Dan Leo's Blog, page 5

"One Last Job"

Henry James was blathering on, about what exactly Addison had little or no idea. Not for the first time in his life he thought, yes, this was life, people blathering, because blather they must, even if they were famous novelists.

"Don't you agree, Mr. Paddison?"

"Oh, yes, entirely, sir," said Addison, because he knew that everyone wanted to be agreed with. Even he would probably want to be agreed with if he actually had any opinions.

Mr. James was staring at him out of bloodshot eyes in a red bloated face. What was he thinking? Did he expect Addison to elaborate on his stated agreement, or was he just experiencing one of those drunken fugues when even the most voluble windbags fall silent as their batteries of bloviation recharge?

Suddenly Addison realized he needed to piss, that tedious occupational necessity of every drunkard.

"Oh, by the way, Mr. James, I hate to interrupt you –"

"No, please do, sir. I love to be interrupted by intelligent younger men."

"Well, I was just wondering if you could direct me to, uh –"

"Yes? You seek direction? My dear boy, someday you will learn that no one can give you direction, that we all must find our own way through the winding byways and cobbled back alleyways of this dream we call life. Will we choose the wrong turnings? Yes. Will we sometimes – sometimes! – choose the right turning? Perhaps. But – and this is quite possibly the only real direction I can give you – sometimes we might find that what at first seemed the wrong turning was, in hindsight, the correct one. And, yes, the opposite might also be true, videlicet that the choice which seemed at the time to be right, true, and correct proves in the end to be wrong, horribly wrong, perhaps even fatally so."

"You make some very good points, Mr. James, but –"

"But in the end you must make your own mistakes. No one can make them for you."

"Yes, I can see that, but, actually, I just wanted to know where the men's room was."

"Oh. Well, that's different, isn't it?"

"Yes, I guess."

"Because there can only be one set of directions to the men's room. Provided of course that there is a men's room."

"Is there one?"

"No, you have to go out back and micturate against the wall."

"Oh, okay, so how do I get to the back door then?"

"I was just jesting," said Mr. James. "Of course we have a men's room. Just go to the end of the bar, make a left, go past the cigarette machine and the jukebox, and you'll soon enter a dim narrow hallway; keep going down the hall, and it's the first door on your left. It says Pointers."

"Pointers."

"Yes. Like the dog. And even if you're illiterate there's a picture of a dog on it. A pointing dog."

"Okay. Pointers."

"Yes, a bit farther along is another door that has a picture of a squatting dog and it says Sitters. Don't go in that one."

"I guess that's the ladies' room."

"Most perspicacious of you. I knew you were a smart lad from the moment I laid eyes on you. I should love to read your novel."

"Well, I only have the first few chapters written, or sort of written."

"I should love to read them."

"They're pretty rough. First draft stuff, and I wrote them without any sort of outline or much of a plot in mind at all."

"All the better. I always tried to outline all my novels but I never followed the outlines anyway."

"That's good to know."

"When I started The Golden Bowl I intended it to be about a female assassin who agrees to take one last job, and look how that novel turned out."

"Um, yes –"

"Just let it rip is my advice to you, my boy, and the less you think about it the better. That's what your what I believe Dr. Freud calls your unconscious is for."

"Thanks, it's good to hear that, because frankly I never know what I'm going to write next."

"And isn't life like that? Who knows what's going to happen next? Only in bad novels does life follow any sort of strict and ironclad plot."

"So, anyway," said Addison, "it's go to the end of the bar, then left and down the hall and the first door on the right?"

"First door on the left."

"Left, right."

"Left, not right."

"Right, left."

"Pointers. Just look for the sign."

"The pointing dog."

"That is correct. Would you like me to accompany you?"

"No, that's all right, sir. I'm sure I can find it."

"I don't mind."

"No, please, I wouldn't want to put you out."

"It's not putting me out."

"Down the bar, go left, down the hall, first door on the right –"

"Left. First door on the left."

"First door on the left, right."

"Pointers."

"Yes," said Addison. "Pointers."

He climbed off his stool, almost knocking the stool over, but Mr. James was quick and he grabbed the stool before it could fall.

"Are you quite all right?" said Mr. James.

"Yes, fine," said Addison. "Thank you."

His grog tankard was sitting there on the bar, and he picked it up, drank the half-ounce of sludge that was left in it.

"Shall I order you another grog?" said Mr. James.

"Yes, thank you," said Addison.

"It's pretty good, isn't it?"

"Delicious, yes."

"Of course the good rum is the essential ingredient, good strong Royal Navy rum, Jamaica rum, aged in old oaken casks, but you know what really makes the drink for me, besides the cinnamon, the cloves, the blackstrap molasses, the star anise?"

"No."

"It's the fenugreek."

"Okay."

"You've got to have the fenugreek."

"Okay, well, look, uh –"

"Go. Go, my lad, and godspeed. And when you return you will find a fresh tankard of hot steaming grog awaiting you."

"Thanks. I mean, thanks in advance."

"My treat."

"You are too generous, sir."

"Not really. You don't know what it means to me to pick the brains of a rising young talent like yourself. Now go, go, before you wet your trousers."

"Okay, I'll be right back," said Addison.

"And I'll be right here, bating my breath."

At last Addison escaped the fat old bore, and headed headlong down the bar, past all these shouting and laughing people, amidst the clangor of the jukebox and the thick clouds of smoke.

Down to the end of the bar, then make a left, and into a hallway. Go down the hallway until you see a sign that says Pointers. First door on the left, or was it the right? No matter, just look for the door that said Pointers.

He could do this.

The music blared, the people laughed and shouted, the thick smoke swirled, it was like a great sea of drunkenness and Addison swam through it.

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

"King Snake Moan"

 

 

Milford drew deeply once again on the fat brown hand-rolled cigarette, breathing in its mysteries, its promises, and its secrets.

The combo continued to play, and a man's thick voice carried over the music and with the music, singing strange words that meant nothing and everything.

Here come the big king snake,

don't you hear him moanin'?

Here come my little gal,

Don't you hear her groanin'?

Come gather round this old camp fire,

come gather round and hear the tale.

Don't deny my name nor my desire,

don't you hear that night wind wail?

"Miss Alcott?" said Milford.

"Yes, dear boy?"

"I have decided that my entire life has been without meaning or purpose."

"Yes, and?"

"Well," said Milford. "That's all, I guess. I wonder, would it be best for me to make my way to the Brooklyn Bridge, way out to the middle of it, and then throw myself off?"

"How would I know?" said Miss Alcott. 

"But you are wise."

"I'm not that wise. Drink your sweet tea."

Milford looked down at the tall glass sitting on the bar, russet in color and beaded from the sparkling ice inside it.

"I'm afraid," he said.

"Of what? Of having an original thought?"

"I'm afraid if I drink the tea I will have to go to the men's room again."

"If you drink it I'm sure you will have to go to the men's room. In fact," she said, "even if you don't drink it you will in due course have to go to the men's room. Or perhaps to an alleyway. I'm told that men are particularly fond of making water in alleyways."

"There is something to be said for it," said Milford. "In fact there's much to be said for it."

"Expand upon your thesis, please."

"In an alleyway there is a much lesser chance that someone will try to talk to you."

"And is it so horrifying to be talked to in a men's room? I speak from a position of total ignorance you understand, never having been in one myself."

"I met Mr. Whitman in a men's room," said Milford, not exactly answering her question.

"Oh, dear," said Miss Alcott, "that must have been, if not horrifying, then, shall I say, disturbing?"

"It was," said Milford. "But it seems I can't go into any men's room without being spoken to by strangers."

"And is it always so 'disturbing'?"

Milford cast his memory back, through a thousand bars and even further back to the dreaded rest rooms at Princeton, at Andover, and even in grade school at Friends Seminary.

"Yes," he said, "it is always and invariably disturbing."

