Dan Leo's Blog, page 7

"The Enormous Men's Room"

Inside was an enormous and cavernous men's room, with a long row of urinals on the right side and a long row of sinks on the left, and a few paces inside the doorway was a wooden podium with a tall gaunt man in a dark suit standing behind it.

"Welcome," he said. "Oh, and Mr. Whitman! So good to see you again, sir!"

"Good to see you, Charles," said Mr. Whitman, continuing to guide Milford forward with his hand on the young fellow's back. "How's it hanging, my friend?"

"It is hanging well, sir. And yourself?"

"No use complaining, Charlie, no use complaining, and, anyway, who gives a shit?"

"I do, sir."

"Well, that's very nice of you to say, Charlie. And the wife, the kids?"

"All very well, sir, or no worse than might be expected. My wife's lumbago still pains her in the cold and rainy weather, and my son is due to be released from the reformatory in the spring, his good behavior willing. My daughter's pregnancy was unfortunate but we have resigned ourselves. My youngest son's polio is being treated by the best doctors we can afford."

"And your angina?"

"No better, but little worse, which at my age is something to be thankful for."

"Indeed, Charlie. We pass from one vale of tears to another, first skipping merrily, then trudging dutifully, finally crawling, but someday our troubles end."

"Only to begin again, sir."

"And so the great wheel of life turns," said Mr. Whitman. "You know, there's a very great Hindu epic called the Mahabarata, and –"

"Um," said Milford.

"Yes, Wilfrid?" said Mr. Whitman.

"Look, Mr., uh, Whitman, I, um, I really have to, um, you know, so if I could just go ahead, you and this gentleman can continue chatting –"

"Wow, you really do have to go, don't you, stepping from one foot to another as if you're dancing the Black Bottom."

"Yes, I really have to go," said Milford.

"I take it you two gentleman are together?" said the thin man at the podium.

"Yes, Charles," said Mr. Whitman. "Young Master Williford is with me."

"Hello, Mr. Williford," said the man. 

"It's Milford, actually," said Milford, "and, look, I really don't mind just going ahead, I see lots of empty urinals in here, so if I could just –"

"So would that be one or two urinals?" said the man, glancing from Milford to Mr. Whitman. "Or perhaps a urinal and a stall?"

"Make it two urinals, Charlie," said Mr. Whitman, "Adjoining if at all possible."

"Of course, Mr. Whitman."

There was an engraved service bell on the podium, and the man struck its button smartly with the heel of his hand, the ring echoing through the huge long room.

A tiny man in a bellboy's red and black costume with white gloves and cocked cap with a chin strap sauntered up from somewhere.

"What's up, boss? Oh, hey, Mr. Whitman, whaddya say, whaddya know?"

"As usual I say too much despite knowing too little, Benny," said Mr. Whitman. "And how are you?"

"Not too bad, Mr. Whitman, considering I am a midget who works in a men's room reeking with the stench of piss and shit."

"Benny!" said the man at the podium. "Language, please!"

"Aw, Mr. Whitman don't mind, do ya, Mr. Whitman?"

"Not at all," said Mr. Whitman, who was knocking the bowl of his pipe against his knuckles, and letting the ash fall to the tiled floor.

"That's what I like about you, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man. "You're a man of the people. Who's your buddy?"

"Mumfort, meet Benny."

"Hiya, Mumfort," said Benny.

"Hi," said Milford, "but, okay, look, everybody, I really have to go, so if you guys don't mind, I think I'll just jump ahead, and –"

"Hold your horses, pal," said Benny. He turned to the thin man. "What's the call, boss?"

"Two urinals, please, Benny," said the thin man.

"Adjoining, if possible," added Mr. Whitman.

"Adjoining, Benny," said the thin man.

"Two adjoining urinals, coming up!" said the tiny man. Then he turned to Mr. Whitman again. "But how are you, Mr. Whitman? Everything okay?"

"Never better," said Mr. Whitman, who had taken his pouch out and was filling his pipe again.

"You want to finish packing your pipe first?"

"Yes, just give me a moment here," said Mr. Whitman, tamping the gummy mixture with his big index finger.

"Take your time, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man, "I'm here all night."

"Really?" said Mr. Whitman. "You like the overnight shift?"

"Love it," said the tiny man. "Me, I'm a night owl. Nothing I like better than getting off at seven in the morning, then going down the bar for some scrapple and eggs and home fries, maybe a stack of johnny cakes just the way I like 'em, with a half-dozen thick rashers of extra crisp bacon laid on top and slathered in butter and blackstrap molasses, wash it all down with a schooner or three of cold beer, then go to my trap and sleep like a baby."

"Sounds good to me," said Mr. Whitman. He had taken his box of Blue Tip kitchen matches out, but the thin man at the podium beat him to it, taking a wooden match from a small wooden box on the podium, striking it on his thumb, and leaning forward and giving Mr. Whitman a light.

"Oh, my God," said Milford.

"What's eating you, pal?" said the tiny man.

"I just really have to urinate," said Milford. "I'm sorry, but can't I just go ahead and –"

"Look, sonny, can't you wait just two seconds till Mr. Whitman gets his pipe lit?"

"Okay," said Milford, "fine, I'll wait."

"Sheesh," said the tiny man. "Hey, Mr. Whitman, where'd you dig this guy up, anyways, Bellevue or the Tombs?"

"Ha ha, neither, my friend, neither," said Mr. Whitman, puffing on his pipe. "He's okay, just a little impatient."

"Patience is a virtue," said the tiny man.

"So it is," said Mr. Whitman, "so it is." He took the pipe out of his mouth and gazed fondly at it, while slowly exhaling an enormous cloud of sweet thick smoke. "Y'know, Benny, sometimes the old sayings have a lot of truth in them, like for instance, 'All good things come to those who wait.'"

"And bad things too, Mr. Whitman," said the little man.

"This is true," said Mr. Whitman. "You wait long enough, and not just the good will come, but, yes, the bad as well."

"And, if I may dare to interpose," said the tall thin man, who seemed eager to re-enter the conversation, "also the indifferent."

"Yes, the indifferent too," said Mr. Whitman. "That too. There's no denying it."

