you just a minute.”

“Oh, by all means,” said Addison.

“Why a cowboy book?”

“Pardon me?”

“What I mean is, of all the kinds of books you could write, why did you decide to write a cowboy book? I mean, what do you know from cowboys?”

“Well, Bubbles, you know, that’s actually a very good question, especially as I’ve never even been ‘out west’ as they say, but let me ask you, did Shakespeare ever visit Denmark, or Venice, or Rome, or even France?”

“Beats me.”

“The answer is no, as far as we know he never left England, but you see his imagination through his genius was able to travel to these various far-flung places, not to mention –”

“Yeah, okay, but why a cowboy book?”

“Why indeed? In fact, Bubbles, I think I can answer that question quite specifically. You see, I have a, well, yes, I suppose you can call him a ‘friend’, a man named Tommy McCarthy, he’s involved in some way I’m not quite clear about in the docks on the East River.”

“Tommy McCarthy the big river boss?”

“Yes, the very chap.”

“You’re friends with Tommy McCarthy?”

“Indeed. And, you might not believe this, but Tommy actually even offered me a job –”

“Tommy McCarthy offered you a job? Doing what?”

“That’s not entirely easy to say. You see, we got to chatting one day at my ‘local’, Bob’s Bowery Bar, and, much to my surprise, Tommy suddenly invited me to go see a movie with him. I agreed of course, and on the way to the movie in his enormous Studebaker he stopped outside another bar down by the river called Sailor Sid’s and asked me to wait in the car, and when he came out a couple of minutes later he handed me a gun and told me to put it in my coat pocket.”

“And did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Jeeze. Did he shoot somebody?”

“Well, I didn’t feel it was my place to ask.”

“And then what happened?”

“We went to an Audie Murphy movie, The Preacher Wore a Sixgun. Have you seen it?”

“No. So he told you to hang onto this gun.”

“Yes.”

“And how long did you hang onto it?”

“Oh, a week or so. And as I say, he offered to put me on his payroll. But the thing was, you see I got more and more nervous about the gun, and finally I had to tell him I couldn’t accept the position because I needed to concentrate on my writing, and I asked him to take the gun back.”

“Jeeze, Addison. Was he mad?”

“Oh, he may have been a trifle disappointed in me, but in the end I think he took it pretty well.”

“But what’s this have to do with why you’re writing a cowboy book?”

“Well, you see, at the time I was in the nascent stages of writing a compendious study of trends of literary criticism in the twentieth century, but Tommy suggested I write a western novel instead.”

“He did, huh?’

“Yes, you see, Tommy is quite fond of the western genre.”

“You kill me, Addison.”

“I kill myself, Bubbles.”

“Hey, Bubbles,” said some guy who had come up to the bar and stood next to her.

“Oh, you,” said Bubbles.

He was a big fellow with red hair and a red face.

“You busy?” said the guy.

“Busy drinking and minding my own business, Jack.”

“My name’s not Jack.”

“Sorry, Mack,” she said.

“You know my name.”

“I’m trying to forget it,” she said.

“I got some dough,” said the man, and he took out his wallet. “Ten bucks still good for a throw?”

“Take a hike, Mike.”

“My name is Herb, as you well know, Bubbles. Here, up front.”

He took a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and laid it on the bar next to the Cream of Kentucky highball Bubbles was drinking.

“Listen, Herbie,” said Bubbles, “you take that ten-spot and put it back in your wallet, and then why don’t you dry up and blow away?”

“Hey, you don’t have to be that way.”

“And you don’t have to be the way you are, but you are. Now shove off, because I’m trying to have a conversation with my friend here.”

“This guy?” said the man. “He looks like a fairy to me.”

“A fairy?” said Bubbles.

“Yeah, he looks a little light in the loafers to me.”

“You know who this guy is?”

“I don’t know,” said the man. “He looks like Dan Duryea on a bad day, except a little more weaselly and fairy-like.”

“You know Tommy McCarthy, the river boss?”

“Well, I don’t know him personally. Why?”

“This guy works for Tommy. He’s what you might call Tommy McCarthy’s right-hand man.”

“He is?”

“That’s right. Hey, Killer, say hi to Herbie here.”

“Hello,” said Addison.

“Killer?” said the man.