Miss Alcott took a drag of her Lucky Strike, slowly allowed the smoke to escape from her parted red lips, and then she said, "I'll tell you what's disturbing. What's disturbing is a young man who is afraid to drink his sweet tea because he doesn't want to use a public rest room. Are you going to live your entire life in fear?"

"She's got a point, Milford," said that voice in Milford's head. "Are you going to be a man, at long last? Or are you going to be a coward all your life?"

Before he could stop himself, Milford lifted the glass up, removed the straw, placed the straw on the bar top, then lifted the glass to his lips, gulping the tea. He paused halfway, then drank again. Then he shook the ice in the glass and took one more rattling drink, and laid the glass down.

"Bravo, Milford!" said Miss Alcott, smiling. "Let no one henceforth say that you are too afraid to drink a glass of sweet tea!"

"I owe it all to you, Miss Alcott," said Milford, "And to me," added the voice in his head, called Stoney.

"How do you feel now?" said Miss Alcott.

"I feel – and it might be because of this 'cigarette' I've been smoking," said Milford, "and also the delicious sweet tea – but I feel like a new man."

"How is – please pardon the personal question," said Miss Alcott, "but how is your erection?"

Milford gazed down toward his inguinal area.

"Oh," he said. "It seems to have subsided."

"Splendid," she said. "That means we can dance."

"Dance?"

"You heard me."

"But I don't dance."

"Perhaps not yet you don't. Look at those happy people."

She gestured towards the small area in front of the combo, which was filled with dark-skinned people cavorting.

"I don't know how to dance like that," said Milford.

"Then you will learn."

She stubbed out her Lucky Strike. 

"Um," said Milford.

She slipped off her bar stool, then picked up what was left of her glass of sherry and downed it.

"Come on," she said. "You're only young once."

Milford shifted his narrow hindquarters off of his seat.

"There's my boy," said Stoney, in the dark undiscovered caverns of his skull. "You can do this."

For a fraction of a second Milford wondered if he should leave his cigarette in the ashtray where Miss Alcott had stubbed out her Lucky Strike, but he decided to take it with him.

Miss Alcott took his arm and looked into his eyes with her marbled brown eyes.

"Let us," she said, "trip the light fantastic."

"Yes," said Milford. "Let's."

And arm in arm they made their way toward the small dance floor filled with dancing dark-skinned people, the women in brightly colored dresses, many of the men wearing zoot suits and long golden watch chains.

The man at the microphone sang.

Shake it up and shake it on down,

kick that can all the way uptown,

come on, pretty baby now, come on

we gonna boogie till the break of dawn…

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq. And we wish a happy Thanksgiving to all our beloved readers…}

"Home"

 

{Herewith our Fifth Anniversary episode of this weekly series. Please enjoy responsibly…}

Through the thick falling snow Addison trudged, not without difficulty, so deep was the fallen snow on the sidewalk. It was a shame he was not wearing stout knee-high Wellington boots such as his mother had outfitted him with as a child, no, alas, all he wore were the same old brogans he had acquired when he first went to work at the parachute factory during the war, in lieu of military service because of his flat feet, knock knees, and heart murmur, and, to boot, what the Selective Service doctor had called his "psychological fragility". 

No matter, soon he would be in his favorite place, that place called "bar". And with a whole ten dollars to spend! It was good of his "friend" Milford to have given him the money, even if Addison had failed to use it for its intended purpose, i.e., to disencumber himself of the burden of his virginity. 

But hadn't Bubbles been willing to relieve him of that burden? It wasn't her fault, poor girl, that she had fallen asleep. She had doubtless had a long day, and a long night, and many drinks after all. Of course Addison also had had many drinks, but he was a man, hang it all, yes, despite all his faults, he was still a man, and even if he had flat feet and knock knees and whatever "psychological fragility" was, oh, and a murmuring heart, that proud heart which had not failed him yet, despite all the drinks and cigarettes and poor diet and lack of healthful exercise, no, someday of course it would fail him, and probably the way he was going sooner than later, but as of this moment he was alive, hang and damn it all, breathing in the wet freezing air through his dribbling nose and panting mouth, the fat snowflakes striking his face and wetting his lips, and, after consideration, wasn't Bubbles's intention to make the beast with two backs with him almost as good as what the reality of it might have been? And what if he had lost his tumescence before he could complete the act? How embarrassing might that have been! And would Bubbles still have charged him the full ten, or would she have let it go, or at least given him a discount? 

No matter again, that was all in the distant past of possible pasts, and now was the eternal now, trudging along through the snow both falling and fallen, and now, what was this?

Addison ceased his trudging, brought to a standstill by a throbbing reddish electric sign to his left, a sign that glowed the one sacred word 

RHEINGOLD

What was this?

It was that most joyful of undiscovered worlds, that world most brimming with promise, in short a bar he had never (at least that he could remember) gone into before.

How had he gotten here, to the verge of this potentially brave new world?

He turned around, to his right, and looked across the street, and there, through the unrelenting falling snow, he saw that other beckoning neon sign, in large vertical letters

B

A

R

That sacred sign of the Kettle of Fish! And, turning ninety degrees farther to the right, he saw that other holy electric sign, that of the 

S

A

N

R

E

M

O

CAFE

He completed his turn full circle and gazed again at the Rheingold sign. It stood in a snow-crusted glass-brick window to the right of a doorway down four or five steps in a dim areaway, the light of the sign tinging pink the sloped smooth snow that covered the steps and the paving below. 

What strange mysterious bar was this, hidden away below ground on MacDougal Street? A bar with no name, unless of course its name was "Rheingold", which Addison somehow doubted. No, this was that special sort of bar, the sort of bar that didn't need anything so vulgar as a sign bearing its name. No, this was one of those bars known only to those who knew, the few, and like the U.S. Marines, the proud. 

He remembered now seeing this selfsame Rheingold sign from across the street, when he and Bubbles had emerged from the Kettle of Fish not twenty minutes ago (although, in a sense, it felt like twenty years ago). Why had he never noticed this sign, this place before? Had it even existed before this night? So many hundreds, nay, thousands of bars had he gone into in his life, how had this one escaped him? 

Well, hang it, damn it, and, yes, blast it all, this mystery-bar wouldn't escape him now!

There was a snow-ridged handrail going downwards into the areaway, and Addison used it with his ungloved hand, gripping it tight as he went slowly down the steps, invisible under their hillock of snow. He stumbled once, then twice, but managed not to fall, and in less than a minute he stood before the door, of old-looking raw wood, and he put his hand on the curved iron handle and depressed its thumb-catch, and, yes, the door opened, and from inside burst that most beautiful world of all worlds: bar world, with dim lights and thick smoke, and laughing and shouting people, and the music of a jukebox.

Inside Addison stood, gathering his bearings.

A fat bald man in an old-fashioned tweed suit with a stiff-collared shirt stood up from a stool at the end of the bar on the right, and approached, a cigar in hand.

"I say, young fellow, how about closing that door behind you, unless, and in which case I retroactively forgive you, you were brought up in a barn."

"Oh, sorry," said Addison, and he turned and pulled the door shut.

"Perhaps you assumed," said the fat man, "that our door was equipped with one of those modern pneumatic door-closing devices."

"No," said Addison, "I assumed nothing. I merely was too awe-stricken to notice that the door was still open."

"Awe-stricken?" said the fat man. "By our humble caravansary?"

"Yes, sir," said Addison, "because something tells me, something deep in my soul –"

"Ah!" said the man. "So you believe in the soul, do you? A traditionalist!"

"Yes, sir," said Addison, "I do, and I am. But, as I was saying, something deep in my soul tells me that this bar, of all bars, in this or any other possible universe, is the most special bar of all."

"I like the cut of your jib, my lad," said the man. "However, this establishment is a private one."