"And, again, not that I would claim to be a philosopher," the thin man went on, "but is not the preponderance of life nothing but the indifferent? The humdrum, the repetitive, the dull plodding forward into the great unknown?"

"You got something there, boss," said the tiny man. "Like, how many times have I done just what I'm doing now? Walking back and forth to and from this podium, escorting gentlemen to urinals and terlet stalls, whilst passing the time of day with the same old pleasantries and platitudes?"

"The same actions, repeated," said the thin man, "the same words spoken, the same thoughts thought, ad infinitum."

"Hey, Charles," said Mr. Whitman, with a smile, "I thought you said you were no philosopher!"

"Oh, my goodness, Mr. Whitman," said the thin man, "I am just a simple man, but I have plenty of time to think in my profession, to think and to observe, and to ponder."

"Um," said Milford. "Look –"

"Oh, by the way, Muggles," said Mr. Whitman, "how rude of me. Would you care for another puff or two from the old peace pipe?"

"No, thank you."

"I think you'll find that the first bowl is good, the second one better, the third, better still, but it is not until the fourth that we begin to reach that state our Buddhist friends call satori." He proffered the pipe to Milford, stem first. "Go ahead, take a good long hit. Take two!"

"No thanks, Mr. Whitman –"

"'Walt', please," said Mr. Whitman. "I thought we had well gotten beyond this 'mister' honorific."

"No, thanks, Walt," said Milford.

"It'll always be Mr. Whitman for me," said the tiny man. "I know my place, and I'm happy in it."

"So also I," said the thin man. "We all have our places in life."

"But I wonder," said Mr. Whitman, "must those places remain set, as in stone?"

"That is a question not for such as I to attempt to answer," said the thin man.

"Like I said," said the tiny man, "I'm happy in my place."

"Oh, my God!" said Milford, again, but this time with an exclamation point.

"Don't you want a drag, Mookford?" said Mr. Whitman, who was still proffering the pipe to Milford.

"No, thank you," said Milford, "because the thing is, at the risk of sounding tediously repetitive, the thing is, I really really, really –"

"What?" said Mr. Whitman, "because now you 'really' are getting repetitive, with all these reallys, ha ha –"

"I just really have to go. Like right now."

"Oh" said Mr. Whitman. "Okay."

"So can we go now?" said Milford. "Because I really need to pee."

"Christ, buddy," said the tiny man. "Don't wet yourself already."

"Ha ha. All righty then," said Mr. Whitman. "What do you say, Benny? My friend Mimsley does seem anxious to get going, so shall we set forth?"

"I'm ready if you are, Mr. Whitman."

"Right then, let's go!" said Mr. Whitman.

"Thank God!" said Milford.

"God ain't got nothing to do with it," said the little tiny man.

Mr. Whitman pursed his lips at this remark, nodding as if thoughtfully, then turned and addressed the thin man at the podium, "Well, on that stoic note, Charles, we will catch you on the return trip."

"Right you are, Mr. Whitman," said the thin man at the podium. "Enjoy!"

"I'm sure we will," said Mr. Whitman, and to the tiny man, "lead on, Benny, lead on!"

The tiny man did a smart about-face, and looking over his shoulder, cried, "Once more unto the breech, fellas!"

"Ha ha," said Mr. Whitman again, as if heartily, and, putting his great hand on the small of Milford's back, gave him a shove, and Milford stumbled forward in the footsteps of the tiny man, who was singing 

Oh I been a wild rover

and I been a bold romancer,

and I have wandered all over

from Maine to Port-au-Prince, sir!

So don't you give me no lip

when I leap and cock my hip

'cause I ain't no common chancer

but a jolly good buck dancer…

The row of urinals seemed endless in this enormous room, and most of them were occupied, but not all, and it seemed the little fellow was attempting to obey his injunction to find two adjoining urinals; Milford decided not to complain for the time being, and concentrated on trying to hold it in.

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

"Rescued"

The unknown words danced and sang and crashed like waves through the universe inside Milford's skull, he felt the moist warmth of the four women subsuming his corporeal host, he breathed in their perfume and their animal scent and their breath tasting of juniper berries and mulled Christmas wine, and he felt his self dissolving.

Okay, said his inner voice, his alter ego, laughably called Stoney, this is it, whatever it is, now you enter some other realm, never to return, but don't feel bad, my friend, the realm you come from was never that great to begin with…

"Don't be afraid," said the blonde-haired woman, looking into his eyes, and with both of her hands on his cheeks.

"Nothing to be afraid of," said the woman with mahogany-colored hair, caressing and squeezing his right arm.

"Yeah, relax, baby," said the one with the upswept dark hair, palpating his negligible biceps muscle, "let us take care of you."

The one behind him, the red-headed woman, pressed her fingers into his ribcage, and continued to whisper the foreign words and phrases into his ear.

"My, you are sweating profusely," said the blonde, smiling, and she lifted a sweat-daubed finger from Milford's cheek, and touched it to her tongue. "You should let us remove this heavy peacoat."

"And that thick ribbed fisherman's sweater you have on under it," said the mahogany-haired woman.

"Might as well get out of those dungarees and stout workman's brogans while we're at it," said the dark-haired woman.

The redhead behind him said something foreign, but Milford caught what sounded like the phrase "boxer shorts".

"No," he said, weakly.

"Yes," said the blonde woman, and the women to his right and left also said yes. The one behind him said something foreign, but Milford had no doubt she was saying yes as well.

Yes, also said Stoney, his faithful inner being, this really is it, then, it was nice knowing you, I guess…

"Melbourne!"

A loud, deep, commanding voice, a man's voice.

"Milbourne, what the hell are you doing in here?"

All four of the women drew back from their quadruple embrace, and Milford managed to turn around.

There, standing in the open doorway, was Walt Whitman, or at least the man who claimed to be Walt Whitman.

"What the hell, son?"

"Um," said Milford.

"'Scuse me, Red," said Mr. Whitman, and, putting the pipe he held into his teeth, he gently moved the red-headed woman aside, lifting her up and setting her down with both of his huge hands, then he took the pipe out of his mouth again. "All right, now just what the hell is going on in this den of female iniquity?"