“That’s what they call him,” said Bubbles. “Killer McGurk. And they call him that for a reason.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” said the man.

“So take that sawbuck and buzz off, Herbert.”

“I really didn’t mean any offense,” said Herbert.

“Hey, Killer,” said Bubbles to Addison, “show him your gat.”

“My gat?” said Addison.

“Yeah, show him your gat and tell him you’re gonna stick it up his fat rump and pull the trigger if he doesn’t beat it.”

“Look, I’m going,” said the guy, and he picked up his ten-dollar bill. “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said to Addison. “I didn’t understand.”

“What I don’t understand is why you’re still standing here,” said Bubbles.

“Sorry, I’m going, but, look can I buy you both a drink before I go?”

“I don’t give a damn what you do, as long as you go,” said Bubbles.

The bartender was standing there smoking a cigar and watching the show.

“Joe,” said the man to the bartender. “Here’s a ten. I want you to back up my friends here with as many drinks as that’ll buy.”

“And what about a tip for Joe?” said Bubbles.

“Oh, right,” said the man. He laid the ten back down on the bar, and then took a dollar bill out of his wallet and put it on the ten. “Here’s a dollar for you, too, Joe.”

“Big spender,” said Bubbles. “Why don’t you give Joe another buck if you can spare it?”

“Oh, sure,” said the guy, and he took out another single and laid it down. “There’s another dollar for you, Joe, and thank you.”

Joe took the money and went away without a word.

“You showed off,” said Bubbles to Herb. “Now – and you should pardon my French – scram, Sam.”

“Okay, I’m going. Nice to meet you, Mr., uh, McGurk, and I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

Finally the man staggered away down the bar.

“What a schmuck,” said Bubbles. “He could see we were having a private conversation here.”

“Killer McGurk?” said Addison.

“Okay, so I exaggerated a little bit,” said Bubbles. She took a drink of her highball. “Two-bit punks like that, they’re the reason how come dames turn dyke.”

“Close to you, I will always stay,” sang another lady on the jukebox…

{Kindly go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, lavishly illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

“Bubbles the Existentialist”

“And so you see,” said Addison, “my goal with this book, all the while, you understand, working within the formal structures – and, yes, strictures – of the so-called western novel, is to explore the deepest questions of identity, of memory, of the fluidity of consciousness –”

“Addison,” said Bubbles, and she wiped up the last traces of sauce in her plate with her bread, “can I tell you something?”

“Oh, by all means, Bubbles.”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Heh heh.”

“So you’re writing a cowboy book, right?”

“Well, as I say, the novel exists within the broad framework of what is known as the ‘western novel’ qua Western Novel, and, also, yes, more broadly speaking, within the traditions of the epic heroic quest –”

“But it’s a western book. With cowboys in it.”

“Well, yes, as I say –”

“So, tell you what, you write your cowboy novel, and when it comes out, if you give me a copy, I’ll read it.”

“Oh, of course, I should love to give you a copy –”

“Or I’ll try to read it.”

“Heh heh?”

“Because cowboy novels are not my usual bag, you know, daddy-o?”

“Ha ha, yes, I suppose, being a woman, the western novel is not your usual literary bill-of-fare –”

“You got that right.”

“But as I say, I think that my novel is only ostensibly within the guidelines as it were of the soi-disant ‘Western’, and what I am really attempting –”

“Addison,” said Bubbles, and, her plate now clean and empty, she picked up her pack of Philip Morris Commanders, “listen, and I’m gonna put this as gently as I can, because you seem like a nice enough guy. You can talk about your cowboy novel if you want, but don’t expect me to listen, okay? Because like I already said, you might as well be speaking Chinese, and you know something? I don’t speak Chinese.”

She sat there holding her cigarette, and finally Addison remembered his manners, scrabbled his matchbook off the table and gave her a light.

“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, you want another one?”

She tapped the pack with her red fingernail. Addison had already smoked three or four of her Philip Morrises, but what the hell, the sap was paying for the meal.

“Why, yes, I don’t mind if I do,” said Addison.

“Help yourself, champ,” she said.

Addison helped himself.

“So what would you like to talk about, Bubbles?” he said, waving out his match and trying to toss it nonchalantly into the ashtray, but missing.

“What would I like to talk about?” said Bubbles.