"Oh," said Addison. "Just my luck. Well, no matter, I should have known better. I guess I'll just have to go back across the street, to the Kettle of Fish, that's not such a bad place –"

"If I may interrupt," said the man, "I said private, but not exclusive. You may indeed still perhaps enjoy our hospitality, with all the privileges incumbent thereunto –"

"If it's a question of money, I have in my possession a ten-dollar bill, but –"

"Please, sir, let us not speak of such base matters as money. We have members who are millionaires, and others who have rarely a penny in their purses, nor a pot to piss in; no, it is not through filthy lucre that one becomes a member of our society, but through nobility of the spirit, of the soul, as soi-disant traditionalists such as yourself would call that invisible je ne sais quoi which distinguishes man from beast."

"If I may venture, sir, I have always tried to behave as befits the noble of soul."

"I'm glad to hear it, m'boy, however it is I who will be the judge of the quantity and, more important, the quality of any nobility you might possess. And, so, to the point, a few questions. Are you an artist, sir, no matter be it in the realms of letters or oils or granite, or in any of the performing arts?"

"I am a novelist," said Addison.

"Published?"

"Not yet. You see, I am still in the beginning stages of what I hope to be my magnum opus, a saga of the Old West, which I am calling Six Guns to El Paso."

"Hmm, sounds delightful," said the man. "But, please tell me, what are the themes of this proposed masterpiece."

"The futility of all human endeavor is my primary theme," said Addison, "but I hope also to delve deeply into those of the hopelessness of human life, the impossibility of understanding existence, and the fear of oblivion. I should like also to touch on the topic of human love, both platonic and, shall we say, concupiscent."

"Good answer," said the man. "One more question: what do you most love to do in this life."

"To sit or stand at a bar," said Addison, without hesitation, "drinking alcoholic beverages, and speaking nonsense, while listening, or pretending to listen, to the nonsense of others."

"You have answered all my questions admirably, and so I welcome you to our establishment. My name is James, Henry my Christian name, perhaps you've heard of me."

"James Henry?"

"Flip it around."

"Henry James?" said Addison. "Why yes, of course I have heard of you, and I have read and admired your work all my life."

"Oh, splendid, so nice to hear this from a member of the younger generation, usually so 'hepped up' on these newer upstarts like James Branch Cabell and Booth Tarkington."

"Not a patch on you, sir."

"Any favorites?"

"Favorite what?"

"Favorites from among my oeuvre."

"Well, let me see, that's hard to say," said Addison, which it was, because he had never been able to finish anything by the man, not even a short story.

"I do hope you're not one of those who find my later works, and I quote, 'difficult'."

"Not at all," said Addison. "I love your later works."

"Thank you," said the fat man. "And your name, sir?"

"Oh, just call me Addison, Mr. James, everyone else does."

"Addison it is, then. May I press your hand, sir?"

"Of course," said Addison, and he took the fat man's hand, which was warm, and damp.

"My, your hand is cold, sir, like that of a marble statue in one of the cinquecento colonnades of Florence!"

"Yes, it is rather gelid outside, and I seem incapable of not losing gloves."

"We must warm you up! Allow me to welcome you to our little confraternity with a complimentary tankard of our proprietary hot spiced grog."

"Sounds great, sir," said Addison. 

The fat man took his arm, and led him toward the bar, which was crowded with laughing and shouting people. The whole place was crowded, with laughing people, shouting people, with smoke and music.

Mr. James brought them to two empty stools at the end of the bar, and gestured to Addison to take one, which he did, without falling over, and Mr. James took the adjoining stool.

"By the way, Mr. James," said Addison. "What is the name of this delightful place?"

"Valhalla," said Mr. James.

"Valhalla," repeated Addison.

So, at long last, he had found it.

He was home.

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

"Perfumes and Chocolates"

"And so you see, Mr. Stevens," said Addison, "in my view, the primary duty of the poet of today is not just to express the personal despair of his paltry existence, but the despair of the universe which gave birth to itself out of an overwhelming sense of boredom at its own previous nonexistence, that is to say, in a sense, but a very real sense, it was so bored that it could conquer its boredom only by compounding it, and this I think is the essential theme of my novel in progress, which I would love for you to read –"

"Hey, Patcherman," said Bubbles, who was sitting to Addison's right.

"Yes, dear Bubbles," said Addison, turning.

"The guy's passed out, so you can save the blather."

Addison turned to look, and, indeed, the large man's chin rested on his chest, and his eyes were closed like those of an enormous sleeping infant.

"Oh, a pity," said Addison. "I felt I was on the verge, too, of some profound insight."

"Yeah, well, save it for later, pal. Come on, I need my beauty sleep."

"Perhaps just one more for the road?"

"Not unless you want to carry me out of here."

"Oh, very well."

The combo was still blowing and crashing away, the people all around them still laughing and shouting, and one sad strangled voice suddenly shouted, "Go, man, go! Don't stop now, daddy-o!"

Addison raised a finger and caught the bartender's attention.

"Sir, are we all paid up here?"

"Mr. Stevens got all them rounds, buddy," said the bartender.

"Oh, splendid," said Addison, "and I did leave a tip earlier, did I not?"

"Yes, sir, if I recall it was sixty-five cents, and very generous of you at that."

"Let's go, Adelbert," said Bubbles. 

Addison took out his wallet and opened it. Inside was a ten dollar bill and two singles. He removed the two singles and proffered them to the bartender.

"Please add these to your hope chest," he said.

"I will do that," said the bartender, taking the two dollars. 

"Come on, big spender," said Bubbles.

It was true, Addison had never tipped a bartender so much in all his life, but then hadn't Mr. Stevens bought them three Hennessy VSOPs apiece?

Addison and Bubbles had never removed their coats and hats when the large gentleman had offered to buy them cognacs, and so now they both dismounted from their stools, grabbing onto each other as they did so.

And the beauty of it all was that Addison still had that beautiful ten-dollar bill in his wallet, and he knew just how he was going to spend it, too.

As drunk as they both were, Bubbles nevertheless looked magnificent in her red fur-like pillbox hat, her red coat, her matching shiny red purse over her shoulder, with her red lips and her dark eyes.

"You look magnificent, dear Bubbles," said Addison.

"Yeah, right," she said. "Let's barrel."

She took his arm, and off they forged to the entrance and out the door where they stood for a moment in the areaway, illuminated by the vertical neon letters in the window to their right which spelled the word BAR, and the snow still fell heavily down on the whiteness of MacDougal Street, and across the vague swirling street was another electric light, an orange one spelling the word RHEINGOLD.

"Rheingold!" said Addison. "What a beautiful word! Should we cross over there and each have a nice tall beaded pilsner glass of the golden beer of the Rheinland, just to wash down that delicious Hennessy?"

"No, you fool, you can if you want to, but if I have anything more to drink I'll explode."

"Oh, very well," said Addison, suddenly remembering what he wanted to save that ten dollars for anyway.

And so off they trudged through the falling gusting snow and through the fallen foot-deep snow on the sidewalk.

Down at the corner when they reached the entrance of the San Remo glowing orange and red with its own neon sign, Addison suggested another nightcap again, but once more Bubbles was adamant in her refusal. 

Another stumbling trudging half block down Bleecker and they were at the snow-humped stoop of her building.

"Thanks, pal," said Bubbles. "Go right home now."

"Oh, Bubbles."

"Yeah, what?"

"Bubbles, I still have ten dollars left."

"Good for you."

"I wonder if I might, that is if you're not too tired."

"What?"

"Well, do you still charge ten dollars for a 'throw', as you call it?"

"You want to pay for a throw?"

"Yes, and gladly, but only if you're, you know, not too tired."

"So you're finally ready to graduate from the three-buck Baltimore handshake?"

"Yes, I think so."

"You kill me, Albertson. Where'd you get all that moolah, anyway? I never saw you buy so many drinks before."

"My friend Milford gave me a twenty."

"That was generous of him."

"Yes, it was."

"Why'd he give it to you?"

"May I be honest?"

"Sure."

"I told him I had never actually committed the, shall we say, 'act of darkness' with a woman, and so he gave me twenty so I could, you know –"

"Get a throw from me."