"Nothing," said the blonde woman.

"Yeah, nothing at all," said the mahogany-haired woman.

"Less than nothing," said the dark-haired woman.

"I love the way you lifted me up like that, Walt," said the redhead. "So masterful!"

"Yeah, great, Red," said Mr. Whitman, and he grabbed Milford's arm. "Come on, little buddy, let's get you out of this accursed hen house."

"Why do you want to spoil our fun, Walt?" said the blonde.

"I will choose not to dignify that question with a direct response, Blondie," said Mr. Whitman, "but I will say that I shall not allow you wenches to spoil what precious innocence this lad possesses. And now, if you will excuse us, come on, Molbourne."

"It's Milford," said Milford.

"What did I say?" 

"Melbourne, then Milbourne, and then Molbourne."

"Okay, whatever, come on."

He pulled Milford by the arm, toward the doorway.

"'Bye, Milford!" trilled all four women, in unison.

At least they got his name right.

Mr. Whitman pulled Milford through the doorway, shutting the door behind him. He turned and looked down at the younger man.

"Jeeze, it seems I can't leave you alone for a minute. What the hell were you doing in there?"

"I was looking for the men's room. I had to pee."

Mr. Whitman sighed, and brushed off Milford's peacoat with his hands, even though there wasn't anything to brush off.

"You reek of perfume now, and of woman-musk. And also you're absolutely drenched with perspiration."

"I'm sorry."

"What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking."

"Well, I suppose that's obvious. Stupid question, I suppose. I've been looking all over for you. What happened to you? Louisa and I came back to the bar from dancing the Black Bottom, and you had quite disappeared!"

"I just felt I had to leave,, because of the mushrooms, and the hashish, and everything, and I wandered through strange corridors, and somehow I wound up in this bar…"

Mr. Whitman glanced into the bowl of his pipe, then knocked it against the door jamb, letting the dead ashes fall to the floor.

"So," he said, taking out his tobacco pouch from the pocket of his chore coat, "you left one bar and wound up in another bar."

"Yes, and I met this woman, I think her name was Miss Blackbourne –"

"Oh, Margaret Blackbourne?"

"You know her?"

"Know her well," said Mr. Whitman, refilling his pipe with the gummy stuff in the pouch, "they call her 'the Black Widow', also 'the Queen of Darkness', or, my personal favorite, 'the Doyenne of Doom' – nice gal if you like that pale gloomy femme fatale type. Me, I go more for strong country gals and washerwomen, with thick strong wrists and powerful legs, but, hey, if she's your type, who am I to be judgmental." He put away the pouch and took out his box of Blue Tips, struck one and put the flame to his pipe. "Why?" he said, puffing and drawing the thick fragrant smoke. "Did you find her attractive?"

"I find any woman who talks to me attractive."

"Not picky then, eh, my lad?"

"I can't afford to be picky. As I think I told you, I'm still a virgin, and at the rate I'm going I'm going to die a virgin."

"Ah, my boy," Mr. Whitman exhaled an enormous cloud of the thick smoke into Milford's face, "there is plenty of time still for you to enjoy the vigorous hearty joys of copulation. Why are you fidgeting? I hope I'm not boring you."

"No," lied Milford, and then, truthfully, "but I still really have to pee."

"Oh, of course. Well, we wouldn't want you to pee yourself, would we? Come on, let's get you to the men's room. I could go for a stout manly piss myself."

"I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what, for the Godhead's sake?"

"I'm afraid of going to the men's room."

"Afraid of going to the men's room. You're kidding me, right?"

"No. Every time I go to a men's room something weird happens."

"Okay. Listen, Morton –"

"Milford."

"Listen, Milford, I'm going to tell you something which you'd do well to learn and take to heart. It took me a long time to learn it myself, but, mark me well, my lad, the sooner you learn it, the happier you'll be."

"I don't think I'll ever be happy."

"Okay, fine, then let's say less miserable. Can you accept that possibility?"

"Yes, provisionally."

"Then do you want to hear it?"

"I don't care."

"Well, here it is anyway. Hearken to me, my son."

"Okay."

"Are you listening?"

"As well as I am able to, while desperately needing to pee."

"Well, hold it in for just a minute whilst I unmuzzle my wisdom, as the bawdy Bard once said."

"Okay, I'm listening," said Milford, just to get it over with.

"It is only this, my dear Millfold, this and only this. Everywhere you go, anywhere you go, or are taken to, or dragged kicking and screaming to, or wind up in seemingly merely by chance – something weird will happen. Anywhere, everywhere, anyhow, anyway, count on it, the one and only thing you can count on is something weird will happen. Until you die. Which will also be weird. And only then will the weirdness cease, although, unfortunately, so will you."

"All right."

"I give you this piece of hard-won wisdom, free, gratis and for nothing. And why? Because I like you. Don't ask me why, but I do."

"Thank you."

"Good. Now let's go and get you to that men's room."

"Okay."

"It's just right over here. Come on."

He took Milford's arm again, and led him up, or down, the dim corridor and around a corner to another door, on the left. This one actually had a sign, reading

Hommes

"Hommes," said Mr. Whitman. "How pretentious, but what do you expect, it's a poets' bar."

"I'm still afraid."

"Well, get over it then, unless you want to piss in your jeans, now stop being such a pussy. I'll be in there with you."

"I can't help it. I'm terrified."

"Oh, for Vishnu's sake, here," he proffered his pipe to Milford, "take a few big tokes of this, it'll calm you down.

Forgetting for the nonce that the pipe's bowl held a mixture of burley and hashish, Milford took the pipe. Mr. Whitman struck another kitchen match, put the flame to the bowl, and Milford  drew deeply, once, twice, thrice, and then for good measure a fourth time. And as he exhaled the thick sweet smoke it was as if he also exhaled his terror, or at least the better part of it.

"Feel better now?" asked Mr. Whitman, tossing away the match.

"Yes," admitted Milford.

"Good," said Mr. Whitman, and he took the pipe from Milford's hand. "Now get the hell in there."

