Dan Leo's Blog, page 4

"Big Bottomed Mama"

 

Milford came to the table where Miss Alcott sat with his supposed friend Addison, along with Mrs. Stowe and that girl Emily and another woman dressed in Puritan attire. He had barely ever been able to abide being with even one other person, and now there were five? This was almost as bad as an AA meeting.

"Hello, Addison," he said. "How odd to find you here."

"How odd to find oneself in this universe," said Addison. He had an almost-full pitcher of what looked to be beer in front of him, as well as a glass with what Milford assumed was beer in it. "I wonder do you know these good ladies, Milford?"

"I know Miss Alcott," said Milford, "and I have met Mrs. Stowe and Miss Emily."

Milford took a drag from the reefer Jelly Roll had given him, of which there was still more than an inch left, thank God, in whom he did not believe.

"Allow me to introduce Mistress Bradstreet," said Addison.

"Call me Anne," said Mistress Bradstreet.

"Hello, Anne," said Milford.

"And may I call you Merkin?" said Mistress Bradstreet, not offering her hand, in which she held what looked like a reefer of her own.

"You may," said Milford. "But my actual name is Milford, if it matters."

"I thought it was Mervyn," said Emily. "I loved your performance, by the way."

"Thank you," said Milford. 

"It was –" she said, and she paused. While she paused, Jelly Roll continued to sing and play on the stage.

I got a big bottomed mama,

she don't give me no big drama,

she throws me down on the bed

and loves me till I'm dead…

"It was – unique," said Emily, continuing her critique.

"Shall we get you a chair, old boy?" said Addison.

"Thank you, but no," said Milford. "I think it's time for me to go home."

"To go home?" said Addison. "But the night is young!"

Milford became aware that Miss Alcott was looking at him.

"I'm sorry," he said, addressing her.

"I am sorry, too," she said. "It has been – interesting."

Mrs. Stowe addressed Miss Alcott.

"So that's it, Lou?" she said. "You are just going to let him leave?"

"Perhaps it is best," said Miss Alcott. "Before we begin to bore each other."

"The romance in the turbid air is strong, and not unsweet," said Emily.

"I don't know why you don't let us get you a chair, Milford," said Addison. "We can squeeze you in. We'll get you a glass, too, and you can help me drink this fine pitcher of Rheingold."

"If I sit down and start drinking Rheingold," said Milford, "I can state with a 99% chance of certainty that I will wind up frozen and dead in an alleyway."

"But there is still that one percent, isn't there?" said Addison.

Suddenly Mr. Whitman loomed up beside Milford, and he put his great hand on the young man's narrow shoulder.

"Murford," said Mr. Whitman, "I just want to say that I thought your songs of the soul touched my own soul. If you will come back to our table I should like to give you my in-depth analysis of your effusions, with just a few notes for possible improvement."

"Thank you, Mr. Whitman," said Milford, "but I was just leaving."

"But you can't! Miss Blackbourne will be so disappointed. Look at her over there."

He gestured toward the table where Miss Blackbourne sat, smoking an ebony-colored cigarette and gazing toward the stage.

"I think she will survive the disappointment," said Milford.

Mr. Whitman ignored this response and addressed Addison.

"We have met, dear fellow, what seems more than a twelvemonth and a season ago, but which was in all truth only perhaps a few hours ago."

"Hi," said Addison.

"Turgison, is it not?"

"Well, actually, they call me Addison –"

"Call me Walt. Oh, some call me Mr. Whitman, but when I hear that term of address I can think only of my late lamented father. And so I beg of you, sir, call me not Mr. Whitman, nor even Walter, but simply Walt."

"Okay, uh, Walt," said Addison.

"Now, Atcherson," said Walt, "if I am not mistaken, are you not  Mimphrey's friend, if not blood brother?"

"Do you mean Milford there?"

"Yes, this fine sample of young American manhood here."

He still had his great hand on Milford's shoulder, and he gave it a squeeze, causing Milford to flinch.

"Why, yes," said Addison, "I suppose you could say we're friends, if not quite blood brothers."

"Then speak to him as a 'friend', and all that entails, which we need not investigate just now, and implore him not to leave."

"Well, I don't think I can stop him if he wants to," said Addison.

"Okay, well, I'm going to shove off now," said Milford.

"Don't go," said Emily.

"I'm sorry," said Milford. 

"How are you getting home?" said Mrs. Stowe.

"I'm walking," said Milford. "I don't live far."

"But I hear it's a blizzard out there."

"I'll manage," said Milford.

"Perhaps I should accompany you," said Mr. Whitman.

"No need," said Milford.

"But what if you are accosted by brigands?" said Mr. Whitman. "I don't know if I told you, but I am quite adept in the arts of bareknuckle pugilism and Greco-Roman wrestling, and thus would not be entirely useless were we to be accosted by some of the Hudson Dusters gang, out trolling the snow-choked streets for inebriates to pummel and rob."

"I'll take my chances," said Milford. "So, uh, if you'll let go of my shoulder, Mr. Whitman –"

"Walt," said Walt.

"If you'll let go of my shoulder, Walt, I think I'll just –

"Oh, dash it all," said Miss Alcott, and she stood up, taking her purse. "Milford, may I have a private word with you?"

"Uh-oh," said Mrs. Stowe.

Miss Alcott came around and took Milford by his arm, the one that wasn't holding his peacoat and sweater.

"Come with me," she said, and, addressing Mr. Whitman, "If you will unhand young Milford, Walt."

Mr. Whitman took his hand off of Milford's shoulder, and Miss Alcott pulled Milford away, in the direction of the bar.

"What the hell is up with those two?" said Mistress Bradstreet.

"It is a story that is as old as mankind," said Mr. Whitman. "Perhaps, if we are to believe Mr. Darwin, even older than mankind. Oh, well, I suppose I shall return to my table, in defeat, bloody, but unbowed."

"Yes," said Mistress Bradstreet, "Miss Blackbourne looks like she is missing you."

"Miss Blackbourne misses no one," said Walt, "and that is part and parcel of her sui generis charm. And now I bid you all au revoir."

He turned and headed back to the table where Miss Blackbourne sat, smoking, and staring in the direction of the stage.

Addison refilled his glass from the pitcher. To his left Mistress Bradstreet sipped her Scotch-and-soda through a straw and then took a dainty drag of her hand-rolled reefer. To his right Mrs. Stowe sat smoking a Herbert Tareyton. Across from him, Emily watched Milford and Miss Alcott walking away.

It occurred to Addison that this was the happiest moment of his life. A pitcher of beer, three ladies at his table, a ten-dollar bill in his pocket. What more could he possibly want? 

On the little stage Jelly Roll played and sang.

I got a big bottomed mama

and I ain't got no mañana,

I got a bottle of good whiskey

and I'm feeling mighty frisky…

Mr. Whitman came to his table and sat down. Miss Blackbourne looked at him with her dark eyes.

"Don't worry, Walt," she said. "There will be other young men."

"Yes, I suppose you're right, Margaret," he said. He took his pipe out of his pocket. "I wonder, would you care to share a bowl of my special blend with me?"

"Why not?" said Miss Blackbourne, and as Walt took out his pouch of "special blend" comprised of excellent Kentucky burley and Lebanese hashish, up on the little stage Jelly Roll continued to play and sing.

Yes, I got a big bottomed mama

and she rides me like a llama,

and when she bends down low,

you should see her go…

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

"Sawdust and Ashes"

Milford knew he should leave the stage, but some internal demon kept him standing before the microphone. Was it his alter ego, named Stoney?

It's not me, said Stoney, in the Carlsbad Caverns of Milford's mind. And I don't mind saying you're embarrassing yourself, and, by extension, me. 

I empathize with your embarrassment, said Milford, silently, while taking a big drag on the reefer Jelly Roll had given him, but still I feel that I want to say more, even though I have nothing to say.

This is what the psychiatrists call narcissism, said Stoney. My dear Milford – mon semblable, mon frère! – I say this in all sincerity, and please don't take this personally, but no one cares what you have to say, no one in all the world, or even in the next world, if there is a next world, which there isn't – no one gives a shit, nor a flying fuck, least of all these people in here, who all have real problems of their own. I repeat, no one cares.

Milford took another good drag on the reefer, while Jelly Roll gently "vamped" at the piano, and the aforementioned people in the barroom laughed and chattered.