"Yes."

"But I only charge ten."

"Yes, he gave me ten extra."

"Maybe he figured if he just gave you ten you would only spend it all on booze."

"Yes, perhaps."

"Well, okay, what the hell, come on up."

"Oh, Bubbles, thank you so much."

"Think nothing of it. But, look, afterwards, you have to split, because I like to sleep alone, and I intend to get me at least a good twelve hours snooze after this blow-out."

"Certainly."

Soon enough they were up in Bubbles's cozy little flat, warm and comfortable with the hissing radiator and the smells of perfumes and chocolates and movie magazines.

"I so love this little place," said Addison. "I would like to hide in here forever."

"Don't get any ideas, buster," said Bubbles, sitting on the bed and rolling down her stockings. "You gonna take your hat and coat off?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Addison, and he put his hat on the coat tree, and then his old worn coat.

Outside Bubbles's window the snow still fell on Bleecker Street, through the hazy yellow light of the street lamp.

So this was the time, at long last. He must savor the moment, and try not to think of something else while it was happening. Although he could forgive himself if he took a few mental notes for possible use in his novel-in-progress, Six Guns to El Paso. He had been considering including a passionate love-making scene between his hero Buck Baxter and the proprietress of the saloon, Mademoiselle Fifi, but he had been holding off until he could acquire some first-hand experience of his own, and not just have to rely on his own imagination and that deck of French playing cards in the drawer of his night table in his room. 

He turned from the window, loosening his tie in what he hoped was a debonair way, and there was Bubbles already curled up in her bed, and under her voluminous blankets and quilts.

He walked over.

"You know, Bubbles," he said, "you don't know how long I have looked forward to this moment, how many nights I have dreamed, how often I have –"

He stopped, because he could see that her eyes were closed, her mouth with its ruby red lips was open, and from that lovely mouth and equally lovely nose came the gentle but distinct sound of snoring.

Oh well.

She looked beautiful in sleep, beautiful even in her gentle snoring. 

Addison allowed himself to touch her cheek, and she said, "Ah ma, za za, mm."

He switched off the bedside lamp, then went to the clothes tree for his coat and hat. He put them on and took one last look at Bubbles sleeping peacefully and soundly, and gently snoring, in all her beauty, and then he switched off the overhead light and let himself out, closing the door behind him. 

Downstairs on the snow-humped stoop the snow still fell through the lamp light, and a dump-truck came lumbering slowly by. 

He still had that ten dollars in his wallet, and the night was, if not still young, then still alive, and he descended to the sidewalk and turned right, in the direction of the land of the sparkling golden nectar of the Rhine.

{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 Kiss"

The kiss happened, and Milford's brain exploded gently.

To make matters worse, or better, Miss Alcott put her left hand (her right hand remained pressing against the back of his head) on Milford's right thigh, and even squeezed it, and he at once felt blood rushing in a warm torrent down to his supposed member of procreation.

"Oh, no," Milford managed to say, withdrawing his narrow lips (the only kind he had) from Miss Alcott's plump lips.

"Now what's the matter?" she said,

"Please don't be angry with me."

"I'll be angry with you if you don't tell me what the matter is."

"I have become possessed of an erection again."

"What?" she said, removing her hand from the back of his head. "Already?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"That was quick."

"I couldn't help it."

"I'd better stop kissing you then."

"Yes, I think so, because I feel as if I have a growing monster in my Levi's, tying to escape."

"Well, don't let him do that. This is a public place after all."

"It might help if you took your hand off my thigh."

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, and she lifted her delicate but strong hand away.

Milford sighed. This would be his twelve-thousandth and thirtieth sigh since unwillingly re-emerging from the world of dreams into that of so-called reality the previous morning.

Meanwhile the combo crashed and wailed, and a Negro voice sang:

Bang a wang dang doodle

I got a riot in my noodle

she wags her tale like a poodle

so I will bid you all toodle

toodle-oo toodle-ay

all the livelong day

just don't you lose it

anyway you choose it

'cause Grandma's got a rolling pin

and she ain't afraid to use it…

"Well," Miss Alcott said, picking her Lucky Strike up out of the ashtray, "look at it this way, Milford, at least you got your first kiss of your life out of the way."

"Yes," he said, "there is that, and I am grateful."

"May you have many more, dear boy."

"That's kind of you to say," he said. 

"Perhaps someday you will even, oh, how can I put this nicely?"

"Lose my virginity?"

"Yes. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Possibly," he said. "I don't suppose, um, oh, never mind."

"What?"

"Well, at the risk of seeming presumptuous, I was wondering, hoping, daring to wonder, and to hope, if you, that you would – not that I deserve it, but nevertheless if you could possibly see your way to, to –"

"To relieve you of your virginity?"

"Yes," said Milford. "Forgive me."

"Oh, I forgive you," said Miss Alcott, exhaling a cloud of fragrant Lucky Strike smoke. "But, tell me, did you intend to mount me right here –" she tapped the polished wooden bar top with a fingernail, "on the bar, to the amusement of all these dusky-fleshed revelers here?"

"No!" said Milford. "Not at all, I meant that maybe we could go somewhere –"

"'My place or yours?'"

"Yes, although, on second thought, even though I live just a couple of blocks from here, I live with my mother – it's her house, you see – and I'm sure that if I brought a young lady home I would never hear the end of it –"

"So you'd rather go to my home, with my sisters and parents."

"Oh, it never occurred to me that you live with your family, I beg your pardon. So, uh, well, never mind, I take it all back –"

"You give up so easily."

"Yes, that is a trait of mine. I have been giving up, or trying to, since I reluctantly learned to walk."

"Maybe we could go to an hotel."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"It would have to be a respectable hotel."

"I actually know what might be considered a respectable hotel near here. The Hotel St Crispian."

"Oh, is it nice?"

"Yes, I think so. I've never actually stopped overnight there myself of course, but I have had lunch there with my mother fairly often, they have a dining room and lounge called the Prince Hal Room –"

"But won't it be frightfully embarrassing just walking up to the desk with no luggage, and asking for a room?"

"Yes, that would be awkward."

"Everyone knowing what we had in mind."

"Yes."

"And an hour or so later, after the deed is done, when we emerge from the elevator, my hair a fright, all the staff staring at us knowingly."

"I imagine they're used to it though."

"The long walk of shame across the lobby floor."

"We could stop in at the Prince Hal Room first."

"For a post-coition cocktail?"

"Well, I would only have a ginger ale, probably."

"It all seems so sordid," she said.

"It wouldn't have to be. We could think of it as romantic."

"Oh, could we?"

Milford sighed again. Number twelve-thousand and thirty-one of this long day's and night's journey to an unknown destiny.

"Oh well," he said.

"At least you got a kiss," she said.

"Yes," he said. "There's at least that."

"That's not nothing," she said.

"No," he said. "It's far from nothing."

Milford realized his fat brown reefer had gone out, and he saw no good reason not to light it up again, as the music continued to crash and roar, and all around him people laughed and shouted. 

Yes, at least he had gotten his first kiss, from a female to whom he was not related by blood. 

This was not only not nothing, but undoubtedly something.

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

"I Can Explain Everything"

 There were only two empty seats at the bar.

"Oh, splendid," said Miss Alcott. "Available real estate."

Still gripping Milford's arm in hers, she pulled him toward the empty stools.

"Listen, Miss Alcott –"

She stopped. 

"No, you listen, buster. I'm not going to say a word to you, or listen to a word from your prevaricant mouth, until we are seated."

"Okay," said Milford, humbled.

Soon enough they were seated, but not before Milford almost fell off of his stool as Miss Alcott watched. He tried again, and this time successfully settled his narrow posterior on the cracked leather of the stool, which had no back, and so he knew he must be careful.

"I was just about to ask you if you're quite all right," she said, "but then it immediately occurred to me how ridiculous that question would be."

Milford had no response to this, or at least none he could summon at the moment.