Milford sighed, this was his twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-sixth sigh since unwillingly rising up out of oblivion many months ago the previous morning. If his doom lay in here, or madness, or both, then at least he could face it, or them, with an empty bladder.

He pushed open the door and went, or floated, inside, guided along by Mr. Whitman's powerful hand on his back.

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

"Water Nymphs"

Milford had the feeling that he himself, qua himself, was not quite congruent with the body he inhabited, and that he was being carried along across the barroom willy nilly. He couldn't feel his feet, but he could feel the warm smoky air touching his face, and the music and the babbling of voices poured into his ears, and the odors and the tastes of tobacco smoke, and, yes, what he now recognized as marijuana and hashish smoke, and other types of smoke he couldn't identify ("Probably opium," said the voice of his alter ego Stoney in his brains) drew deeply into his nasal and oral orifices. I must not panic, he thought, and Stoney added, "Yeah, try not to panic, it's not that big a deal, you're just going to take a pee."

There was a knot of people standing around the curved end of the bar, easily identifiable as poets by their attire, especially their headwear: berets, Greek fisherman's caps, brakemen's caps, wide-brimmed fedoras, woolen beanies, women with hats made out of what looked like bricks or jewelry boxes, or those feather-adorned caps that Robin Hood and his merry men sported.

"Excuse me," Milford's voice emerged from his mouth. 

No one moved.

"Excuse me," he said again, louder, and once again he was ignored.

"Excuse me!" he shouted, and everyone turned to stare at him.

"Jesus Christ, buddy," said a bearded man, who wore one of those tall fur hats that Russians supposedly wore. "You don't have to scream."

"But I said excuse me twice and everyone ignored me," said Milford.

"Maybe try saying excuse me in a normal tone of voice," said a small woman with a dead bird on her head. "Did that ever occur to you?"

"I'm sorry," said Milford, "but I'm just trying to get to the men's room."

"These punks," said a very small man wearing a Dodgers cap, "they come in here claiming to be lost poets. Hey, buddy, you ever ride a freight car?"

"What?" said Milford.

"You ever ride the freights, all across and up and down this great land of liberty, and, yes, of capitalist oppression?"

"No," said Milford, "I have never ridden a 'freight'," and then his alter ego Stoney added, with emphasis, "nor do I have any intention of doing so."

"Oh, well, excuse me, Lord Fauntleroy," said the small man, and he poked his finger in Milford's solar plexus, "but let me tell you something, you will never get to know, I mean really know, in your blood and your guts and your soul, you will never even begin to understand this country until you have crossed it on the freight cars, from Brooklyn to Baton Rouge, from Sheepshead Bay to the Fresno stockyards, from Bangor Maine to East St. Lou and all the way to the mighty Frisco Bay, from Baltimore Harbor to, to, uh –"

"To San Berdoo?" said Milford.

"Yeah, to San Berdoo, that's right," said the little man, and he jabbed Milford's solar plexus with his stubby index finger again. 

"Stop poking me," said Milford.

"I am not poking you," said the little man, and he held up his finger. "I was merely touching the cloth of your peacoat slightly above the third button, like so." 

And the man demonstrated by once again poking Milford in the solar plexus.

"If you do that again," said Stoney, "I will break your Vienna sausage-like finger."

"Oh, okay," said the little man, "getting tough are we? Don't be fooled by my small size, buddy. I learned how to fight in the hobo jungles of the Yazoo and Mississippi Railroad, and they don't follow the Marquess of Queensberry rules in those places."

"Please get out of my way," said Milford. "I'm just trying to get to the men's room."

"Well why didn't you just say that in the first place," said the little man. "Instead of getting all fascistic. I bet you never fought with the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, did you?"

"Of course I didn't," said Milford. "I was only a child during the Spanish Civil War."

"You coulda fought if you really wanted to. Stowed away on an ammunition ship. Joined the Loyalists as a bugle boy maybe."

"Please let me pass."

"Lugging ammo and munitions to the trenches. You coulda done it."

"Well, I didn't, now please, I beg of you, let me pass."

"Hey, buddy, that's all you had to say."

"Great," said Milford. "I'm glad I finally found the right combination of words."

"But it's the attitude," said a new guy. This one wore a cowboy hat, and he was smoking a corncob pipe. "It's not so much what you say but the way you say it."

"How's this?" said Stoney. "Would you all please excuse me and let me pass so that I can get to the men's room?"

"Well, I guess that's okay," said the man in the cowboy hat.

"It's not great, but it'll do," said the little man in the Dodgers cap.

"Just a little common courtesy," said the small woman with the dead bird on her head. "Is that too much to ask?"

"That's all we ask," said the bearded man in the Russian hat. "That's all we've ever asked."

After glancing at each other, just to make sure they were all in accord, they all moved slightly aside, leaving Milford an eight-inch space through which to pass. He turned sideways and shuffled through. He felt hands touching his inguinal area and his buttocks. At last he made his way though the poets and into the dark narrow hallway ahead.

What had the waitress said? Second door on the left? Or was it first door? Would the doors perhaps have signs indicating what gender they were for?

His body carried him along, through the dimness.

He came to a door. There was a rectangular pale space on the wood where a sign must have once been nailed. Was this the men's room? There was only one way to find out, and he opened the door, which opened inward. 

Inside he saw a group of women standing and smoking cigarettes around two sinks.

"Come on in, big boy," said one woman.

"He's not so big," said another woman.

"You know what they say, Matilda," said a third woman, "it ain't the meat, it's the motion."

"Shut the door behind ya, fella," said a fourth woman, "you're letting all the smoke out."

"I beg your pardon," said Milford. "I was looking for the men's room."

A blonde woman walked over to him with a determined stride and put her fingers on the lapel of his peacoat.

"We were just talking about you," she said.

"You were?" said Milford.

"Yes, we saw you sitting there with Margaret. Margaret doesn't let just any schmuck sit with her. What's special about you, hotshot?"

"Nothing," said Milford.

"We'll be the judge of that," she said, and over her shoulder, "won't we, girls?"

"That's right," said one of the other woman, with dark hair swept high and back, and she and the other two women approached Milford. 

"I'll just be going now," said Milford.