“Yes,” said Addison. He picked the spent match off the tablecloth and dropped it into the astray.

“You want to know what I’d like to talk about?” said Bubbles.

“Yes,” said Addison.

“Since when did any man ever give a damn about what any dame wanted to talk about? Since when did any man ever want to do anything but talk a lot of baloney just to hear himself talk whether a dame wanted to hear what he had to say or not?”

“I should love to hear what you would like to talk about, Bubbles.”

“You would, huh?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“You really want to know what I’d like to talk about?”

“Yes. I mean, I think I do –”

“How about nothing? Is nothing good for you?”

Addison rarely paused in conversation, but now he paused. He tapped the ash off his cigarette, and some of the ash fell onto the table cloth. He considered trying to pick up the ash, but decided he’d better not. He looked at Bubbles, who was looking into her glass of house red wine.

“Gee,” he said, at last, “you’re quite the existentialist, aren’t you, Bubbles?”

“If I knew what that was, maybe I’d tell you,” she said.

“Well,” said Addison, “existentialism, you see, is a philosophical movement, originating in France I believe, and its most basic tenet is that this existence, this world we live in, is all that we can know for sure, that –”

“And it took some Frenchmen to figure that one out?”

“Heh heh. Why, yes, I suppose it did.”

“This is it,” she said, with a small wave of her cigarette. 

She sat back in her chair. 

The music on the jukebox played, a woman singing, “I’m ‘bout to lose my mind…” 

 

Drunken voices chattered and babbled and laughed and shouted all around the little world in which Addison and Bubbles sat, and the smoke from their cigarettes rose up and mingled with the smoke of dozens of other cigarettes.

“Do you really think so?” said Addison.

“Think what?”

“That this is all there is?”

She let a plume of smoke slowly escape from between her red lips before replying.

“And why wouldn’t I think that?”

“Gee,” said Addison.

“Yeah,” she said. “Gee.”

“I’ve never met a woman like you before, Bubbles.”

“I don’t think you’ve met too many women, my friend.”

“Well, I suppose that’s true. May I ask you a question?”

“Sure, you can ask.”

“What is your raison d’être?”

“My what?”

“Your reason for living.”

“Who says I have one?”

“Gee.”

“You say gee a lot.”

“But you must have some purpose, some goals, some –”

“What do you care?”

“Well, I care because I am – yes, hang it all, I’ll say it – I find myself fascinated by you, Bubbles.”

“If you walked around for a day in my high heels you wouldn’t be so fascinated.”

“But you really are a true existentialist. An avatar, a secular goddess of the culmination of all modern philosophies –”

“And you’re an ass. You know that, don’t you?”

Addison paused yet again.

“Yes,” he said, “I do know that, Bubbles. And you are far from the first person to tell me that.”

“Let’s have some cheesecake, ‘cause it’s really good here. Then maybe we’ll move over to the bar and have another cocktail or two.”

“Well, okay, but, I have to say, that if we have cheesecake, and more cocktails, then I might not have very much money left over to, uh, give you –”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?”

“Don’t worry about if you run out of money. I’ve got money.”

“You mean – you would buy me cocktails?”

“I might. If you don’t get too much more boring.”

“Gee, thanks, Bubbles.”

“Don’t mention it. Now flag that waiter down and tell him we want some cheesecake.”



Another song was playing on the jukebox, a lady singing, “I got it bad and that ain’t good…”



{Please go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

“Perino del Vaga”

It was four flights down from her little apartment, and outside the snow still fell on Bleecker Street, thick fat flakes falling relentlessly, and the sidewalk and the parked cars had been blanketed with an inch more of the white stuff in the half hour that Addison and Bubbles had been upstairs.

“Jesus, I should’ve worn my galoshes,” she said.

“Do you want to go back and put them on?” said Addison.

“No, we’re only going up the block,” she said, “but keep that umbrella over me.”

She put her arm in his, and off they went, back towards the San Remo on the corner.