Do you see? said Stoney. Do you see all those people, ignoring you? They couldn't care one iota less about anything you remotely have to say.

Milford let the smoke out of his lungs, and watched it float away and merge with the myriad shifting clouds of smoke all about him.

Please try to get it through your thick skull, said Stoney. No one cares.

Yes, but I care, said Milford. 

Because, of course you do, you are a narcissist, said Stoney.

A female voice cut through the babble, and it shouted, "More, Murphy! More!"

Milford's eyes looked through the smoke and saw that nice lady Emily, sitting at the table with Addison and Miss Alcott and Mrs. Stowe and Mistress Bradstreet.

"One more, Murphy!" cried Emily, pointing a slim finger at him.

Well, Stoney, said Milford, to his alter ego, see? Emily cares.

Okay, said Stoney, so I was wrong. After all, I am you, or a version of you, so why shouldn't I be wrong, since you, that is I, have been wrong since first we drew breath?

Milford became aware that people were staring at him. He also became aware that he was still smoking the reefer that Jelly Roll had given him. He turned and addressed that gentleman at the piano, who was still tinkling the keys, no doubt waiting for Milford to, in the parlance of the common people, shit or get off the can.

"Mr. Roll," said Milford, "do you mind if I do just one more, oh, what shall I call it, a dithyramb? I promise to try to keep it short."

"I don't mind, brother," said Jelly Roll. "How about I play a sprightly little jump blues for accompaniment, with just a tinge of ragtime?"

"It doesn't matter to me," said Milford. 

"Then let's do it," said Jelly Roll, and he began to play, and, after half a minute, words emerged from Milford's mouth and into the microphone, from which they were transmitted booming into the barroom over the shouts and laughter of the revelers therein.

I have given my all,

perhaps I should have given less,

but I heard the siren call

of ridiculousness.

I have emptied my brains

of the garbage they contained

but they have filled up again

like a broken water main.

What is the meaning 

of these words 

that mean nothing?

What is the sound of 

a deaf man singing?

These are the questions 

that will puzzle me

but apparently not muzzle me

until I gasp my final breath

and sink into grateful death.

And so I bid a fond adieu

to you good people in this room.

I wish I could be a little like you,

not stumbling around 

in stygian gloom,

but laughing and shouting 

and raising a convivial glass,

not mumbling and pouting

and behaving like an ass.

I will now give you over 

to my acquaintance Jelly Roll

who, unlike me, possesses a soul.

Milford turned to Jelly Roll and nodded, and Jelly Roll, still "tickling the ivories", spoke into his microphone.

"All right, let's hear it for young, uh, what is it, 'Mufford'?"

"Milford actually," said Milford.

"Young Milfrid," said Jelly Roll, and a smattering of applause emerged from the crowd, as well as a few hoots and hollers.

Emily stood up from her table, and putting two fingers to her lips, let loose with a piercing, multi-toned whistle. 

Okay, said Stoney, inside Milford's head, quit while you're ahead, boy, and exit the stage, before they drag you off.

Yes, I suppose you're right, said Milford, silently.

"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he said into the microphone. "You've been very kind, and –"

"Get off the fucking stage, honky!" yelled someone.

"Heh heh, yes, of course," said Milford. "Sorry! Heh heh."

"Thank you, Mumphrey," said Jelly Roll. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to sing you a little song called, 'I Got a Big Bottomed Mama'."

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause.

Yes, thought Milford, this is what people want: 'I Got a Big Bottomed Mama'.

And can you blame them? asked Stoney.

No, replied Milford, silently. He stepped away from the microphone stand and down from the shallow stage. His peacoat and burly fisherman's sweater lay on the dance floor there by the stage, where he had tossed them when he was ecstatically dancing the Black Bottom. Milford put Jelly Roll's reefer between his lips, picked up the coat and sweater, and with his hand he brushed off some of the coating of sawdust and ashes they had acquired.

Yes, the time of Dionysian ecstasy had come and gone.

Jelly Roll played his piano and sang.

I got a big bottomed mama

from the state of Alabama,

her name is Mary Lou

and she knows how to do the do…

Milford looked through the smoke at the table where sat Addison, Mrs. Stowe, Miss Alcott, Mistress Bradstreet, and Miss Emily, who still stood, clapping her hands, and shouting, "Well done, Mumphrey!"

Carrying his peacoat and his sweater over his arm, Jelly Roll's reefer still dangling from his thin lips, he headed over toward the table where the three ladies and his only "friend" Addison sat. 

In a sense, he thought, but in a very real sense, he felt his evening, and perhaps his life, was only just beginning.

It occurred to Milford that his alter ego Stoney was now silent. Had he disappeared? Or had he, Milford, merged at last with Stoney, becoming a better, a fuller and more manly version of himself?

Let's not get ahead of ourselves, said Stoney. 

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Go, Murphy!"

"There's a friend of mine sitting over there!" Milford shouted in Miss Alcott's ear.

"What?"

The music roared and wailed and hammered all around them, and Milford leaned his head closer to Miss Alcott's.

"I said there's a friend of mine sitting over there!"

"You have friends?"

"Well, only one really, and I suppose he's not much of a friend, but he's the only one I have. Look, he's sitting with those friends of yours, what were their names, Emily and Harriet?"

Milford pointed with his finger.

"What is this friend of yours doing with Emily and Harriet?"

"I have no idea," said Milford. 

He waved, and Addison in turn raised a finger in salute.

Miss Alcott also waved, and the two women waved back.

"This proves something," said Milford. 

"And what is that?"

"It proves that all mankind is connected, that we are all one, brothers and sisters!"

"I don't see how your seeing your supposed friend proves that."

"No, but it does!"

"I think all it proves is that you have smoked that reefer of Jelly Roll's in its entirety, and you are about to burn your fingers with it."

Milford looked down at the tiny butt of a reefer he held between forefinger and thumb.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Ow."

He let the stub fall to the floor, littered as it was with innumerable other butts of cigarettes, reefers, cigars and cigarillos on a scuffed layer of sawdust.

The music had stopped, and the man at the piano spoke into a microphone.

"Thank you, ladies and gentleman, and now we gonna move on to the jammin' portion of tonight's festivities. I see Mr. Jelly Roll Morton out there. Get your ass up here, Jelly Roll!"

"What's happening?" said Milford.

"They're going to have what's called a 'jam session'," said Miss Alcott. "Various people get up with the band and sing and play. It's ever so much fun. Last week Fats Waller came up and tickled the ivories, and it was what I believe you young people call 'a gas'."

"I want to have a gas."

"Dear boy, what do you think you've been having?"

"If I may paraphrase that noted naval captain John Paul Jones, I feel I have not yet begun to have a gas."

Jelly Roll had gotten up from the table where he sat with Miss Blackbourne and Mr. Whitman and was approaching the little stage with the combo on it. Milford floated over and met him.

"Mr. Roll, I should like to jam with you, sir!"

"Sure, Mumfort," said Jelly Roll, "why not?"

"Milford actually, not Mumfort, but no matter."

"What axe do you play, Milfrey?"

"By axe I assume you mean musical instrument?"

"I do indeed, Milf."

"I play a little ukelele, and some rudimentary piano, provided I have sheet music and the tempo is slow."

"Well, uh, I don't think we got a ukelele on hand, and I was actually going to play the piano myself."

"I wonder if I could perhaps vocalize?"

"You sing?"

"I should like to attempt to sing."

"What you want to sing?"

"I want to sing from the heart and the soul, from the heart of my soul, from the soul of my heart, and from the soul and the heart of the whole universe."

"Okay, reet, that sounds cool, just come up on the bandstand with me and we'll work something out."

In a blur of moments Milford found himself on the little stage, standing in front of a microphone stand. Jelly Roll sat at the piano, a fat reefer in his lips, and he had generously supplied Milford with one also, which Milford was now taking generous puffs from as Jelly Roll played notes like a rippling dark deep river behind him. The rest of the combo had "laid out" and were standing or sitting around with the rest of the crowd, drinking, smoking, chatting and laughing as great waves of smoke swirled and purled, obscuring the farther reaches of the barroom, although Milford could make out Miss Alcott now sitting with Emily and Mrs. Stowe, and, at the other table, Miss Blackbourne and Mr. Whitman.