"Not so quick, pal," said another woman, with long red hair, and she stepped behind him and closed the door.

"That's right," said the fourth woman, who had hair the color of polished mahogany, and she put her hand on his arm. "You'll leave when we tell you to leave."

"But I have to, to –"

"To what?" said the first woman, the one with blonde hair.

"I have to, uh –"

"Spit it out," she said.

"Yeah," said the dark-haired woman. "No woman likes a mealy-mouthed man. Now spill."

"I have to pee," said Milford.

"Oh," said the blonde woman. "Well. We weren't expecting your life story."

"It's not my life story," said Milford, although he immediately wondered if it was.

"Then what is it?" said the blonde woman.

"I just have to pee, that's all."

"So, no shall we say hidden agenda?"

"No, I just have to, uh, you know –"

"Pee," she said.

"Yes," said Milford.

She let go of his lapel, then pretended to smooth it with her fingers.

"Well, if that's all it is," she said, "that can be arranged." 

"Yes, that can very easily be arranged," said the redheaded woman, who was now standing directly behind Milford.

The one with mahogany-colored hair squeezed his arm.

"Easiest thing in the world," she said.

The one with upswept dark hair took hold of his other arm, his left one.

"Dead easy," she said.

Okay, said Milford's inner voice, I have a bad feeling about this.

"Right," said Milford, aloud, "uh, I guess I should go then, and, um find the men's room, or –"

"Or what, honey?" said the blonde woman, and she touched Milford's cheek with her fingers, the tips of which were painted the color of blood.

Milford had not been hot before, but now he felt sweat breaking out all over his body.

Get out, said his inner voice, the voice of his alter ego, called Stoney, get out, you fool, move! Move!

The blonde woman continued to stroke Milford's cheek, the mahogany-haired one gripped his right arm, the one with the upswept dark hair held tight to his left arm, the red-headed woman behind him put her hands on his sides and whispered into his ear words in a language he didn't speak.

Move, goddammit! said Milford's inner voice.

Milford didn't move, and the strange foreign words echoed through his cavernous head.

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

"Through Dark Forests"

"And so," said Miss Blackbourne, "this is it. Endless nights of smoking and drinking and wallowing in nonsense. And you grow older, unless of course you die first, your body and your mind become both more feeble, and then one day, suddenly, if you're lucky, you drop dead. Write me a poem about that, poet boy."

"You mean right now?" said Milford.

"You say you're a poet, write me a poem."

"But, as I said I think, I am a bad poet."

"Then compose me a bad poem."

Go ahead, said the voice in his head. What do you have to lose?

"Well, okay," said Milford. "I guess I'll need some paper –"

"Bag that jive," she said. "Give me an extemporaneous poem, just the way the first poets did it, sitting around the campfire in their caves."

Don't blow it, said Stoney his alter ego. Just let it rip, daddy-o.

Milford took a drag of his Husky Boy. Cigarettes always helped. Well, no, they didn't always help, but they didn't hurt. But then how would he know what helped or hurt, since he had never written a single good line of poetry himself?

Just start with one good line, said Stoney. Do you think you can manage that much?

Milford remembered he still had his scotch-and-soda sitting right there, not even half empty, and, once again forgetting his drinking problem, he lifted the glass and drank, and when he set it down it was empty but for a few globules of ice at the bottom.

"I'm waiting," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry," said Milford. "I was just gathering my, uh, thoughts."

"That's the worst thing you can do," she said. "Now begin."

Milford, his mind devoid of ideas, began.

"It's easy to waste your life,

people do it all the time.

You're born, you cry, 

and before you know it, 

it's time to die.

And as you lie on your final bed

you look back on the life you've led

and you think, yes, perhaps

indeed I am better off dead.

Perhaps I should have gotten a dog,

perhaps I should have made a friend,

perhaps I should have loved and

even been loved in return,

not by a dog but by a female?

Would it all then have been worthwhile?

Would her aging frail body be lying 

next to mine, not young and beautiful.

but old and decrepit, like my own?

Would there be grandchildren 

standing there, wide-eyed, curious,

waiting for me to expire,

wondering if I would leave them 

something in my will?

Should I have sat on benches and fed

pigeons peanuts from a paper sack?

Should I have composed an epic 

classic modernist poem,

something to leave behind,

not that it would matter to me

after that final rattle 

from my tobacco-ravaged lungs,

after that final losing battle

with existence? 

These are the questions I ask

now while I am young,

and I will ask them still when I am old,

about to die as I have lived, 

a dunce,

fifty million moments 

allegedly experienced, 

until this final one, 

just once, 

then done." 

Milford stopped. He had run out of words.

"Is that it?" said Miss Blackbourne.

"Yes," said Milford. "I'm afraid so."

"Not bad," she said.

"Really?"

"Yes. Mind you, I didn't say good."

"No, of course not."

"But the first step towards being good is not being bad. There's only one thing now possibly standing in the way of your becoming a great poet, which is the only sort of poet worth being."

"Yes," said Milford.

"Do you know what that one thing is?"

"A lack of talent?"

"Precisely. Because all the study and dedication and hard work in the world mean nothing if you haven't got what it takes to begin with. How are you feeling with those mushrooms by the way?"

Milford had forgotten about the mushrooms, but now he was reminded.

"Now that you mention it," he said, "I feel as if my brains are pressing against the walls of my skull. I also feel that all my thoughts are made of Jell-O, and that my consciousness is made of mud. I just remembered that I also smoked hashish, which might have been a mistake. And I feel as if any moment I might fly away, through the ceiling and out into the dark interstellar reaches of outer space, for all eternity."

"But other than that, you feel okay?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Then you'll just have to ride it out. Think of it as like a rollercoaster ride. Frightening while you're on the ride, but eventually it comes to an end."

"I feel as if this might never end."

"Don't worry, it will. Sooner or later. Just as your life will."

Milford realized his cigarette had burned down and gone out. Was it worth the trouble to light up another one?

The waitress named Ruthie was standing there.

"Another round?"

"Yes, Ruthie," said Miss Blackbourne. "Thank you."