How odd, thought Addison, to be walking arm in arm with a woman, and it occurred to him that before this night he had never walked with a woman’s arm in his unless the arm belonged to one of the elder females in his family – his mother, one of his grandmothers or aunts or great aunts. Bubbles had her arm in his right arm, the one that held the umbrella, and it was slightly awkward trying to keep the umbrella over her head with its red fur (or was it faux fur) pillbox hat and her somewhat broad shoulders in their black fur (probably not real fur) coat. Could this be the beginning of a new chapter in his life? Or could it possibly even be the first chapter of a whole new volume in the heretofore dreary and tedious roman fleuve of his personal history? A volume in which our hero finally experienced social relations not only with women who were not related to him by blood, but indeed sexual and, yes, even romantic relations? True, he had had to pay three dollars for the “Baltimore handshake” Bubbles had just given him, and had also agreed to buy her an unspecified number of cocktails at the San Remo, but did these transactional factors preclude a deeper friendship, or any sort of friendship?

“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” she said.

“Yes, I was only musing, Bubbles. You see, I was pondering, oh, perhaps unjustifiably, I’ll readily admit, but, yes, I was wondering, you see –”

“Okay, we’re here,” she said. They had reached the entrance to the San Remo, its tall neon sign overhead tinting the falling snow orange red. “Now listen, we can sit together and have a good time and all, but if I give you the high sign, you’ve got to act like we don’t really know each other.”

“The high sign.”

“Yeah. What I’ll do is, I’ll like give you a pinch on the leg.”

“Oh my. I hope you won’t pinch me too hard.”

“I won’t hurt you. Just a little pinch, and then you act like we’re not together.”

“But may I ask why?”

“Why do you think? I got to try to make a little dough. How far do you think that three bucks you gave me is gonna get me?”

“Oh. Yes, uh –”

“If you had gone for the sawbuck for a throw it might be a little different.”

“Yes, I see.”

“But no, you had to be a cheapskate. Wouldn’t even cough up a fin for a BJ.”

“Yes, you’re perfectly, uh –”

“All right then, long as you understand.”

“Yes, of course. I, um –”
 
“Okay, now that we got that settled, let’s go in.”

“Okay.”

She tugged on his arm, but Addison stood there.

“Come on, buddy, what’s the hold-up?”

“Bubbles.”

“That’s what they call me.”

“Bubbles – what if – oh, how shall I put this?”

“Try plain English.”

“What if we just sat together, had some cocktails, perhaps even a bite to eat, and if we just, you know, if you didn’t have to give me the ‘high sign’ –”

“But I told you, I want to make a little money tonight. I got rent to pay too, y’know.”

“Yes, but, what if I buy you drinks and dinner, and then whatever money I have left over, you can have that?”

“So how much money do you have left on you? Fifteen bucks?”

“Yes, fifteen, but I also have some change. Maybe fifty cents.”

“So you want to have like a date with me?”

“If it isn’t asking too much.”

“But you told me you had your rent coming up.”

“I was fibbing actually. My rent is paid through the month. And usually I get something from one of my aunts or great aunts or my mother or one of my grandmothers every week or so.”

“Your aunts and mother and great aunts and grandmothers send you money?”

“Not a lot. A ten here, five there. Maybe a twenty for Christmas or my birthday.”

“And you live off this money the ladies in your family send you.”

“I live very modestly. I hardly eat, and normally I drink at this place called Bob’s Bowery Bar, where you can get a glass of very good basement-brewed bock for a dime.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Me, I like to eat.”

“As well you should!”

“They got a good cheap spaghetti dinner in this joint. It comes with salad and Italian roll. Will you buy me one of those?”

“I certainly will!”

She paused, looking away. The snow falling all around her, the snow tinted orange red by the neon sign, made the skin of her face look like a lady in a Renaissance painting Addison had once seen at the Metropolitan Museum. Was it a Botticelli? Or a Perino del Vaga?

She turned and looked at him again.

“All right,” she said. “But you have to eat some spaghetti too. I’m not gonna sit there and eat while you sit there staring at me like a sad hungry puppy.”

“I should love to eat some spaghetti,” said Addison.

And so they went back into the warm and crowded and noisy bar. Addison realized that unless he got an envelope from home in the next morning’s post that he might not be able to eat tomorrow, not to mention having any bocks at all at Bob’s, but all that was in the future, and this was now.

{Please go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

“Baltimore Handshake”

It was a small studio apartment, just slightly less cramped than Addison’s own tiny place. The narrow bed had brass rails, or, if not brass, then brass-like…

“You know what’s interesting,” said Addison, “I live on Bleecker also, but a bit farther to the east.”