Miss Alcott reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out her pack of Lucky Strikes, shook one out, and placed it between her lips, which Milford noticed were ruby red against the vellum paleness of her face. Suddenly he remembered his manners and, after patting his pockets hurriedly, he found his lighter, clicked it seven times, and lighted her cigarette.

"Thank you," she said, exhaling a plume of smoke just to the right of Milford's head.

"You're welcome," he said.

"Yours has gone out," she said.

"My what?" he said.

"That enormous reefer you're holding in your left hand."

"Oh," said Milford. He stared at the fat brown hand-rolled cigarette, not even half-smoked.

"I thought," he said, and there his thought and his words slipped into nothingness.

"You thought what?" she said.

"Okay," said the voice of Milford's interior alter ego, "get your shit together now, or you're on your own. Now take a breath and say something before she slaps you."

Milford took a breath.

"I thought you disapproved of my smoking reefers," he managed to say.

"Why do you care if I disapprove or not?" she said. "Dear God, boy, don't let me stop you."

"Okay," said his alter ego, self-named "Stoney", in his brain, "show her you're a man and light that bad boy up!"

This time after only six clicks he got his lighter alight and he put the flame to the fat cigarette and drew deeply, filling his lungs.

"There ya go," said Stoney, "hold it in good now."

Milford held it in, looking deep into Miss Alcott's eyes as he did so, those eyes which he noticed for the first time were an autumnal marbled brown, like the eyes of an inquisitive squirrel.

"Keep holding it in," said Stoney. "If you're going to smoke, smoke like a man, and don't just puff like some milquetoast poseur."

Milford held the smoke in, and all around him he heard the laughing and shouting of the dark-skinned revelers, and he could hear the man singing into his microphone over the music of the combo:

Mama got a washboard, 

Pappy got a gun,

Grandpa got some whiskey, 

he's the seventh son 

of a seventh son

of a son of a gun…

Milford felt, almost, as if he could hold in the smoke forever.

"But you can't," said Stoney, "so you can let it out now, but nice and slow."

And after pausing for another moment, just to prove to himself that he had some personal agency, he let the smoke out, slowly, as Miss Alcott watched him.

"Feel better now?" she said, after a moment.

And Milford realized that he did feel better, as if he were coming to the surface after swimming underwater, into a sparkling world full of promise and possibility. 

"I do, actually," he said.

"And is this you talking," she said, "or is it this supposed inner voice of yours, this 'Stoney' character?"

Milford did a quick survey of the contents of his skull before answering the question. In fact Stoney seemed to be gone. Gone forever? Who was to say?

"No," he said, "it's me, or as much me as I can be."

She said nothing to this gnomic reply, but turned to the bartender who was standing there, as if amused.

"Oh, hello, Clyde," she said. "How are you?"

"Pretty good, Miss Lou." 

He was a large Negro man with a shaven skull, and he glanced at Milford.

"Oh, Clyde, this is Milford. Hope you don't mind that he's smoking a reefer at your bar, but in his defense Jelly Roll gave it to him."

"If Jelly Roll gave it to him he must be okay," said the man.

"Actually," said Milford, "this isn't a reefer, per se, I think. If I recall correctly, Jelly Roll told me it's a mixture of Bull Durham tobacco, Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum. I'm not really sure of what any of those ingredients are except for the tobacco and the laudanum."

"Well," said the bartender named Clyde, "I don't think we need to be excessively pedantic, but the inclusion of the Acapulco gold and Panama red, which are strains of marijuana, and quite good ones I would add, should justify calling the smoke a reefer. What may I get you two fine white folks?"

"I wonder, Clyde, if you might have a decent sherry back there," said Miss Alcott.

"Miss Lou," said Clyde, "I got a bottle of fine aged Amontillado on hand that I have been keeping exclusively just for your own delectation and no one else's."

"How sweet of you, Clyde," said Miss Alcott. "I'll have an Amontillado then, straight, no ice, if you please."

"And for the gentleman?" said Clyde.

"Well, Clyde," said Milford, "here's the thing. I am an alcoholic, and so I shouldn't drink at all; however, through weakness of character I have had I don't know how many drinks tonight – whiskey, wine, beer, ale, and God only knows what else, not to mention this 'reefer', and others before it, as well as hashish, and the sacred mushrooms of the Native Americans, oh, and also some sarsaparilla that turned out to be spiked with ambrosia, the mystical nutriment of the ancient Greek gods, and, so, I don't really know if I should –"

"How about a nice tall glass of sweet tea then?" said Clyde.

"Thank you," said Milford. "Sorry if I was getting a bit longwinded there."

"Hey, I'm a bartender, man. I'm used to people telling me their boring life stories."

"Well, I apologize anyway," said Milford. "I think if I had your job I would go insane."

"I think sometimes I am insane," said the man. "Let me get those libations for you and Miss Lou."

He went away.

"I like that guy," said Milford.

"Yeah, Clyde's a Joe," said Miss Alcott.

Milford took another, smaller drag on the brown cigarette, and Miss Alcott took a drag on her Lucky Strike.

"All right," said Milford. "You can let me have it now."

Miss Alcott paused before speaking.

"You know, I fully intended to let you have it, Milford. To – in the parlance of the younger generation – rip you a new one, for telling me earlier that you were tired and simply had to go home and go to bed, and then, lo and behold, a half hour later I find you instead in here, carousing with Whitman and Jelly Roll and that Blackbourne woman. But you know what? Now I just don't feel like it."

"I can explain. I can explain everything."

"Please do."

And so, as men have been doing since they lived in caves, Milford explained. In the meantime, Clyde brought Miss Alcott's Amontillado and Milford's tall glass of sweet tea, with ice and a sprig of fresh mint, a slice of lemon on the brim and with a flexible straw. The recitation took only just over five minutes, because Milford didn't want to bore Miss Alcott, and so he kept to the highlights.

"And there you have it," he said, at last, stirring his tea, which he had barely sipped. "That's how I wound up here. Instead of going home."

"And so," she said, "you are like a leaf, blown this way and that, hither and yon."

"Yes," he said. 

"I wonder," she said, "and please feel free to tell me it's none of my business, but have you ever in your obviously tortured if pampered life been kissed by a member of the female gender?"

Now it was Milford's turn to pause.

"Do you mean by a member of the female gender to whom I am not related, by blood?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Your mother or grandmother or aunts or great aunts don't count."

"In that case," said Milford, "the answer is no."

Miss Alcott paused again, and then she put the cigarette she was smoking into the ashtray that was there on the bar, then put her hand on the back of Milford's head and drew it towards her face and those inquisitive dun brown eyes and slightly parted ruby red lips.

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

"Quite the Player"

 

"I'm very surprised to see you here, Milford," said Miss Alcott.

"Oh, um, uh," replied Milford.

"What's that your smoking there?"

"This?" said Milford, holding up the thick brown cigarette.

"Yes," said Miss Alcott. "That. It doesn't look like one of your Husky Boys. You know, the Husky Boys I gave you a quarter to buy from the machine? Because you didn't have any change and were about to cry because you were too timid just to go over to the bartender and ask him for change?"

"Uh, yes, no, well, this is, uh –"

"That looks like a reefer to me."

"Well, okay," said Milford, "heh heh, yes, I guess it is sort of a reefer, that's true, but Mr. Jelly Roll over there handed it to me, and, uh –"

"Hi, Jelly Roll," said Miss Alcott, addressing Jelly Roll.

"Howya doing, Lou?" said Jelly Roll.

"Oh, I'm doing fine, Jelly Roll," she said. "So are you corrupting our young Master Milford with your drug-laced cigarettes?"

"Hey, Lou," said Jelly Roll, "ain't nobody forced the boy to smoke my special hand roll."

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't twist his arm, Jelly Roll. And you, Walter," she said, turning to Mr. Whitman, "I suppose you've been sharing your hashish with the lad as well?"

"Aw, lookit now, Lou," said Mr. Whitman, "a little hash never hurt anybody. How do you think I write all my poems?"