With a feeling akin to horror, Milford realized that he had to urinate, yet again. Why did people in movies and novels never urinate, when it seemed to him that his entire life was an unending roundelay of trips back and forth to bathrooms and public toilets, or, in a pinch, to dark alleyways.

"Excuse me, miss," he said to the waitress, "where is the men's room?"

"Go to the end of the bar, then turn right. You'll see a narrow hallway. Go in there and the second door you'll see on the left is the men's room."

"The end of the bar?"

"It wouldn't be the middle of the bar, would it?"

"No, I suppose not."

Milford stood up, almost knocking his chair over. 

"I'll be right back," he said to Miss Blackbourne.

"I've heard that before," she said.

"Excuse me," he said to the waitress.

"You sure you know the way now? Don't need me to lead you by the hand?"

"No, I think I can make it on my own."

"Famous last words," she said.

Milford stepped around her and headed off into the smoke and the babble and the jukebox music. 

How hard could it be to find a men's room?

He didn't want to answer that, but forged ahead, just as his ancestors had, carrying their spears, over hill and dale and through dark forests.

{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 Cavemen Had No Names"

 

She was gazing off, through the smoke, gazing out at the babble and the jukebox music.

"There's still a chance," said the voice in his head. "She didn't exactly say no. Maybe she's thinking it over. Just don't say anything stupid now and spoil the moment."

"Is there really a chance?" said Milford, aloud.

"Oh, great," said Stoney, his alter ego, as Miss Blackbourne turned her regal gaze upon Milford.

"What?" she said.

"Um," said Milford, desperately, "I said is there really a chance."

"A chance for what? That I'll decide to make the beast with two backs with you?"

"Lie," said Stoney. "Lie, and be quick about it."

"No," said Milford, as quickly as he could. "I meant is there really a chance that I might find some, uh, meaning in life, some purpose, even if it's not as a poet, although of course I would prefer it to be. As a poet I mean. Or –"

He trailed off into silence, thank God, if there was a God, and this whole long day and night, not to mention his whole life, was proof that there was no God. 

She took a drag of her ebony and silver cigarette, slowly exhaled a great fragrant cloud in Milford's direction, and just when Milford thought she wasn't going to deign to say a word, she spoke:

"Y'know, if you're going to continue to be an utter bore I'm going to have to ask you to get up and leave right now."

"Wow," said Stoney. "I don't know about you, Milford, but I am totally in love with this woman."

"I lied," said Milford, after sighing for the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-fifth time since he had unwillingly risen from the oblivion of slumber some sixteen hours ago, although it felt like at least sixteen months. "I was really responding to something my alter ego –"

"Bucky?"

"Stoney, actually, I was, uh, responding to something he said."

"Which was what?"

"That, uh, he thought there might still be a chance that you would, um – it was him saying this, not me –"

"Out with it. No woman can abide a man who beats about the bush, and please forgive the pun."

"He said," said Milford, "that there was still a chance that you would, uh –"

"Commit the act of darkness with you?"

"Yes, but, again, it was Bucky who said it –"

"Stoney, idiot," said Stoney.

"I mean, Stoney," said Milford.

"But Stoney, or Bucky, or whoever the hell he is," said Miss Blackbourne, "is you, is he not?"

Now it was Milford's turn to pause. Even Stoney was silent. And after thirty-nine seconds he, or possibly Stoney, said:

"In a sense, yes."

"Let me pose a question," said Miss Blackbourne. She took a drink of her highball before continuing, and Milford, forgetting again his alcoholism, took advantage of the moment to take a drink of his own highball. "If I agreed to take you to my narrow bed," she continued, "whom would I be taking? You, Mervin, or Bucky?"

"You mean Stoney," said Milford.

"Stoney then."

"Also, I don't mean to keep harping on it, but my name is Milford."

"What did I say?"

"I think you said Mervin."

"I beg your pardon."

"It's okay. No one ever gets my name right."

"But you haven't answered my question."

"What was it again?"

"If I were to allow you to – what's the phrase – hide your salami in my most private of parts, who would be the man wielding the soppressata shall we say, you, or this Chucky fellow?"

"I don't think I'm capable of answering that question."

"And who is saying that, you or Hucky?"

"His name is Stoney, and we're both saying it," said Milford's voice.

She gazed off into the smoke and the babble and the jukebox music again, and then she said, "Oh, Christ."

"What?" said Milford. Had he said the wrong thing? Was it possible ever to say the right thing?

"This fucking guy," said Miss Blackbourne. "You should pardon my fucking French."

And yet another man emerged from the swirling clouds of smoke. This one was a tall thin fellow dressed in overalls like a farmer, with a tattered straw hat on his head, and he carried a guitar on a strap over his shoulder.

"Hi, Margaret," he said. "I've written a new song, and I wonder if I could get some 'feedback' from you."

"Okay, Chet," she said. "How's this? I don't like it. Now scram, we're having a private conversation here."

"Hi, fella," said the man to Milford. "Ain't seen you round here before. My name's Chet Maliszewski."

He extended his hand, which was thin and white.

"Hello," said Milford. Reluctantly he took the man's hand and shook it, it felt strangely inanimate, like the hand of a department store dummy, not that Milford had ever shaken hands with a department store dummy, but at any rate the handshake was brief, which was always a good thing, or a less bad thing.

"What's your moniker?" said the man, wiping his hand on his overalls.

"Milford," said Milford.

"Jes' Milford?"

"Yes, just Milford."

"I been a-thinkin' of changing my name to just Chet, on accounta people are prejudiced against Polish people – quite unfairly, you ask me – so maybe I should just go simply by Chet after all. What do you think?"

"I don't care," said Milford. "If it was up to me I wouldn't have any name at all."

"So you could be just Anonymous."

"Even Anonymous is too much of a name for me."

"I like your style, pard. So, anyways, I'm gonna play y'all this new little ditty I just wrote, and it goes something like this." 

He struck a chord on his guitar, and began to sing, in a gruff, southern-sounding voice:

There's a notion 

of an ocean

of emotion deep inside

and I just can't hide it

and I just can't abide it

'cause it's tearing me apart

and eating up my heart

and the cause of it all is a lady 

called sweet Margaret

'cause she's got something I 

just can't get.