Milford spoke into the microphone, which was large and solid, like the chassis of a miniature First World War tank, and he heard his voice booming throughout the room:

Long have I been damned, 

since that first sad morning

when I emerged from my mother's 

womb, quite unwillingly,

howling in protest

and indignation,

long have I been steeped

in misery at having to face

another day trapped within

this pale pathetic body, 

forced to get out of bed

all those grim mornings,

  and go to school,

until finally, after being 

sent down from Princeton

in disgrace for conduct 

unbecoming, I was forced

to return to my mother's house,

because where else could I go,

refusing as I have always done 

to "work" at anything 

but my bad poetry –

and, yes, it's true, on my 

trust fund I could afford to

get a modest flat on my own,

but why bother, when my old

bedroom is so comfortable,

and I can sleep as late as I like,

and our Irish maid Maria will 

bring me tea and ginger snaps 

upon request – indeed, sometimes

I wonder why I leave my room at all

except of course to go to the bathroom –

and I know you're wondering,

good people, what is he on about,

that sounds like a pretty good

set-up, and I suppose it is,

or would be to any normal person,

but I, alas, am not normal,

and persist in being miserable,

who knows why, I have even 

thought so many times

of ending it all,

but I am a coward,

and so that's not going 

to happen, but tonight,

tonight, dear people, 

for the first time,

I got up on a dance floor

and felt the music surging 

through my corporeal host

and also through my brain

and, yes, dare I say it,

my soul, and so now I 

stand before you,

attempting to sing

although I cannot sing,

attempting to create poetry

although I lack talent,

attempting to live

although I don't know how,

and so, in summation, I shall 

only say, quoting the title 

of a favorite motion picture

of my strangely sad boyhood:

only angels have wings,

but still we must sing.

And so I sound

my final klaxon,

a pallid, weak, 

and stupid Saxon.

Milford had finished, having said all he had to say, and more, which still wasn't much, he knew. He looked out at all the people who had been staring at him, many of them with mouths agape. Jelly Roll must have sensed that Milford's "song" had finished, and so he rippled a series of decisive notes and struck a final resounding chord.

"Wow," said Jelly Roll, into his microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, let's have a big hand for young Murphy. Take a bow, Murph."

A few people clapped, a few hooted, most of the people stared silently or muttered to their companions.

Over at her table, sitting with Miss Alcott, Mrs. Stowe, and Addison, Emily rose up in her seat and, raising her delicate fist in the air, shouted, "Woo hoo! Go, Murphy!"

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq …}

"Look at That Kid Go"

 

"Oh my fucking God," said Miss Blackbourne, "will you look at that kid go."

They were all looking at Milford, apparently dancing the Black Bottom.

"Unbelievable," said Jelly Roll.

"He certainly looks as if he's having a good time," said Walt.

Milford had divested himself of his peacoat and his thick ribbed fisherman's sweater, and was down to his workman's chambray shirt and dungarees. He still wore his floppy newsboy's cap. He danced with the stub of Jelly Roll's "special" reefer smoking in his lips, and Miss Alcott danced with him, albeit less energetically.

Milford had never known such ecstasy.

"Of course you haven't," said the voice of Stoney, his alter ego, in the caverns of his head. "You've never known any sort of ecstasy."

"But you forget masturbation," replied Milford, silently.

"Good point," said Stoney, "but, let's face it, la petite mort of masturbatory orgasm is all-too-brief, whereas you have been in this current state of – shall we say – jouissance, for a good ten minutes now."

"I want it never to end," said Milford to his invisible self.

"Well, let's not get carried away now," said Stoney.

Milford became aware that Miss Alcott had shouted something to him through the music.

"What?" he shouted back.

"I said what are you thinking about!" she shouted.

"Oh!" shouted Milford in return. "I was thinking that I am in a state of ecstasy and I want it never to end!"

She shouted something, but he couldn't catch it.

"Pardon me?" he shouted.

"I said you're an idiot!" she shouted back.

John Henry had guided Addison to a small table where Mistress Bradstreet and Mrs. Stowe sat with another lady.

"Well," said Mistress Bradstreet to Addison, "you finally found us."

"Oh, I think you'll find I can be quite persistent," said Addison.

"Oh, I'm sure you can be," said Mistress Bradstreet.

"Hey, Emily," said Mrs. Stowe to the other lady at the table, "meet our new friend Hardiman."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harpyman," said Emily, putting down a cigarette and extending her hand over the table.

Addison took her lily white hand in his, bending forward slightly.

"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Emily," he said.

"Harkerman is a passing unusual name," said Emily.

"Alas, it is not in point of fact my name," said Addison, still lightly touching her fingers. "Not to be pedantic, but my friends call me Addison."

"Whatever your name is," said Mistress Bradstreet, "if you're going to join us, then let go of Emily's delicate little paw and sit the hell down and stop hovering over the table."

There was an empty fourth chair, opposite Miss Emily's chair, and in between Mistress Bradstreet on the left and Mrs. Stowe on the right, and Addison sat down in it.

"Well," said John Henry, who was still standing there, and who had just lighted up an enormous cigar, "now that we got all that straightened out, you want a drink, man?"

"Ah, yes, a drink," said Addison, "it's funny you should mention that, because I just left a strange little chap who gave me a certain large pill, and when I swallowed it all the alcohol disappeared from my corporeal host, and so, for the first time in almost two decades I am completely sober, except I had just smoked a rather large marijuana cigarette that Mistress Bradstreet gave me, and so I am indeed still rather what the 'hepcats' I believe call 'high'."

"Hey, look, daddy-o," said John Henry, "I didn't ask you for your unabridged autobiography, all I asked you was do you want a drink. It's a yes or no question, and then we can proceed from there."

"I wonder do you carry Rheingold beer?" said Addison.

"We do indeed," said John Henry. "Draft or bottle, we got both."

"I shall have a draft then," said Addison, "in the largest receptacle available, if you please."

"I'll bring you a pitcher and an empty glass."

"You are too kind, Mr. Henry. Also, bring the ladies a round of whatever they're drinking. Oh, wait. I only have ten dollars. Will that cover a round?"

"A pitcher's only a dollar," said John Henry, "and the cocktails the ladies are drinking only cost two bits apiece. I'll send Polly Ann over with the beverages, and she can run down our food specials for you."

"Thank you, Mr. Henry," said Addison, but the big man had already turned away, his enormous legs devouring a yard of space with each manly stride.

It occurred to Addison that perhaps he had landed in heaven, or in some place very much like heaven, and, indeed, perhaps better.

He took a drag of his Chesterfield. Off to his left dancers danced to a small but loud combo, and among them who should he see but his friend, or should he say "friend", Milford, the supposedly reformed young alcoholic. The fellow danced frenetically, even spastically, his face gleaming with sweat, and dancing with him, or at any rate near him, was a woman in 19th century garb. Milford looked like a jackass dancing that way, but, it occurred to Addison, the fellow looked like a jackass normally, and who was such a one as he to be judgmental anyway? 

"Pray, Mr. Appletree," said the woman who had been introduced as Emily, "are you by chance a member of the noble fraternity of poets?"

"Alas, no," said Addison, not bothering to inform her that his name was not Appletree, "I am rather a member of the perhaps not so noble fraternity of scribes of epic novels of the old west."

"Oh, how fascinating," said Emily, and Addison thought, well, if things didn't work out with either Mistress Broadstreet or Mrs. Stowe, perhaps they would with this Emily.

"And may I ask," he said, "are you a member of that noble, and, yes, sacred fraternity, or, I should say, sorority, of poetesses?"

"In my humble way, I like to think so," she said.

"I should love to read some samples of your work," said Addison.

"That would be very kind of you, sir," said Emily, "and perhaps you could tell me if my verses breathe."

"Oh, I'm sure they do," said Addison.

"Oh my God," said Mistress Bradstreet.

"In heaven," said Mrs. Stowe, "or, as the case may be, in hell."

The music swelled and roared, the dancers stomped and whirled, and among them, in his euphoria, Milford caught a glimpse of his friend, or "friend", Addison, sitting at a table with three women. Strangely, his heart went out to the man, he knew not why.

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Fare Thee Well, Bold Traveler!"

 

 

At once Addison felt the great change within.