“Yeah?” said Bubbles. “How much farther to the east?”

“Oh, right at the corner of the Bowery, actually.”

“Jesus Christ, is that the best you can afford?”

“Well, you see, Bubbles, I am a man of letters, I suppose you might even say a bohemian, and so –”

“I don’t care what religion you are. Take your coat off.”

She removed her own fur or fur-like coat and hung it on a clothes tree near the door.

“Where should I put my umbrella?”

“Try sticking it in that priceless Ming Dynasty vase there that already has an umbrella in it.”

“Oh, is it really a Ming Dynasty vase?”

“Yeah, they had a sale on them at Woolworth’s.”

Addison inserted his umbrella in the vase, making a mental note to keep an eye out for the sales at Woolworth’s. Bubbles went over to the bed, and he removed his fedora and topcoat and hung them up on the tree.

“May I ask what you pay for this place, Bubbles?”

“What do you care?”

“Well, you see, I’m writing a novel, a prose epic of the Old West actually, and after it’s published I plan to move to more spacious quarters, in a less shall we say colorful neighborhood, heh heh. My ideal location is Sutton Place, but, who knows, perhaps a nice garden flat or even a small townhouse here in the Village?”

“Yeah, perhaps,” she said.

There was a short bookcase on the other side of the doorway, and Addison had wandered over to it. He always liked to see what books people read, if any, and along with a lot of movie and fashion magazines, Bubbles did have some actual books on her shelves.

“Forever Amber. Did you enjoy that novel?”

“It was okay.”

“The Fountainhead. So you’re a Randian?”

“I never finished it.”

“A Rage to Live. How was that?”

“Look, buddy, I don’t have all night.”

Addison turned, and she was sitting on the bed wearing only a slip, a brassiere, and stockings, which latter she was in the process of rolling down.

“Oh, my,” said Addison.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing. I just –”

“Just what?”

“Well, I thought we were perhaps going to have a cocktail.”

“A cocktail? What do you think I’m running here, a speakeasy?”

“Ha ha, well, no, but, gee, this seems somewhat precipitous.”

“What does?”

“You divesting yourself of your garments.”

“Would you prefer I left them on? Get them all wrinkled? Are you gonna iron them for me?”

“Well, ha ha, I’m afraid I’m not a very good hand with a clothes iron –”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“Well, I simply thought we were going to have a bit of a chat, you see, and if not a cocktail, then, oh, I don’t know, perhaps a cup of tea, or coffee, a sandwich –”

“Does this look like Horn & Hardart’s to you?”

“A hot cocoa?”

“Look, enough fooling around, buddy. Now pay up first. A sawbuck like we agreed.”

“A sawbuck.”

“Yes, ten bucks, just like we settled. A sawbuck a throw, a fin for a BJ.”

Suddenly it all came clear to Addison.

“Oh, dear.”

“Oh dear what?”

She had removed her second stocking, and she draped it with the other one on the foot rail of her small bed.

“I misunderstood,” said Addison.

“What did you misunderstand.”

“I misunderstood your invitation.”

“You what?”

“I didn’t realize, that you, um, you see, that is, I didn’t quite grasp that you are, uh –”

“A hooker?”

“I was going to say a lady of the night. Or perhaps a demimondaine is a better term.”

“If you’re trying to get out of paying the ten bucks, guess what, you got another think coming, pal.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” said Addison, not quite truthfully, “it’s just that, gosh.”

“I know you’ve got it. I saw it. You paid for those drinks out of a double sawbuck, and the bartender gave you eighteen bucks back. And when we left you dug in your pants and left him a quarter tip.”

“Do you think that was not enough?”

“I don’t care if you’re a cheapskate with bartenders. I only care that you’re trying to get out of paying me my ten clams.”

“But –”

“No buts. You’re wasting my time here when I could be making money. There’s a sap in my purse on that night table, and don’t think I’m afraid to use it.”

“A sap?”

“A piece of springy steel wrapped in leather for bashing wiseguys and welshers in the head. You want to see it?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ten bucks. Put it on the table and let’s get this over with.”

“But, excuse me, what was that other, uh, choice you mentioned?”

“What?”

“Something about a fin, for a J&B, or –”

“A fin for a BJ?”

“Yes, that. A fin is five dollars?”