"Hello, Margaret," said Miss Alcott to Miss Blackbourne.

"Don't look at me, Lou," said Miss Blackbourne, "all I did was buy him a pot of good Assam tea."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Miss Alcott. She turned to Milford again. "I wonder if we could have a word, Milford."

"Um, sure," said Milford.

"I mean in private. That is if your friends can spare you."

"Uh, okay?"

"Splendid."

Milford nervously took another drag of the fat brown cigarette.

The music from the combo roared through his head, along with the shouting and laughter of the dark-skinned people all around him, and the furious stomping of the feet of the dancers on the dance floor.

"Well?" said Miss Alcott.

"Yes?" said Milford.

Mr. Whitman tilted his great hairy head toward Milford's small head.

"Lou wants you to get up, Mel, and go with her."

"Oh," said Milford.

"Ha ha," said Jelly Roll.

"Oh dear lord," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Um," said Milford.

"Take your time, Milford," said Lou.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Milford, standing up abruptly, and almost knocking his chair over, but fortunately Mr. Whitman grabbed it in time. 

"I, uh," said Milford, addressing Jelly Roll, Miss Blackbourne, and Mr. Whitman, "if you will excuse me –"

"Are you ready now?" said Miss Alcott.

"Yes," said Milford. He suddenly realized he still held Jelly Roll's cigarette. "Oh, Mister, uh, Roll, here's your cigarette back –"

"Take it, my man," said Jelly Roll, "I think you might need it."

"Oh, okay, thanks," said Milford.

"Let's go," said Miss Alcott.

"Where are we going?" said Milford.

"Just someplace we can talk in private."

"Oh, okay –" he said.

"Hey, Milford," said Jelly Roll.

"Yes?" said Milford. 

"Good luck, my man."

"I think he might need more than luck," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Ha ha, quite risible, Margaret!" said Mr. Whitman. He put his great hand on Milford's arm. "Be strong, my lad," he said, in a stage whisper. "Women love a dominant man."

"Oh, fuck off, Walter," said Miss Alcott. "What would you know about women?"

"Oh. Wow," said Mr. Whitman.

"Bam," said Jelly Roll.

"Ha ha, well said, Lou," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Gee, Lou," said Mr. Whitman, "I mean, I know a little about women –"

"Yes, a little," said Miss Alcott. "Come on, Milford." 

She put her arm in Milford's, and pulled him away.

"Okay," said Jelly Roll, "now what the hell was that all about?"

"Apparently," said Miss Blackbourne, "our young Milford is quite the player."

"I could be wrong," said Mr. Whitman, "but I think Miss Alcott was a little upset."

"Oh, really, you think so, Walt?" said Miss Blackbourne.

"Ha ha," said Jelly Roll, "young Milford gonna get his ass whooped."

"Do him good," said Miss Blackbourne.

They watched as Miss Alcott pulled Milford through the tables, through the laughing and shouting people and the crashing of the combo and swirling clouds of smoke, and towards the crowded bar.

"Now you're in for it," said that voice in Milford's head, the voice of his alter ego, called Stoney, whom he hadn't heard from for a while.

"Can you help me?" said Milford.

"I'll try," said Stoney. "But just look at what I have to work with here. I mean really."

"Please try," said Milford.

"I'll do my best, but you've got to do your part too."

"Okay, I'll try," said Milford.

Miss Alcott stopped, which meant that Milford stopped too, abruptly.

"Who are you talking to?" she said.

"No one," said Milford, his eyes darting away from hers.

"You were talking to that voice in your brain again, weren't you?"

"Well, uh, yes –"

"Your supposed alter ego."

"Yes."

"What was his name? Rocky?"

"Stoney, actually."

"Stoney."

"Yes," said Milford, glancing at her face, and then quickly transferring his vision to the floor, littered as it was with the butts of cigarettes and cigars, and even, alarmingly, what seemed to be a used condom.

"Please look at me when I'm talking to you, unless you find the planking of this floor to be of surpassing interest."

Reluctantly Milford looked at Miss Alcott.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to, or, I, uh –"

What didn't he mean? Had he ever meant anything in his whole life?

"The answer to that is a resounding no," said Stoney, in his head.

"Oh, never mind, just come on," said Miss Alcott, and she resumed pulling Milford, and perforce Stoney, in the direction of the crowded bar.

"Okay, here's my first tip," said Stoney. "You want to hear it?" Milford was about to say yes, but Stoney cut him off. "My first tip is that when you're talking to me, don't talk out loud."

"Oh," said Milford. "Okay."

Miss Alcott stopped again, stopping Milford.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing," said Milford.

"You were talking to that voice again, weren't you?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Jesus Christ," said Stoney, and this time Milford remembered to reply silently, saying, "Sorry, sorry," to his alter ego.

Miss Alcott said nothing, but resumed pulling Milford toward the bar.

"Do me a favor, Milford," said Stoney, in Milford's brain. "Don't be sorry. Just try not to be an idiot. Do you think you can manage that?"

Milford chose not to answer the question, because in principle he hated to lie any more than was absolutely necessary.

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

"John the Conqueroo"

"Ha ha," said Mr. Whitman, as the music of the combo crashed all around them, and the dancers on the dance floor thrashed and stomped, "charming, yes, well, then, I suppose I will have a great brimming tankard of Ballantine Ale then, thank you."

"Fabulous," said the lady. She wrote something on her pad with a pencil, and then looked at Miss Blackbourne. "How about you, missy?"

"I'll take a shot of bourbon, any kind, and a beer, any kind," said Miss Blackbourne.

"How's about an Early Times and a Rheingold?"

"Bring it on," said Miss Blackbourne, "and keep them coming."

"I like the way your brain works," said the lady, writing something on her pad. "What's your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"Margaret Blackbourne," said Miss Blackbourne.

"You look like one of them lost poet ladies," said the lady.

"Guilty as charged," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Ain't nothing wrong with it," said the lady.

"It's a living," said Miss Blackbourne. "Or should I say a dying. Your name is Polly Ann?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the lady.

"I think we could and should be friends," said Miss Blackbourne. "May I address you as Polly Ann?"

"Sure," said Polly Ann. "It's a hell of a lot better than Hey You."

"And please call me Margaret."

"You got it, Miss Margaret."

"And, dear Polly Ann, if we are to be friends, I humbly ask you to omit the Miss, and just call me Margaret."

"Sure, Margaret. I ain't never been friends with a white lady before."

"It's not that big a deal, believe me."

"I believe you," said Polly Ann. She turned to Jelly Roll. "Corn, Jelly?"

"You know me all too well, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll, who was rolling a cigarette, and she wrote something on her pad. 

"Y'all want to hear tonight's food specials now, or you want me to bring the drinks first?"

"Drinks first, please, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll.

"Be right back," said Polly Ann.

"Um," said Milford.

"You talking to me, cracker?"

"Yes," said Milford, "excuse me, miss, but –"

"Call me Polly Ann."

"Polly Ann, then, I would like to order some sarsaparilla if you have it."

She stared down at him.

"You're Mr. Milford, right?"

"Yes, but please, just call me Milford."

"Swell, well, here's the thing, Milford, we don't got sarsaparilla."

"Well, do you have anything non-alcoholic?"

"We got sweet tea."

"Fine, I should like a sweet tea then."

"Here's the other thing though," said Polly Ann. "John Henry told me to bring you a complimentary jar of corn."

"A jar of corn?" 

"Yes."

"Is this like boiled corn?"

"No, white boy, it's corn liquor, and we serve it in eight-ounce or pint jars, and John Henry told me to bring you a pint jar."

"And this corn liquor, is it an alcoholic beverage?"

"Yeah, but we cut it with branch water, so it ain't more than a hunnert proof."

"Oh, my God, I can't drink that."

"Why not?"