Whereas a moment ago every cell in his body had been pickled in alcohol, every corpuscle and every ragged nerve, now all these elements comprising his physical being were in their millions and in their totality as pure as a newborn baby's.

"Wow," he said.

"Pretty nice, hey, my lad?" said the little man called Bowery Bert.

"Well, it's certainly unusual," said Addison.

"Normally to reach this state you'd have to spend a good solid month or two in one of them fancy upstate alcy farms that the rich souses go to."

"I feel – how shall I put this – full of beans."

"It ain't beans you're full of. It's all that alcohol you ain't full of."

"I still feel slightly odd though."

"Odd like how."

"Like I'm floating, and as if my perception of both the inner and outer worlds is both magnified and yet somehow vague."

"Was you smoking reefer?"

"Why, yes, in fact I was! You see, that lady Anne gave me one, and –"

"That explains it. That pill I give you is only good for the lush. Which means you ain't drunk anymore, but you're still stoned on the maryjane."

"Oh, okay."

"But I'll let you in on a little secret. The maryjane is quite harmless as long as you don't operate heavy machinery."

"Well, with the exception of my trusty old Hermes Baby typewriter, I don't operate any sort of machinery, neither light or heavy."

"This is good. But just be careful when you're crossing a street you don't have your head in cloud cuckoo land and walk in front of a bus."

"I shall try not to."

"Okay, well, you're on your own now, pal. This is the first second of the rest of your life, so what you do now is entirely up to you."

"Um, okay."

"I'll catch you later, my man. And if I don't see you round, I'll see you square."

"Heh heh."

"Fare thee well, bold traveler!"

The little man touched his cap, turned, and walked briskly away back down the narrow dim corridor.

How very odd. Had what happened actually happened? Or, had Addison imagined the entire episode? 

What was he doing here, anyway, in this dim narrow corridor?

And then he remembered. He had been on his way to have a drink with those two ladies, Anne and Hattie. 

They had gone off in the opposite direction from the one Bowery Bert had taken. Addison turned, pricking up his ears. He couldn't see the ladies, but very faintly he heard the sound of their clacking heels, and the flute-like music of their voices. The call of womanhood. Oh, sure, he could follow in Bowery Bert's footsteps, find a way out of this strange place (but weren't all places strange?), make his way back to his room at Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern's tenement house at Bleecker and the Bowery, get undressed and go to bed, have his first sober sleep since he was seventeen years old, and wake up presumably fresh as a daisy, rested and refreshed, ready to dive into his epic novel of the old west, sure, he could do that, that could very easily be done… 

But when had he ever taken the easy route? Since that first moment when he had been pulled, kicking and screaming from his mother's womb, when had he ever taken the easy way? 

No, the easy way was not for such as he. 

Let his way be the way he had always taken, the hard way, even if it led to a lonely death frozen in some alleyway, covered with piss-stained sooty snow; it might be the wrong way, but, hang it all, it was his way.

And, besides, when it came right down to brass tacks, he really could go for a drink right now, even if it were only a glass of Rheingold. 

And then there was the question of the women – not just one, but two women, and attractive ones to boot! Oh, sure, maybe they weren't on the level of the Betty Grables and Ann Sheridans of the world, but, let's face it, Addison himself was no John Payne or Dane Clark himself, so who was he to be choosy? Who knew when an opportunity like this should present itself again? Never? True, there was always Bubbles, dear Bubbles, who some hallowed day might possibly allow him to join with her in full sexual congress, for a modest fee of course, but Bubbles was presumably sleeping now, and any possible makings of the beast with two backs with her remained solidly in the future, whereas this moment was now.

Suddenly he realized that he could no longer hear the clacking of the ladies' heels, nor the faint trilling of their voices.

Enough dithering!

Determined, he set forth down the dim narrow corridor in the direction the ladies had gone. If he hurried perhaps he could catch up to them. And if he did catch up to them, what then? No one knew the answer to that question, perhaps not even that great popular novelist in the sky.

On he hurried, his feet barely touching the boards of the floor, and the corridor turned and went on in dimness, and on Addison went down it. He couldn't see where it led, and beyond was only increasing darkness, a darkness that greyed into dimness as he approached it, with yet more dimness and darkness beyond. He came after five minutes to a bare wall, with two corridors going to the right and to the left. Which one had the ladies taken? He stopped and sniffed, to the right, to the left, and it seemed to him that the corridor on the right bore the faintest scent of femininity. He went that way. Maybe it was the wrong way. There was only one way to find out.

Addison floated down the dim narrow corridor, his feet now not even touching the floorboards, on he floated, being careful not to bump into the walls.

After a minute or two he heard the faint sounds of music, and still he floated onward, the music growing less faint, and after another minute he heard beneath the music the faint babble of human voices. 

He found himself standing before a door on which hung a sign with the faded hand-painted legend 

"THE HIDEAWAY"

Leave your cares behind

and your bullshit too.

Ring the bell and wait.

Well! He had no idea if this was where Hattie and Anne had gone, but he knew one thing, and that was that this looked like his kind of place.

After less than half a minute he found a door button, and he pressed it. 

He then realized that he couldn't even remember when he had last smoked a cigarette (a non-reefer cigarette anyway), and a quick patting of his pockets discovered a pack of Chesterfields and a book of Bob's Bowery Bar matches. He lighted up, fully enjoying that ecstasy one unfailingly experienced when lighting up a smoke after neglecting to do so for half an hour.

He waited, enjoying his Chesterfield. Should he press the button again? No, no need to be importunate. Nevertheless, when the cigarette was halfway smoked he was mulling pressing the button again when the door opened and a huge Negro man stood there, dressed in faded denim overalls and a floppy cap. Behind him roared and swelled music and shouting and laughter.

"What the fuck do you want, cracker?"

"Good evening, sir," said Addison. "They call me Addison, and I am in search of two ladies, named Anne and Hattie."

The huge man looked at Addison.

"You ain't much, are you?"

"No, sir," said Addison. "But what I am is indubitably me, with all my faults, and they are many. Nonetheless, I am doomed for a lifetime to this flawed personality and unprepossessing corporeal host, and I try to make the best of it, which is not saying much, but which is all I can and will say."

The big man paused for a moment, as behind him the music and the babbling roared enticingly.

"All right," he said, at last, "Miss Hattie and Miss Annie said some sad-ass looking son-of-bitch who talks like an idiot might come looking for them, and I thought they said his name was Harrington, but I guess it's you."

"Yes, c'est moi," said Addison, "and what after all is a name? But may I know your name, good sir?"

"They call me John Henry."

"I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Henry," said Addison, and he extended his hand.

The large black man named John Henry looked at Addison's thin bony hand, and, after another pause, and sighing, he took it in his own enormous hand, taking care not to reduce the white man's hand to a bloody shapeless pulp.

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

"The Pill"

 

And so they drifted along between dull brown distempered walls, arms in arms, what was left of Addison's reefer still hanging on his lips, while the two ladies continued to pass back and forth what was left of their own reefer.

Addison had the distinct impression that he was floating, and that the ladies too were floating. His feet not only felt far away, they felt as if they belonged to someone else, or to no one.

The ladies were talking, but Addison heard only words with no meaning; so often in his life had it been thus, and did it really matter after all what anyone said? So many billions, trillions of words, trillions upon trillions since the day when man first spoke, and what was that first word?  

He experienced a burning sensation on his lips, and felt compelled to say, the words oozing like honey from his lips, "I wonder, dear ladies, if I might free one of my arms?"

"What did you say?" said Anne.

"Sounded like he said, 'Muh muh, muh muh, muh muh,'" said Hattie.

"Mm, mm," said Addison.

"Oh, he wants to remove the muggles from his lips," said Anne, and she let go of his arm.

Addison brought his freed right hand up to his lips and removed the stub of cigarette before he could be seriously burned.

"Ah, thank you," he said, feeling his feet rise six inches higher from the floor. 

"Here, give me that roach," said Anne, and when Addison stared at her blankly, she elucidated, "the butt of your reefer, you square."

Addison did as he was enjoined and watched, fascinated, as the lady opened the embroidered purse hanging from her shoulder, brought out an old Bayer aspirin tin, rubbed out the end of the reefer on its lid, opened the tin, and dropped the end into it, in which he saw many other crumpled butts, or "roaches" if you will.

"Waste not want not," said the lady Anne.

"Such a thrifty puritan you are, Annie," said Hattie. 