“Five bucks, yeah, for a BJ.”

Addison wasn’t sure what a BJ was, but he didn’t let on.

“Well, that certainly seems very fair,” he said. “However, I wonder, are there any other even more reasonable options, and I only ask because you see my rent is due soon, and –”

“Jesus, you really are cheap, aren’t you?”

“Well, you see, it’s just that I’m on a budget until my novel is finished.”

Bubbles sat there staring at him.

“All right,” she said. “I can let you have a Baltimore handshake for three bucks, but then you gotta buy me some more cocktails down at the San Remo.”

“You want to go back down to the San Remo?”

“I don’t intend to spend all night in this dump listening to Amos and Andy and Fibber McGee and Molly on the Philco, that’s for sure.”

“And you’d like to sit with me at the San Remo?”

“Until some other high roller comes along. Why not? You make me laugh,” she said, although she hadn’t laughed yet.

Addison paused.

“How many cocktails do I have to buy you exactly?”

“Jeeze. Look, just come over here, buster, and let’s get this show on the road.”


It didn’t take long. 



And when it was over, Addison wondered, did this count? 



Did a “Baltimore handshake” count as losing one’s virginity? 



He decided that it did.


{Please go here to read the “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

“A Woman Called Bubbles”

 “Anybody sitting here, buddy?”

“Why, no,” said Addison, “in point of fact I do believe that this seat currently has no claims to proprietorship.”

“Fabulous.”

It was a woman, a tall woman with dark hair, and wearing a red fur (or fur-like) pillbox hat, dusted with snow. She seated herself at the stool vacated by Araminta and put a red purse on the bar top. She wore a black fur (or furrish) coat, also whitened with snow. She opened her purse and took out a pack of Philip Morris Commanders.

“Still snowing out?” said Addison.

The woman put a cigarette in her mouth and looked at Addison.

“No,” she said. “This white stuff all over me is just your imagination.”

“Heh heh,” said Addison, if one can be said to say heh heh.

She continued to stare at him, and suddenly Addison realized she was waiting for him to give her a light. Quickly he dug a book of matches out of his coat pocket, and after only three tries and two matches he succeeded in putting flame to her cigarette.

She blew smoke in his face. She wasn’t exactly attractive, in fact she seemed rather hard and mannish, the sort of woman one might perhaps describe as handsome, but not pretty, and Addison made a mental note to use this observation as soon as possible in his epic western novel-in-progress, Sixguns to El Paso.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” the woman said.

“Yes,” said Addison, “I came in here simply by chance. You see I had been heading for my usual watering hole, when I was accosted by a certain –”

“Are you going to buy me a drink or are you just going to tell me your life story?”

“A drink?”

“Yes. A drink. Something liquid you pour into your yap and then swallow.”

“Ah, yes, a drink! Of course! Well then, what would you like?”

“Get me a Pink Lady.”

“A Pink Lady?”

“You heard me.”

The bartender was standing there, and Addison duly said, “A Pink Lady for the lady, please.”

“You want another Rheingold too, pal?” said the bartender.

With his practiced eye he had noticed that Addison’s bottle was indeed empty.

“Why, yes,” said Addison. “Thank you.”

“What about another Cream of Kentucky?”

Addison hated to buy shots of whiskey for himself. In fact he hated to buy anything for himself, but a little voice told him to cast his parsimoniousness aside for once, because he just might need the Dutch courage the Cream of Kentucky might provide.

“Yes, and a Cream of Kentucky, too, please.”

The bartender went away. The woman took another drag of her Philip Morris and then slowly exhaled, staring at Addison through the smoke. She tapped her cigarette ash into the same ashtray Addison had been using.

“What’s your name, buddy?”

“My name?”

“No, the man on the moon.”

“Heh heh, well, you know, it’s funny, because everyone I know calls me Addison, after the character played by George Sanders in the film All About Eve –”

“Why?”

“Why do they call me Addison?”

“Yeah. You don’t look like George Sanders to me. Dan Duryea on a bad day maybe, but not George Sanders.”

“Ha ha, yes, well, I do believe they call me Addison because I am known as something of a wit, you see, always ready with a bon mot or a scathing sally of rapier-like –”

“I get it. You’re a regular card, aren’t you?”