"I am an alcoholic, and if I drink a pint of that I'll be falling down drunk, and I'll wind up passed out in an alleyway, and it's snowing out. I could die."

"You could die just walking across the street, run over by a coal wagon drove by a coal man drunk on corn liquor."

"I realize that, but still –"

"You're gonna hurt John Henry's feelings you turn it down," said Polly Ann.

"Melfrydd," said Mr. Whitman, "I don't think you want to hurt John Henry's feelings. We are guests here, after all, and you don't want these good people to think you're racially prejudiced."

"No, but, really," said Milford, "I've already had several drinks tonight, more than several actually, when I shouldn't even have had one, not to mention the marijuana, and the mushrooms, and the, that stuff in your pipe –"

Mr. Whitman was smoking his pipe again.

"It's a mixture of fine Kentucky burley and Lebanese hashish," said Mr. Whitman, "would you like some more?"

"No!" said Milford. 

"Here, Milford," said Jelly Roll, and he proffered the fat cigarette he had just lighted up with a Zippo lighter. "Smoke this, it'll mellow you out."

Without thinking Milford took the cigarette, and took a drag from it.

"Oh, no," he said, "I forgot."

"Wudja forget, sonny?" said Polly Ann.

"I forgot that these cigarettes of Jelly Roll's contain drugs."

"Well, at least they don't contain alcohol, right?"

"Yes," said Milford, "there's that at least," and again without thinking, no doubt because of all the alcohol and drugs he had already consumed over the present long evening's journey into oblivion, he took a second drag on the cigarette.

"Tell you what, honey boy," said Polly Ann, "I'll bring you a nice big jar of sweet tea, okay?"

"Oh!" said Milford, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "Sweet tea, yes, that would be nice, thank you very much, miss."

"Polly Ann."

"Thank you, Polly Ann," said Milford.

"And just a small jar of corn liquor on the side," she said.

"Oh," said Milford. "Uh, thank you."

"You're welcome, Milford," said Polly Ann, and she turned and walked away.

"Hey, Mel," said Mr. Whitman. "Don't worry. If you don't want your corn liquor, I'll drink it."

"Thank you," said Milford, so maybe he would survive this night after all, and he took another drag of the fat cigarette, and became intensely aware of the music the combo was playing, and the stomping and swirling of the dancers on the dance floor.

People were shouting through the music and the smoke and the stomping of the dancers, "Go, daddy, go!"

Other people shouted, "Shake that thang!"

Someone else shouted, "Shake it, mama, don't break it!"

A man sang into a microphone, "I got a wang dang doodle, I got a John the Conqueroo, look out pretty mama, I'm gonna rock with you…"

What did it matter? thought Milford. What did any of it matter? This was life, after all, it must be life, and was not life meant to be lived?

Someone or something tapped his shoulder, and Milford turned his head.

"Hello, you."

It took him only a second to realize who it was, which was Louisa May Alcott, or at least the woman who said she was Louisa May Alcott, and who was he to say any different?

"Oh," he said, coughing great jagged clouds of hot thick smoke, "hello."

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

"Five Spot"

They followed John Henry through the barroom, past a crowded bar and towards the sounds of loud crashing music.

Mr. Whitman took Milford's arm again and spoke into his ear.

"Hey, Mel, you got another five in that poke of yours?"

"What?" said Milford.

"Let me have a five-spot, will you? All's I got is twenties on me."

"If you have twenties why do you need a five?"

"Come on, just let me have a fiver, okay? I'll pay you back just as soon as I break a twenty."

"Can't you just get change from a waitress or a bartender?"

"Look, buddy, don't bust my balls. Didn't I give you a signed first edition of my book?"

"I didn't ask for it."

"Mel, I'm asking you, just loan me a goddam fin and stop being such a noodge already."

"Well, all right," said Milford. He didn't really care, but on the other hand moochers had been taking advantage of him ever since he was a child, because of his family's supposed and actual wealth and their imposing old townhouse on Bleecker Street. He dug into the back pocket of his dungarees and brought out his wallet.

"Just a five," said Mr. Whitman. "I mean if you can spare it."

"I can spare it," said Milford, opening the wallet.

"Nice wallet, by the way," said Mr. Whitman, touching the crude rawhide stitching. "Very 'rustic'."

"Thank you," said Milford. "I made it myself, during my brief tenure as a Boy Scout."

"I like it."

"My mother insisted on buying me an expensive Horween billfold from Brooks Brothers, but I have a sentimental attachment for this one."

"May I feel the leather?"

"Okay."

Mr. Whitman took the wallet from Milford's hand and stroked its scuffed and worn surface.

"What's this strange symbol burnt into the side? Is it a rune, or some sort of Chinese character?"

"No, it's supposed to be my monogram. I was trying to use Spencerian capitals, but I was using this hot iron, and I've never been very dexterous, so –"

"So, it's like, what, MM?"

"Yes."

"I see it now," said Mr. Whitman. "MM, for 'Marion Milstein' – see I remember your name. Oh, wow, look at those Negroes dancing up there."

Milford turned and looked. Up ahead beyond some tables there was a crowded dance floor, with people dancing to the music of a small but loud combo.

"Such a gay and happy race," said Mr. Whitman. "Here, I see you got one five left."

Milford turned back and Mr. Whitman was holding a five-dollar bill up in the air.

"Appreciate it, Mel," he said, and he handed the wallet back.

Milford looked into his wallet. All he had left in it was two tens. He could have sworn there had been three tens there, but he let it go, closed up the wallet and put the wallet back in his jeans.

"Hey, let's catch up to the others, buddy," said Mr. Whitman, folding up the five-dollar bill, and he took Milford's arm and pulled him along.

They found Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne already sitting at a round table with four chairs at the edge of the dance floor, and John Henry was standing there talking to them.

"Hi, everybody," said Mr. Whitman.

John Henry turned.

"You get lost?"

"Oh, no, John Henry, we were just taking our time, heh heh. Oh, hey, what a nice table, right by the dancing. This is swell."

John Henry turned back to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne.

"Polly Ann'll be right over to get your orders. If you're hungry the possum stew is to die for tonight, and I can always recommend the fatback and beans, with cornbread."

"Oh, wow, I love fatback and beans," said Mr. Whitman.

"That's great," said John Henry, "then you should order it."

He turned back to Jelly Roll.

"Looking forward to hearing you get up and jam, my man."

"Oh, I definitely will, John Henry," said Jelly Roll.

"Cool, I'll catch you all later."

"Oh, by the way, John Henry," said Mr. Whitman.

"What?"

"Just want to shake your hand, sir."

"Oh. Okay."

John Henry extended his massive hand and Mr. Whitman inserted his own large but much less huge hand into it.

John Henry disengaged his hand and opened it, knuckles downward. There was a greenback folded in eighths in the center of the pale callused palm.

"What's this shit?" he said.

"Just a little token," said Mr. Whitman. 

"What's that, five bucks?"

"Yes, I hope it's enough –"

"I don't want your five dollars, man."

"Oh."

"Take it back."

"Um."

"I said take it."

Quickly Mr. Whitman reached over and took the folded bill out of John Henry's palm.

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to, uh –"

John Henry gave him a look, and Mr. Whitman said nothing. Then the big man turned again to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne. 

"See you later, Jelly Roll. A pleasure, Miss Margaret."

"All mine, I assure you, John Henry," said Miss Blackbourne, who was smoking one of her ebony cigarettes with the silver tip.

John Henry seemed to notice Milford, standing a little behind Mr. Whitman.

"You okay, Milford?"

"Yes," said Milford, "thank you."

"You don't look okay."

"That's okay," said Milford. "I always look this way."

"Sit down and get a drink, maybe you'll feel better with a little corn liquor in you."

"Maybe."

John Henry glanced at Mr. Whitman again, still holding his folded-up five dollar bill, and then he turned and strode away, his enormous legs covering a yard with each pace.

"Sit the fuck down, Walt," said Jelly Roll. "You too, Milford."