"Yeah," said Anne. "Better give me that roach too, Hattie, if you're done with it."

Hattie gave Anne the stub of the reefer the ladies had been sharing, and Anne put it into the aspirin tin as Addison continued to float in mid-air.

"How are you feeling, Pattison?" she said, clicking the tin shut with a dithering snapping sound that struck Addison to the core of his being.

"I feel," said Addison, as the aspirin tin's snapping-shut sound reverberated through his being, and then he said nothing.

"Take your time," said Anne.

"I feel like," he said, and then said nothing, if one can be said to say nothing.

"Don't rush it, Polkington," said Hattie.

"I thought his name was Pattinson," said Anne.

"What's your name, pal?" said Hattie. "It begins with a P, doesn't it?"

Once again no words escaped Addison's lips.

"He's really high," said Anne.

"Hey, man, we just want to know your name," said Hattie. "It can't be that difficult a question."

"I think he's one of these guys for whom all of life is a difficult question," said Hattie.

"May I be of some assistance, ladies?" said a tiny man who came abreast of them from behind. He was shabbily dressed, with thick round eyeglasses, a newsboy's cap, and a furled torn umbrella. He carried a smoking butt of a cigarillo in his tiny hand.

"We're okay," said Anne. "It's just that our friend here is really high and can't remember his name."

"His name is something no one knows," said the small man. "But he is known as Addison."

Addison looked down at the little man, who now stood before him. At last, someone he knew! Or sort of knew, in that vague way one drunkard knew other drunkards. How many times had he seen this fellow perched on a stool at Bob's Bowery Bar with all the other usual degenerates?

"Hello," said Addison.

"Good to see ya, Addison," said the little man, and he extended his small grubby hand, which Addison graciously took, bending forward slightly because of the twelve-inch difference in their respective heights.

"And you, too, uh, Bill? Biff? Bud?"

"Keep going, Addison, my boy, you've almost got it –"

"Bert?"

"Bingo!"

"Sorry I didn't get it on the first try."

"I don't blame you, my boy. It is my lot on this planet to be one of the amorphous nameless masses. But, Addison, would you do me the honor of introducing me to your attractive lady friends?"

"Yes, of course, Bill, I mean Bert, this is –" after only the briefest delay the names tumbled forth from the chaos of his mind, "Mistress Bradstreet, and Mrs. Stowe. Mistress Bradstreet and Mrs. Stowe, please meet my friend, uh –" 

"Bert," said the little fellow.

"Bert," repeated Addison.

The little man bowed to the ladies in turn. 

"It is my great pleasure, Mistress Bradstreet and Mrs. Stowe," said Bert.

"Just call me Anne," said Mistress Bradstreet.

"And you may call me Hattie," said Mrs. Stowe.

"And, please, call me Bert," said Bert. "My full appellation is 'Bowery Bert', but for brevity's sake Bert will do."

"No last name, Bert?" said Anne.

"No, just Bowery Bert, the first name being a descriptive, and the second being my Christian name."

"So your second name is your first name?" said Hattie.

"In a very real sense, yes," said Bowery Bert. "You see, I am called Bowery Bert because for many years the environs on either side of a mile-long stretch of that noble thoroughfare have been my bailiwick, my stomping grounds so to speak."

"How many years?" asked Anne.

"This coming February it will be one hundred and twenty-one years."

"My goodness! You must be quite old!"

"I am, in fact, in earthly years, three thousand years, three months, three weeks, and three days young."

"You don't look a day over a hundred," said Anne.

"Thank you for the compliment," said the little man. "I try and stay in good shape. Every morning I do a complex series of oriental abdominal exercises, and every day I walk no less than twenty-five miles up and down the Bowery."

"So you're quite the fixture over there," said Hattie.

"Indeed," said Bert. "The inhabitants of those wretched streets and alleyways may not know me by name, but they know me by sight."

"So what brings you way out to this part of town?" asked Anne.

The little man pointed to Addison with his thumb.

"This guy," he said.

"Atkinson?"

"Addison, actually," said Bert.

"Sorry, Addison," said Anne. She addressed Addison. "Sorry, Hatcherman."

"But, but," Addison managed to blurt.

"Just kidding," said Anne. "Addison."

Addison suddenly felt a desire to lie down somewhere and sleep.

"Time enough for that, my boy," said Bert. "You'll get all the sleep you want when you're dead. Which, from the way you've been going, could be any day now, perhaps even any minute."

"Reading his thoughts, eh, Bowery Bert?" said Hattie.

"Yes, ha ha," said Bert. "Of course as a novelist yourself you are well acquainted with the practice."

"Yeah, you couldn't fool me, my man," said Hattie.

"Well, look," said Anne, "not to break up this happy confabulation, but are we going to get those drinks, or what? If there's one thing I've never been able to handle too much of, it's these random conversations when you run into someone when you're on the way to somewhere and you stand around talking absolute shite for a half hour for no good reason."

"It does get tedious," said Hattie.

"I mean, I realize that the conversations you're bound to get when you get where you're going tend not to be anything to write home about either, but I'd rather be sitting comfortably with a drink in front of me than standing here in this dim narrow corridor with the spiderwebs hanging from the cracked ceilings."

"Yeah, so, nice meeting you, Bert," said Hattie. "But we're going to be moving along. You coming, Alderman?"

"I, uh," said Addison, he looked down at the little man. What could he say, he wanted to go with the women. "Yes."

"But first may I have the briefest of words with friend Addison?" said Bowery Bert.

"Okay, look," said Anne, "you two stand here and chat all you like, but Hattie and I are going to go."

"I shall only detain Addison for half a minute," said Bowery Bert.

"Great," said Anne. "Then he should easily be able to catch up."

"Yeah, just follow the clacking sound of our wooden heels," said Hattie.

And with that the two women joined arms and headed down the corridor, their wooden heels clacking as advertised.

"I know you want to join them, Addison, and I don't blame you," said Bert. "So I shall make this brief. Take this pill."

He held out a large off-white pill in the palm of his small hand.

"What is it?" said Addison.

"It's a special pill. Swallow it right down and for probably the first time in your adult life all the alcohol will be voided from your corporeal host."

"Gee." 

"In other words you will be sober."

"Wow."

"This is your chance to start from scratch again. Continue to live in sobriety, to a ripe old age, or keep up the way you're going and wake up tomorrow frozen dead under a pile of freshly fallen snow in some alleyway. Go ahead, take it. Not every dipso gets a second chance like this, but I like you."

Addison picked up the pill out of Bert's hand, which did not look very clean.

He looked at the pill.

"So I just swallow it?"

"Yes, just swallow it down."

"I wish I had a glass of water."

"Well, you don't, so just toss it back. Pretend it's a shot of cheap whiskey."

"Well, okay."

This is me, thought Addison, I've never been able to say no, to either the good or the bad in life, and he popped the big pill into his mouth and managed to gulp it down. 

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…} 

"The Brown Dobbs Fedora"

 

Addison finished washing his hands, flapped his fingers in the sink, tore a length of towel-paper from the dispenser on the wall and dried his hands, looking at his face in the mirror, and behind his face those of the ladies Anne and Hattie, observing him while passing their hand-rolled cigarette back and forth, and behind them all the other ladies, chattering and laughing and smoking. 

Scrunching the paper in a rough ball he turned and removed his own marijuana cigarette from his lips.

"Shall we go, dear ladies?"

"Sure," said Hattie.

"Why not?" said Anne.

"One moment," said Addison. He looked around, saw a wire wastebasket at one end of the row of sinks. "Two points," he said, with attempted waggishness, and then he tossed the ball of paper, missing the basket by three feet, and it skittered across the tiles and under the closed door of one of the stalls.

"Hey!" shouted an invisible female voice. "What the fuck!"

"I beg your pardon," called Addison. "I was aiming for the wastebasket!"

"And what the double fuck is a fucking man doing in here?" said the voice.

"It's quite all right, Susanna," called Anne. "He's homosexual!"

"I don't care if he's Oscar Wilde himself, get him out of here!"

"We were just about to leave," called Addison. "I do beg your forgiveness."

"Just get the fuck out of here, even if you are a poofter!" called the invisible voice.

"In point of fact, to the best of my knowledge, I am not a poofter," said Addison, "but, again, I do apologize, and I shall leave posthaste."