O sweet Margaret

I'll make you mine yet.

O sweet Margaret

I just can't forget

that time you said hello

and after talking to me

you told me just to go

and not come back

but here I am again

just a-singin' alas alack.

O sweet Margaret

I'll make you mine yet.

He struck a chord and then stopped singing.

"That's all I got so far, but I'm thinking I might add a few dozen more verses, kind of like one of the traditional Child ballads, like 'Tam Lin', say, or another favorite of mine, "The Midnight Ploughboy of Swampoodle", which in one variant has fifty-six verses. What do y'all think?"

"I think you should drop dead while you're still ahead," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Ha ha, you're such a card, Margaret," said Chet. He turned to Milford. "What do you think, Milbert? Be honest now, I can take it."

"I think it's great, Chad," said Milford, because he knew that no artist wanted honest criticism, but only praise, and lots of it.

"Thanks, Mulgrew," said Chet, "although my name is actually Chet, but, who knows, maybe I should change it to Chad. Chad something more Anglo Saxon maybe. Chad Mitchell?"

"Why don't you go away and work on your song now, Chad," said Margaret.

"Yes, ma'am, I reckon I'll do that," said Chet. "Nice meeting you, Milton."

"You too, Thad," said Milford.

"Thad, Chad, Chet, what's in a name?" said Chet.

"The cavemen had no names," said Milford. 

"Yes, sir, I like your style, Melvin," said Chet. "See ya, Margaret. I'll sing you the rest of the song after I finish it."

"I can't wait," said Margaret.

The fellow turned away and walked off into the smoke and the babble.

"Do you see what I have to deal with here?" said Miss Blackbourne. "With this crowd even an ill-favored chap like yourself doesn't look too terribly dreadful."

Yes, said Stoney, yes, there is still a chance! 

And this time Milford had the momentary good sense not to say anything, at least not aloud anyway, and it occurred to him (why had he never realized this before?) that the only sure way not to say something stupid was to say nothing, nothing at all. 

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

"Phil the Pill"

 

 

Just then someone else emerged from the smoke, from the babble and the jukebox music, and stood at their table. Why was there always someone else? When, at long last, would there be no one else?

Maybe when you're dead, buddy, said the voice in his head, but I wouldn't count on it.

It was a little fat man, with one of those little beards that fat men grow to hide the fat under their chins. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat, and he had a black leather motorcycle jacket on, but he didn't have it zipped up because his stomach was too huge.

"I hate to interrupt," he said. 

"Then don't," said Miss Blackbourne, "and fuck off back to where you came from."

"Now don't be like that, Margaret," said the little fat man. He had a whiny voice, like Peter Lorre's but with an American accent. "You know I have a job to do."

"I'll do a job on you," she said, "with this." And she pulled a silvery pin out of her hat. It was about eight inches long with an ebony scarab at one end and a glistening sharp point at the other.

"Heh heh, you kill me, Margaret," said the fat man.

"Damned straight I'll kill you," she said. "If I can only puncture a vital organ through those thick layers of whale blubber you're encased in."

"You shouldn't make fun of me just because I'm a little overweight. You know I have a glandular condition."

Nevertheless he stepped back a pace or two away from the point of the hatpin, so as not to make an easy target. He addressed Milford.

"Hi," he said. "My name is Philip Waterbury."

"Phil the Pill," said Miss Blackbourne.

"You can just call me Phil," said the fat man, to Milford. "May I know your name?"

"Milford," said Milford.

"Just Milford?"

"Just Milford," said Milford.

"Okay, that's cool," said the fat man called Phil. Milford now noticed that the man carried a clipboard with some papers on it, and he wrote something with a ballpoint pen attached to the clipboard with a thin chain. "It's actually really pretty neat just to have one name. Look at Homer, no one ever asked him what his last name was. So, lookit, I take it you are a lost poet?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Good, great," said the man, and he checked something off with his pen. "Quick quiz, but remember, there aren't necessarily any wrong answers, but which is preferable, life or death?"

"Are you joking?" said Milford.

"Okay, I'll put down death then. Next, is it better never to have been born, or to be born, just so you can know how meaningless everything is?"

"Can I answer neither?" said Milford.

"You can answer whatever you want to, but please bear in mind that –"

"I would prefer never having to answer any questions ever again," said Milford. "I would prefer also never to have to talk to anybody again."

"Does that include attractive females?" said Phil, with a glance at Miss Blackbourne, who still held her hatpin at the ready.

"Okay, not attractive females," said Milford, "but everyone else I would prefer not to talk to, and more important, not to have them talk to me."

The little man was writing rapidly on the clipboard.

"Did you get all that?" asked Milford.

"Yes, got it," said Phil. "So," he said, looking up from his clipboard. "I guess all's we really need now is your John Hancock on here, and ten dollars."

"What's the ten dollars for?" said Milford.

"Your official membership in the Society of Lost Poets. You're probably wondering what that entails. Well, first off, you get all drinks half-price, as well as access at half-price to our daily table d'hôte, and also our bar menu featuring hot dogs with or without baked beans or sauerkraut, and our award-winning proprietary burger, with your choice of American or Cheez Whiz, bacon at your request."

"What award did your burger win?" said Milford, but really it was the voice of his alter ego, Stoney.

"The Award for Best Burger for Lost Poets," said Phil. "By the way, I should be unforgivably remiss if I didn't mention that membership also includes your own private 'garret' room upstairs, so you can have some privacy to knock out a quick lyric poem or canto of an epic as the case may be, with each room supplied with a Hermes Baby typewriter, a box of #2 pencils, and, for the traditionalist, a quill pen with a dozen nibs and a jar of high quality India ink. A replaceable ream of 20-pound paper is provided gratis, and prime vellum, if you prefer, is available at cost."

"Okay, whatever," said Stoney, speaking through Milford's mouth. "If I give you ten dollars, will you go away?"

"Of course," said Phil, and he held out the clipboard and the pen. "Just sign your name down there at the bottom where it says Name."

"Don't sign it," said Miss Blackbourne. 

"Pardon me?" said Milford, speaking now for himself.