Mr. Whitman took the chair to Jelly Roll's left, and Milford sat down to Miss Blackbourne's right.

"Fuck sakes, Walt," said Jelly Roll to Mr. Whitman, "I distinctly recall asking you to attempt to be cool."

"I just wanted to, uh, show my appreciation," said Mr. Whitman.

"Just put that fucking five-spot back into your pocket."

"Look, how about if I get the first round with it?"

"We're gonna run a tab, dipshit, now put that five away and stop trying to showboat."

"Well, okay," said Mr. Whitman, and he leaned to one side and stuck the five into his trousers pocket.

Milford considered asking for the five back, but he let it go, as he let so many things go, as he always had and would no doubt continue to do.

A pretty Negro woman with a black apron appeared, with a tray under her arm and a pad in her hand. 

"Hey, Jelly Roll," she said. "Whatta ya hear, whatta ya say?"

"Nothing much, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll. "Just fixing to get my drunk on and get up and bang them eighty-eights, darling."

"Cool," said the lady. "What are you and your ofay friends drinking?"

"I wonder, miss," said Mr. Whitman, "do you have a nice hot grog?"

"No," said the lady.

"Perhaps a fine strong ale then, brewed in great oaken casks that are piled onto drays by sweaty men muscular and hearty, and then pulled by teams of stout horses through the wet cobblestone streets in the rose-dappled dawn?"

"We got Ballantine ale," said the lady, "if that's what you're talking about, you silly ass motherfucker." 

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A FLOPHOUSE IS NOT A HOME, illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}

"Steel Driving Man"

 

"I see you brought some honkies with you, Jelly Roll," said the huge Negro man.

"Yes, I have, John Henry," said Jelly Roll, "but I assure you they're cool, daddy-o."

"The lady looks cool," said the man.

"Why, thank you, kind sir," said Miss Blackbourne, "for the delightful compliment."

"You can come in," said the big man. "May I ask your name?"

"Blackbourne is the name, Margaret Blackbourne," said Miss Blackbourne, "but, please, call me Margaret."

"I shall call you Miss Margaret," said the huge man, with a slight bow.

"And may I call you John?"

"My friends all call me John Henry."

"And so, with your permission, I shall call you John Henry, sir," said Miss Blackbourne, and she horizontally extended her lily-white hand with its blood-red fingernails.

The man called John Henry placed his enormous fingers and thumb in a gentle touch on Miss Blackbourne's hand.

"Like a delicate flower," he said.

He disengaged his fingers and looked at Mr. Whitman.

"Who's this goofball, Jelly Roll?"

"Whitman's my name," said Mr. Whitman, extending his own hand. "Walt Whitman. Perhaps you have heard of me? I wrote a little book called Leaves of Grass?"

"Never heard of it," said John Henry.

"Oh," said Mr. Whitman. "Well –"

"You ever read anything by Horace P. Sternwall?" said the big man.

"Um, the name sounds vaguely familiar," said Mr. Whitman.

"That man can write like a motherfucker."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Whitman. "Which of his books might you recommend?"

"All of them, but just off the top of my head, Salt Chunk Mary and Her House of Blue Lights is pretty good."

"Salt Chunk?" said Mr. Whitman.

"Mary and Her House of Blue Lights," said John Henry. "Another good one was Rip Roaring Rip Riley, Range Rover."

"Okay," said Mr. Whitman, "I'll make a mental note of that one."

"He writes good poems too. A favorite collection of them is one called Christmas for the Doomed. The title makes it sound kind of gloomy like, but it's actually pretty uplifting."

"Okay," said Mr. Whitman. "I'm a poet myself, and so I always like to see what other people are doing in the discipline –"

"Then you'd probably like this other poetry book he wrote called A Bed of Cobblestones. That's a good one."

"Okay," said Mr. Whitman.

"Another one of my favorites from Sternwall is a book of inspirational essays, it's called, Pass That Bottle Over Here."

"Well, I'll certainly look out for any of his books, Mr., uh, Henry."

John Henry had ignored Mr. Whitman's outstretched hand, and so Mr. Whitman made a couple of grasping motions with his fingers, as though he were trying to loosen up a case of writer's cramp, and then lowered the hand and rubbed it in a nervous-seeming way on the front of his thigh.

John Henry now turned his impassive gaze on Milford.

"And who is this sad-ass looking pale little motherfucker?"

"You don't have to let me in," said Milford. "I don't mind."

"What's your name, boy?"

"It doesn't matter," said Milford. "I can go."

"His name is Melman," said Mr. Whitman, "but I call him Mel."

"His name is not Melman, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne. "It's Milford."

"I'm pretty sure it's Melmer," said Mr. Whitman. "Otherwise why would the diminutive be Mel?"

"What's your name, sonny?" said John Henry to Milford.

"Marion Milford, sir," said Milford. "But I prefer to be called simply Milford."

"Your first name is Marion?"

"Yes, but I didn't choose it."

"Milford, you say?"

"Yes, but you can call me anything. Most people do."

"I'll call you Milford."

"Thank you, sir."

"Call me John Henry."

"Okay, Mr. John Henry."

"Just John Henry will do."

"Okay, John Henry."

"Give me your lily white hand."

"I hope you're not going to crush it."

"I ain't gonna crush your hand," said John Henry. "Now give it to me."

Reluctantly, Milford extended his small white hand, the only kind of hand he had, and John Henry engulfed it in his own enormous black hand. His grip exuded strength and power, but he was as good as his word, and he refrained from squashing Milford's hand to a pulp, and in fact Milford felt a strange surge of puissance entering the flesh and bones of his hand, which ran up his arm all the way to his chest and through his lungs and into his sluggishly beating heart.

"Your hand, young fella, is even more delicate than that of the lady here, Miss Margaret," said John Henry.

"Yes," said Milford. "I have spent my entire life thus far avoiding physical exercise as much as possible."

"I'm a steel driving man myself, and have always gloried in the flexing and pulsing of my muscles," said John Henry.

"So also I," said Mr. Whitman. "I wonder if you have ever tried kettle balls?"

John Henry ignored Mr. Whitman, and released Milford's hand.

"Start with one push-up, pushing up very slowly, and coming down very slowly" he said to Milford. "Each day do another push-up, very slowly, and when you feel you're ready, go up to two push-ups, remembering to go up as slowly as you can, and down as slowly as you can. Incrementally, try to increase the number of slow push-ups until you have reached your absolute limit. Then take a break for a few days, and begin again, with as many slow pushups as you can manage. After a year of this régime you will have arms and shoulders and a chest of steel, with a stomach as hard as that of a medieval knight's suit of armor."

"Okay," said Milford, although he doubted he would really follow through on the suggestion.

"All right, then," said John Henry. "I like you, and you can come in. This place can get rough, but don't worry – what was your name?"

"Mel," said Mr. Whitman. "His friends call him Mel."

"Milford, actually," said Milford.

"Don't worry, Milford," said John Henry. "Anybody in here fucks with you, they fuck with me."

"Thank you, sir," said Milford. 

John Henry turned to Jelly Roll. 

"Okay, Jelly Roll, I guess your friends can come in." He glanced at Mr. Whitman. "Even him."

"Thank you, John Henry!" said Mr. Whitman. "We really appreciate it so much. And by the way, I have long been an admirer of the Negro race. I especially enjoy your folk music and dances, and I fancy I can clog out a passable black bottom or cakewalk myself –"

"Great," said John Henry. "All right, follow me."

The big man turned about face and went into the room, roaring as it was with music and shouting and laughter.

Miss Blackbourne and Jelly Roll followed, and Mr. Whitman whispered into Milford's ear, "I think you really impressed him, Mel!"

He took Milford's arm and guided him through the doorway into what was a large barroom, dark, smoky, loud, filled with dark-skinned people. 

John Henry turned his head and said in his booming voice:

"Close that door behind you."

Mr. Whitman let go of Milford's arm, and quickly backed up and closed the door.

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