"You'd better leave," said the voice. "Throwing your wadded-up pieces of disgusting damp paper between my feet while I am in the midst of my most private moment, causing me almost to suffer a cardiac infarction."

"I assure you it was completely unintentional," called Addison. "This utter lack of native muscular coördination on my part was why I was always hopeless at sporting games."

"Just fuck the fuck off," yelled the voice, "because if you are still out there when I emerge from this stall I shall strike you soundly and repeatedly about the head with my purse!"

"Okay, Harriman," said Hattie, "let's beat it."

"Harriman?" said Anne. "I thought it was Alderman."

"Addison, actually," said Addison, "although, as I was previously attempting to elucidate, the appellation is not strictly speaking –"

"Save it, Addison, or whatever your name is," said Hattie. "The natives are getting restless."

"Damn straight they are," said one of the chattering women. "Get that gaybo out of here before we throw him out."

"Yeah," said another one. "We don't care if he is a fairy."

"Right," said yet another one, "can't we women have one single place where we can be free of the oppression of the patriarchy?"

"Keep your skirts on, ladies," said Anne. "Come on, Harrigan, let's get you out of this before these harpies sacrifice you to the great goddess Aphrodite."

"I think he's kind of cute," said still another one of the women. "Let's pull his pants down and see what he's made of."

"All right," said Hattie, "let's go before things get out of hand." She grabbed Addison's left arm. "Annie, take his other arm."

"Got it," said Anne, hooking her arm in Addison's right arm.

"Gangway, bitches," said Hattie, pulling Addison ahead, and she and Anne forced their tripartite phalanx into the assembled throng of women. 

"Hey, Anne, how about we make it a foursome," said the one who had thought Addison cute.

"In your dreams, whore," said Anne.

"Ha ha," said the woman.

Addison allowed himself to be carried along, with what was left of the reefer still smoking in his lips.

Thus it was, he thought, that men are led to the gallows, or to the electric chair, but perhaps he was instead being frogmarched into that new life he vaguely remembered envisioning just a few minutes ago, a better life than the one he had been leading all these years, which might not be saying much, because what after all had his life been but an endless procession of meaningless drunken nights and regretful days?

At last, and not without more badinage and raillery, the three of them found themselves in the dim narrow corridor outside the Setters room.

Anne and Hattie let go of Addison's arms, and once again they passed their cigarette back and forth to each other, and Addison took the stub of reefer out of his own mouth.

"And now," said Addison, "about that drink?"

"Yeah, I could go for a whistle-wetter," said Anne.

"Me too," said Hattie.

"What ho!" cried a male voice from down the hallway, and they saw Henry James emerging from the Pointers room and carrying a brown fedora. "Hoberman, I've been looking all over for you!"

"Oh, Christ, here we go," said Hattie.

"This guy," said Anne.

Mr. James approached.

"Haverman," he said, "where have you been all this time? Oh, hello, Mistress Bradstreet, Mrs. Stowe."

"Hi, Henry," said Hattie.

"What's up, Mr. James," said Anne.

"I was so worried about you, Haberman," said the fat man, breathing heavily. "I thought perhaps you had been assaulted by young hooligans in the Pointers room. I knew I should have accompanied you."

"He never went in the Pointers room," said Hattie.

"Yes, he was afraid of being buggered," said Anne, "so I took him into the Setters."

"If you were afraid, Hoverman, you should have let me come with you," said Mr. James. "I know I may not look it, but I am not totally useless in a barney."

"What's with the hat, Henry," said Anne.

"Oh, this?" said Mr. James, lifting up the fedora. "It's Haldeman's. He left it on the bar counter, and I was afraid if I left it there someone would steal it. Here you are, my lad."

He proffered the hat to Addison, who took it and put it on his head.

"A nice Dobbs hat," said Mr. James. "Although a trifle stained and misshapen, as if it had fallen frequently to sawdusty barroom floors and garbage-choked gutters and been stepped upon by careless drunkards and blackguards. If you like, my boy, I could recommend a good shop to have it cleaned and blocked. Would you care to return to the bar now?"

"Addison invited us to have a drink with him," said Anne.

"Oh," said Mr. James.

"He said he's buying," said Hattie.

"He did?" said Mr. James. He looked at Addison. "You did?"

"Um," said Addison.

Mr. James paused. This is what they call a pregnant pause, thought Addison, although pregnant with what he didn't know. And then Mr. James sighed.

"And such it is," he said. "Young men will go where the female of the race lead them. All wisdom, all knowledge, all spirituality will be ignored when the quondam innocent lad hears the sirens' beckoning song."

"Don't feel bad, Henry," said Hattie.

"It is not the first time I have been disappointed," said Mr. James. "And I doubt it will be the last. I am sure that when I pass through Heaven's gates I will look about me, and say, 'Yes you know, this place is not quite all it's been cracked up to be.' Well, Hooverman, I hope you have a very nice time with Anne and Hattie, and I will say only this: when you have finished with your Dionysian revels you will find me at my usual spot at the end of the bar, and if you care for a nightcap, I should be only too glad to give you one, on the house."

"Uh," said Addison.

"Perhaps you will then care to regale me with your bold adventures on the high seas of concupiscence."

"Um," said Addison.

"Okay, nice talking to you, Henry," said Hattie, "but we have some bottles of Rheingold waiting for us with our names on them."

"Yes, of course, of course," said Mr. James. "Rheingold. A fine workman's beverage. Working girl's beverage. Enjoy yourselves. And, Huberman, remember what I told you about that shop to have your Dobbs restored. A little man on Prince Street, quite reasonable rates, but if you can't afford them I should be only too glad to pay them myself, asking nothing in return. I fully understand that you are a bohemian, but there are limits when it comes to sartorial presentability"

"We should go, Henry," said Anne.

"Yes, yes, of course, and, Hobeyman, please remember – oh, never mind."

"Let's go, Addison," said Hattie, and she took Addison's arm. Anne took the his other arm, his right one, and they pulled him away, turning him around, leading him down the corridor, away from Mr. James.

"Ta," called Mr. James.

They kept walking.

"Well, look at it this way, Addison," said Hattie. "At least you got your hat back.

"Yes," said Anne, "and doesn't he look quite raffish in it?"

Yes, thought Addison, I don't know where they're taking me, but wherever it is, I'm ready for it, as ready and as willing as I will ever be.

And on the ladies led him down the narrow dim corridor.

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

"Don't Call Henry James"

And as the urine poured seemingly endlessly out of him, Addison felt himself becoming one with all the universe.

He must try to remember this feeling, and, in fact, it occurred to him that he would do well to try to inject this feeling of transcendence into his novel-in-progress, Six Guns to El Paso. 

But how? 

Oh, now he knew. 

He must needs include a scene – probably comprising an entire chapter, if not an entire section of the book, perhaps a "Book" in the book – in which his hero, the lone wandering gunslinger, knight errant of the Old West, Buck Baxter, voids his bladder luxuriously and experiences just such an access of ecstasy as Addison experienced now. But where did people urinate in the Old West? Did the El Paso of his tale have houses or hotels with indoor plumbing, or did they have to use chamber pots, or outhouses? He must try to get up to the library on Fifth Avenue for an afternoon's research, and soon – oh, not tomorrow, not with all this snow, and with the debilitating hangover he would no doubt be suffering from, but perhaps the next day, or the one after that.

Why was it, anyway, he wondered, and not for the first time, why was it that people in novels never went to the bathroom? Why did you never see people ducking out to the alley for a peaceful pee? Why did no one ever defecate? Addison couldn't speak for other people, but it seemed to him that at least a quarter of his life had been spent micturating or defecating, or else preparing and eagerly looking forward to doing either. People wrote of wars and of love, but never of going to the bathroom, or, as Addison preferred, to the nearest alleyway. Why had this great swath of human existence been so ignored in literature?

Yes, this was a great lack in the world of literary and even popular fiction, and Addison was just the man to fill up that lack.

At last the great yellow stream approached its end, and, after a few manual shakes, achieved it, and that which had been part of Addison now filled the bowl almost to its brim.

My essence, he thought. My golden essence. The best of me and the worst of me, and now I must flush it, down the pipes, where it will join and merge with the essence of all mankind, and of the universe. 