“Heh heh, um, yes, I suppose so, but in fact my actual Christian name is –”

“I’ll call you Addison.”

“Yes, but –”

“Addison is what I’m calling you.”

“Okay,” said Addison.

“It better be okay, because that’s what I’m calling you, Addison.”

“Ha ha. Um. And may I know your name?”

“Call me Bubbles.”

“What a most unusual name.”

“I like it. It’s not my real name either, but that’s what they call me. And you know why?”

“Is it because you have a bubbly personality?”

“No. They call me that because I’ve got the opposite of a bubbly personality.”

“Oh.”

She turned away, smoking, and staring in the direction of all those colorful bottles behind the bar.

Could this be it? Would Addison finally make a connection with a female who was not one of his aunts, or great aunts, or grandmothers? He must not blow it. If he were truly going to make his novel a classic he would have to know something of the female gender, something that he didn’t just get from novels and movies. And if he were to write a believable scene of furious or romantic (or both) lovemaking, then it would only help his writing if he could experience sexual relations in his own life.

The bartender came back with the drinks, laid them down, stared at Addison.

“Two bucks, pal,” he said. “Put the money on the wood and make the betting good.”

“Oh!” said Addison, and he scrabbled out his old Cub Scout wallet. Fortunately a belated Christmas card from his Great Aunt Agatha had arrived that day with a twenty-dollar bill in it, and he handed the bill to the bartender.

“Thanks, Addison,” said the woman called Bubbles.

“Oh, entirely my pleasure!”

She took a sip of her Pink Lady.

“Hey, Addison, let me ask you a question, and I don’t want you to be offended, but if you are, tough.”

“Oh, please ask away! I assure you, Bubbles, that I am not easily offended,” said Addison, speaking the truth for once. He was a man who had been so often insulted, and had been since his earliest schooldays, that he had become almost completely immune to verbal injury.

“My question is are you a fairy.”

“A what?”

“Are you a pansy.”

“Do you mean – am I a homosexual?”

“You’re pretty quick on the uptake, fella. So are you a homo or not?”

Addison paused for just a moment. Wasn’t a homosexual someone who had sex with men? Well, except for that one incident during the war when that drunken sergeant had brutally rubbed up against his backside at that urinal in the men’s room of the Sow’s Belly Tavern in Fayetteville, North Carolina, if you could call that sex, then, no, he had never “had sex” per se with a man…

“No,” said Addison.

“You don’t sound too sure.”

He realized that if this was going to go anywhere he would probably have to appear more forceful.

“I assure you I am quite sure,” he said.

“Great,” said Bubbles. “Then how's about we get outside these drinks and then blow this popsicle stand and head over to my trap. I’m just down the block on Bleecker.”

“You mean you want to go your place?”

“Am I speaking Chinese?”

“Ha ha, no.”

Never in his life had Addison been invited to go to a woman’s place who was not an aunt, a great aunt, or a grandmother. What an evening this was turning out to be! He wondered if Bubbles would offer him a drink, a highball, perhaps some sandwiches –

“So,” she said, “you up for it, big spender?”

“Why, yes,” said Addison. “Yes, damn it. Full speed ahead, Gridley, and damn the torpedoes.”

“You slay me.”

Two minutes later they were outside the bar in the thick falling snow, under Addison’s old umbrella, a gift from his Aunt Enid upon his graduation from Episcopal.

Bubbles put her arm in Addison’s.

“Look at these cotton balls comin’ down,” she said.

“Yes,” said Addison, “I think the city looks so beautiful in the snow, don’t you?”

She stared at him for just a moment.

“You sure you’re not a fairy, Addison?”

“Oh, quite sure, Bubbles.”

“Great, on account of I wouldn’t want to waste my time. By the way, just so you know ahead of time, it’s a sawbuck for a throw, a fin for just a BJ. Your choice.”

Addison had no idea what she meant.

“Tell you what,” he said, trying to sound gentlemanly. “Let’s make it a ladies’ choice tonight, Bubbles.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll go for the sawbuck for a throw then. I could use the exercise.”

What ever did she mean? Well, Addison supposed he would find out soon enough, and already he was thinking of how he would “use” this experience in his novel, transposed, mutatis mutandis, into the milieu of the Old West…

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated “adult comix” version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, robustly illustrated by rhoda penmarq…}