The toilet had one of those old-fashioned chains attached to an overhead tank, and, heedless of the ladylike germs that no doubt swarmed profusely on its ceramic handle, he gave it a good yank, and, with a great roaring his essence was flushed away down the pipes.

Addison stuffed away what a generous chronicler might call his manhood and buttoned up the fly of his old serge trousers, thinking, Now I am merging the germs of the toilet-chain handle with the germs on my fly buttons, and this is as it should be.

He realized that he was still smoking the hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth, breathing in its thick fragrant and dream-laden smoke, and he took it out of his lips and looked at it. So this was the "reefer" (the "maryjane", the "muggles") he had heard so much about! Not bad, not bad at all…

He turned around and for a moment forgot where he was. 

What was this green metallic wall facing him? 

Scrawled upon it in red lipstick were the words

For a good time don't call Henry James

Well! Who knew that women inscribed waggish statements in ladies' room stalls?

He looked down and there was the door bolt. If he shot the bolt back, what would he find on the other side of this door?

He could hear the chirping babble of women's voices, so much nicer than the harsh barking, the cruel laughter, and the exaggerated groaning that you commonly heard in men's rooms.

He suddenly remembered that he had just fallen in love again, with that lady called, what was it, Hettie? No, Hattie. Hattie, that was it. Would she be out there? And what about the one who had brought him in here, what was her name? Jane? No, Ann, he was pretty sure it was Ann. Ann Broadstreet? No. Bradstreet, that was it. Anyway, she wasn't bad either. Not that Addison was one to be choosy or judgmental. He would gladly take whatever he could get, so used he was to nothing and to the worse than nothing of ridicule and derision, and worse still, the bleak nothingness of invisibility, of virtual incorporeality.

He fingered the bolt through its notch and pushed the door open, revealing a resplendent world of females, chattering, laughing and wielding cigarettes, and he entered into it, breathing in their varied perfumes and the warmth of their bodies, the smoke of their gentle tobaccos. To the right he saw several sinks, partially hidden by female torsos, and his feet carried him in that direction.

Two of the women were the lady Ann and the other lady Hattie, and they were passing one of the thick hand-rolled cigarettes back and forth.

"Well, look who finally came out into daylight?" said Ann.

"How many beers did you drink tonight, anyway?" Hattie asked him. 

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Addison, "but I should love another one. Would you ladies care to join me?"

The two women shared a glance. It was the kind of glance the authors of the cheap paperbacks Addison preferred would probably call a "meaningful" one.

"Who's buying?" said Hattie.

Addison remembered that ten dollars in his wallet, all he had left of the twenty his "friend" Milford had given him in aid of the divesting of his virginity. 

"I should be delighted to buy you good ladies a beer," he said, which was a monumental statement for him, as he had never volunteered to buy anyone a drink in his life.

But this was his new life. His life to live, come hell or high water, yes, and come death as it certainly would, but not before he had lived his life to the full.

"I have a ten-dollar bill in my pocket," he continued, "which is all the money I have to my name in this world. And I can think of no better way of spending it than buying rounds of alcoholic beverages for you two ladies, and for myself it goes without saying. And when it is spent I will regret nothing, except perhaps not having more money to spend in just such a manner."

"Okay," said Ann. "Wash your hands then, and we'll help you spend that ten dollars."

"Yeah, just don't get any ideas," said Hattie.

"Heaven forfend," said Addison.

"Don't worry about it, Hattie," said Ann. "Albertson is as homosexual as they come."

"He told me he didn't think he was," said Hattie.

"Did he?" said Ann, and she cast a look at Addison, who stood there, as if awaiting a verdict with courage. 

"That's what he said, anyway," said Hattie.

"Okay," said Ann. "But we'll be the judges of that."

And feeling as a man must whose case has been postponed indefinitely, Addison stepped forward to the sink, and turned on both the hot and cold water taps.

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Falling in Love Again, Again"

There were half a dozen stalls, and Addison made his way to one of them and pulled on the handle, but the door wouldn't open. He pulled again but it still wouldn't open.

"Hey, retard, the door is locked, because someone is in here," said a woman's forceful voice.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Addison. "My mistake."

"Is that a man?" said the voice.

"Nominally, yes," said Addison.

"And what, may I ask, are you doing in the ladies' room."

"Well, I'll be the first to concede that my presence here is highly irregular, but this lady named Ann brought me in."

"Who, Bradstreet?"

"Yes, precisely. A charming woman."

"A goofy bitch, you ask me," said the voice.

"She took pity on me."

"Oh, and why was that?"

"Because she knew I was afraid to go into the men's room."

"Okay, and why were you afraid to go into the men's room?"

"Well, it's rather embarrassing, but, you see, when I was doing my wartime service in a parachute factory in Fayetteville, North Carolina, one night I was in the bar all the chaps used to frequent, and when I went to use the urinal, this enormous army sergeant came up behind me, and, well –"

"He buggered you?"

"Technically, no, because no actual penetration was achieved, but he did rub quite forcefully against my posterior, and although I managed to keep my trousers up, he did I believe achieve orgasm – pardon my language – and, having achieved it, he shoved me aside so that he could urinate in his turn in the urinal. Needless to say I was quite shaken by the whole experience."

Addison heard the sound of a toilet flushing.

"So, anyway," he said, "I'll just find an empty stall, and, again, I do apologize."

"Wait a minute."

"What?"

"You heard me. Wait a second till I pull my drawers up."

"Okay," said Addison, who had never learned how to say no.

He drew deeply on his cigarette, the hand-rolled one Mistress Bradstreet had given him. It had a thick, musty and musky flavor, and it made him feel young and alive, or at least less markedly old and moribund.

The door opened and a woman came out, dressed in 19th century style, not that Addison was an expert in such matters. 

"I just had to get a look at you," said the woman.

"Please feel free!" said Addison, trying to appear debonair.

"You look as retarded as you sound," she said.

"Ha ha," said Addison.

She reached into a pocket of her voluminous skirt, and brought out a pack of Herbert Tareytons. She shook one out and put it in her lips, which were "well-formed", as the popular novelists Addison preferred to read would have described them. Quick as lightning Addison reached into his topcoat, brought out his matches, and after only three tries he succeeded in giving her a light.

"Thanks," she said, blowing a great cloud of Tareyton smoke into Addison's face. "What's your name, pal?"

"Well, all my friends call me Addison, but –"

"You have friends?"

"Acquaintances then."

"My name's Harriet. Beecher Stowe to be precise."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Stowe."

"You can call me Harriet."

"Please to meet you, Harriet."

"You look just like you sound."

"And how is that?"

"Like an insufferable drip."

"Ha ha."

"Well, the stall is empty now, so you may go in."

"Thank you, Harriet."

"You may call me Hattie if you will. My closest friends and family call me Hattie."

"Well, thank you, Hattie."

"Is that a reefer you're smoking?"

"What, this?"

Addison held out the hand-rolled cigarette.

"Yes, that," she said.

"Oh, my goodness, perhaps it is!"

"Did you get it from Bradstreet?"

"In fact I did, yes."

"Well, that explains it. She claims it helps with her lumbago. But do you want to know what I think?"

"I should be delighted."

"I think she just likes to get high, and when she gets high she does idiotic things like inviting weird men to use the ladies' room."

"Ha ha?"

"That's the kind of laugh that cheap novelists call 'a mirthless laugh'."

"Ha ha?"

"Was that a 'ha ha' in quotes, or an actual mirthless laugh."

"Um, uh –"

"At a loss for words, are you?"

"Yes."

"Well, you'd better go in there before you wet yourself. Unless of course you need to do the other thing. In which case you'd still better go in, but even more so."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Well, again, such a pleasure to meet you, Miss, uh –"

"Hattie."

"Miss Hattie."

"Just call me Hattie. By this point I almost feel as if we are old friends. You're not homosexual are you?"

"I don't think so," said Addison.

"Did you enjoy being dry-buggered by that army sergeant in the men's room?"

"Not really, no."

"So perhaps, despite appearances, you are heterosexual."

"It's quite possible, I should think," said Addison.

"Let me ask you then, have you ever had sexual relations with a member of the female gender?"

"Not yet, but I sincerely hope to, someday."

"Hope springs eternal then?"

"And while there is life," said Addison, "there is hope."

"Well, go ahead then."

"Thank you, again," said Addison.

"Pee well."

"Heh heh."

"If that's what you're going in there for."

"It is, yes."

"Then I hope you enjoy it."

"I am sure I shall."

"Are you quite sure you're not homosexual?"

"Pretty sure."

"When you commit the sin of Onan, do you think of men or women?"

"Oh, women," said Addison, thinking of his dog-eared copy of The Kama Sutra, in French translation, a gift from his liberal Uncle Lou upon his graduation from Andover.

"Perhaps," she said, "there truly is a quantum of hope for you then."

"Perhaps."

"Go."

"Yes," said Addison. "It was nice talking –"

"Enough badinage. Go."

She pointed into the stall, at the toilet.

"Yes," said Addison. "I hope we can meet again – Hattie."

She said nothing, and at last Addison went into the stall. Hattie closed the door behind him.

"Turn the lock," her voice said. "Unless you want to be set upon by one of these sex-starved harpies out here."

"Yes, of course," said Addison, and he turned and shot the bolt.

He stood there a moment, just in case she had anything else to say, but apparently she didn't, and he turned, and, fumbling, the reefer smoking in his lips, he unbuttoned his fly.

Just in time, he remembered to lift the seat.

He sighed, as well as he could sigh with the cigarette in his lips, and as his bladder voided, he thought, Yes, I am falling in love, again.

 

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Mistress Bradstreet"

Down the bar Addison went, and when he came to the end of it he turned right, but a wall was there, so that must be the wrong way, and he did an about-face and tacked onward, saying, "Excuse me" when he bumped against the corner of the cigarette machine and "I beg your pardon" when he came up against the side of the jukebox and "Sorry" when he collided with a large fellow in a top hat, who said, "Hey, watch it, Mac," but Addison was already gone, and a few chaotic minutes later he entered a narrow and dim hallway.

Where was he going, anyway?

And then he remembered.

Men's room. 

He had to pee.

And not for the first time he thought how much simpler life would be if one did not so inexorably have to void oneself of urine, and, less frequently, feces. But life was full of woe and hardship, and then you died, and so there was nothing to be done but find this alleged men's room, and hope for the best, or at least for the not worst.

Soon enough, there to the left (but hadn't Henry James said it was on the right?) was a door with a sign on it saying 

POINTERS

and below the word a crude silhouette of a pointing dog of some sort.

Addison hesitated, swaying slightly back and forth and side to side, while within his skull his consciousness sloshed gently also side to side and up and down and forward and back.

He had not had good luck with men's rooms in his time on this earth. No, he'd had very bad luck with men's rooms, which was why he much preferred whenever possible just to go outside to a convenient alleyway and pee in peace against ancient city bricks in the darkness, luxuriating in the cool air bathing the thin skin of his supposed manhood.

 

A woman in Puritan costume emerged from a door at about the ten yard line down the hall. She took a cigarette case from her shoulder purse, and Addison's eyes met hers.

"Hello," he hailed.

"And hello to you, sir," she replied.

"May I ignite your cigarette?", called Addison, who, no matter how drunk he was, remained always a gentleman.

"You may," said the lady. "But before I allow you to do so, I will ask you bluntly: are you a cad, a bounder, or a rogue."

"I have always aspired to a modest roguishness," said Addison,  "but no doubt have failed consistently; however, I can assure you that I am about as far from being a cad or a bounder as one can be without wearing the robes of a Trappist monk."

"You may approach," said the lady, who, if Addison were the sort to make such observations, which he was not, was somewhere probably between the ages of thirty to sixty.

Addison approached, trying not to stagger or reel, or fall headlong. By the time he had reached the lady he had a book of paper matches at the ready. She already held the end of a cigarette to her lips, and after only four tries Addison managed to strike a match and hold it to her cigarette without burning himself or her.

"Thank you, sir," said the lady, exhaling smoke only slightly to the side of Addison's head. "I hope you won't think me a dreadful quidnunc, but what were you doing lurking outside that Pointers room door. You're not one of these toilet traders I've heard so much about, are you? Trolling for inverts to rent your corporeal host to?"

"No," said Addison. "I was merely hesitating, in fear."

"Dare I ask what you were afraid of?"

The lady politely clicked her cigarette case open and proffered it.

"Thank you," said Addison, taking a cigarette, which seemed to be hand-rolled. "Well, to answer your question –" he paused while striking, or attempting to strike a match, succeeding on his third try –"I have never been fond of men's rooms, finding myself frequently accosted by rough sorts and chaps dubiously instigating conversations, not to mention emitting theatrical moans of pleasure at the urinals, and frightening groans and grunts from the stalls. And then there are the odors."

"How awfully terrible, for you," said the lady.

"Maybe I'll just go outside and find an alleyway," he said. "Do you know how I can find a way out of here?"

"Oh, humbug," said the lady. "Are you going to give in to your fears?"

"Well, yes, that was what I had in mind. If I keep going straight ahead, will I reach an exit?"

"Rarely have I met a man quite so blatantly cowardly."

"All right, then, "Addison sighed, "I didn't want to get into this rather shameful chapter in my personal history, but an incident occurred to me during the war, when I was working (quite against my will, I assure you) at a parachute factory in Fayetteville, North Carolina, because you see I was designated 4-F because of flat feet and knock knees, as well as a slight heart murmur, and also what the army psychiatrist deemed my 'psychological fragility', and one Friday night I was at the local bar, and, when I went to use the urinal, suddenly an enormous drunken army sergeant came up behind me, and, quite forcefully, and painfully –"

"Excuse me, what's your name?"

"Well, they call me Addison, but –"

"Pleased to meet you, Addison. They call me Mistress Bradstreet, but please do address me tout court as Ann."

"Hi, Ann."

"Listen, Addison, do you want to use the ladies' room?"

"Gee, I've never."

"I mean if it's that traumatizing for you just to use the men's room like a normal man."

"Alas, I am not normal."

"That must make life difficult for you."

"I manage. And I know little of value, but I daresay that normality is nothing to brag about."

"I'm starting to like you, Addison, despite myself. Come on, I'll take you into the ladies' and be your protector."

"Wow, that would be really nice of you, Miss, uh –"

"Ann."

"Miss Ann."

"Just Ann."

"Ann it is then," said Addison.

"If you will open the door then," she said.

The door in question had a sign on it with the legend 

SETTERS

and below the word was a silhouette of a squatting dog. 

Addison pushed the door open and allowed the lady to pass through, then followed her, allowing the door to close behind him.

Inside was a large fragrant room filled with chatting ladies, laughing and smoking cigarettes, and as one they all turned and stared at him.

"What the fuck, Ann," said one lady.

"Get that creep out of here," said another.

"Jesus Christ almighty," said another.

"All right, bitches, settle down," said the lady called Ann. "He's with me, and his name is Addison."

"Well, tell 'Addison' to fuck off out of here," said another lady.

"Yeah, I'm as much a bluestocking as anybody in here," said another, "but I draw the line at guys in the ladies' room."

"Oh, posh," said Ann. "My friend Addison is so barely a 'guy' he almost is a lady, so everybody just calm down. He's afraid to use the Pointers room, so I told him he could use the Setters."

"Look, uh, I can leave," said Addison, taking a nervous drag on his cigarette.

"Why is he afraid to use the men's room," said one of the ladies who had spoken before.

"Because he was buggered once in a men's room in Fayetteville, North Carolina, when he was down there doing his wartime service in a parachute factory, on account of he was 4-F for various reasons."

"Was cowardice one of the reasons he was 4-F?" said one of the ladies, and the laughter was general.

"Ah, give the poor boy a break," said Ann, and she turned to Addison. "Go ahead, pal, just use one of those stalls over there."

"Preferably one of the empty ones," said one of the ladies.

"Well, okay," said Addison, and he headed toward a row of stalls, painted pink, to the right of the room. The women parted to let him pass, and he felt drunker still breathing in their varied warm scents. What was that line of Joyce's, the "perfume of embraces"? Anyway, he breathed it in, along with the smoke of their cigarettes, and he felt gentle fingers touching his hands and his face and even his rear and front ends. 

"Addison!" called Ann from across the room.

He stopped and turned.

"Yes, Ann?"

"Just don't embarrass me. Lift the seat up before you use the toilet."

"Yes, of course," he said, and he continued on, as tentatively happy as he had ever been, or probably ever would be.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}