"If you value your soul, don't sign it."

"Oh, be still, Margaret," said the little fat man. "Why should –" he glanced at his clipboard, "why should Milfort –"

"Milford," said Milford, "with a d at the end."

"Really?" said the fat man.

"Yes," said Milford.

"Oh, okay, Milford with a d then." He scrawled something on the clipboard, then looked up. "What was I saying?"

"No one cares," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Oh, now I remember," said the man. "My question to you, Margaret, and also to, uh –" he glanced again at the clipboard, "to Milford – is simply, why would he not want to sign it? What more could a lost poet ask for?"

"How about nothing?" said Miss Blackbourne. "Nothing is always a good thing to ask for."

"Ha ha, quite risible, Margaret." He proffered the clipboard and pen to Milford. "Here ya go, Milbert, just scratch your mark there, slide me a sawbuck, and we're good to go."

"Don't do it, Milford," said Miss Blackbourne.

Milford's heart was touched that she actually called him by his correct name.

"Yeah," said Milford, "I think I'll pass."

"Well, you don't know what you're missing," said Phil.

"No, I don't," said Milford, "but I also don't want to know."

"Which only proves you are a true lost poet. Come on, pal, if you don't have the ten bucks on you, we can put you on a payment plan."

"I have the money, but I just don't want to join."

"Okay, well, how about our special trial membership then? Just give me a dollar, and I'll put you down for a month with full privileges. If you decide you want to cancel, you're under no obligation to –"

"No," said Milford.

"All right, look, I very rarely do this, but I'm prepared to offer you a six months' trial membership absolutely free, gratis and for nothing, and if at the end of that time –"

"I don't think so," said Milford, and then his alter ego Stoney added, "in fact I'm sure of it."

"Sure of what?"

"I'm sure I don't want to join," said Milford and Stoney in unison.

"Y'know, I forgot to mention, we have poetry 'slams' every Monday night, and any member can take part. Wednesday nights are 'hootenanny night' if folk music is your thing. Fridays are folk dancing. Do you like to clog?"

"I don't want to join," said Milford.

"And this is your final answer?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Yes you want to join?"

"No," said Milford. "Yes I don't want to join."

"Oh," said the fat man. "Well, if you're sure."

"Yes, I'm sure," said Milford and Stoney.

Now the fat man paused for a moment before speaking.

"Well, I hate to have to say this," he said, "but, you can finish your drink, but then you're going to have to leave. The Island of Lost Poets is for members only."

"Milford is my guest," said Miss Blackbourne, and she brandished her hatpin. "Now hop it before I stick you like the little swine you are."

"Oh, okay, I'll go," said Phil, taking another step back. He addressed Milford again. "If you change your mind I'll be across the room there by the shuffleboard table."

Both Milford and Stoney said nothing, and after another short pause the little fat man shrugged and turned and waddled away into the smoke.

Milford realized that his latest cigarette had gone out, and so he shook out another Husky Boy.

"Thanks for allowing me to be your guest," he said to Miss Blackbourne. 

"My pleasure," she said, finally sticking her long sharp pin back into her black pillbox hat.

Milford lighted up his cigarette.

Miss Blackbourne must be a member here. Therefore she must have one of those garret rooms that the fat fellow had mentioned. Was there even a slight chance she would –

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "But what would be the point? A few minutes of thrashing about in my narrow bed, and then the awkwardness ensuing? Is that really what you want?"

Say yes, said the voice in Milford's head, the voice of his alter ego Stoney.

"Yes?" said Milford.

She said nothing. 

Another sad song was playing on the jukebox.

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

"Get Plastered"

 

 

"I'm sorry," said Milford, after a resonant pause, "I was addressing the voice in my head again."

"I surmised as much," said Miss Blackbourne. "And do please tell me about this 'voice' in your head."

"It's apparently my alter ego," said Milford. "His name is Stoney, and he is what I would or could be were I not who and what I actually am."

"An idealized version of yourself then."

"Yes. I first started hearing his voice about an hour or so ago, although it feels closer to six months. And then a short time later, although it felt like a long time, I was wandering through these endless corridors wondering which way to go, and he appeared to me in the flesh."

"Indeed? And what did he look like?"

"He looked just like me, a slight young man in a peacoat and newsboy’s cap, with thick round glasses, and smoking a cigarette, but he was me without all my boring faults and personality traits. He was me if I were not a twerp."

"The better part of you, shall we say?"

"Yes. He was standing right before me. But right now he is only in my head."

The lady took a drag of her cigarette (the sort of drag the writers of the trashy novels Milford surreptitiously read called "a contemplative drag") and then exhaled an enormous cloud of smoke which blended seamlessly into the greater cloud of smoke in which they sat.

"I hope you won't take this the wrong way," she then said, "but has it occurred to you that you may very well be in the midst of what the headshrinkers call a psychotic episode?"

"Well, okay, but here's the thing."

"Oh, there's a thing."

"Yes, you see, earlier this evening I foolishly ate a handful of these mushrooms –"

"Ah, the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians?"

"Yes."

"I see. And so then could it not be that this alter ego of yours, this – what was his name?"

"Stoney."

"Stoney."

"Yes, he said his name was Stoney."

"Could it not then be that this 'Stoney' is perhaps – perhaps I say – an hallucination brought on by the mushrooms?"

"Well, maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yes, I say maybe because maybe he was always there, inside me, but it took the mushrooms for me to be able to see him, to hear him –"

"To converse with him."

"Yes," said Milford.

"And even to appear to you in person?"

"Well, uh, I know it's a little hard to believe, but –"

"And is he in there right now, in your head?"

"I believe so, yes."

"May I speak to him?"

Go ahead, Milford, said Stoney's voice in Milford's head. Let me talk to her.

"Well, maybe just briefly," said Milford.

"Hello," said Stoney, through Milford's voice.

"Is this Stoney speaking?" said the lady.

"Yes, it's me," said Stoney, in his strong and confident voice. "Very pleased to meet you. Margaret, isn't it?"

"Yes. Margaret Blackbourne. How are you, Stoney?"

"I'd be better if I wasn't trapped in the carcass of this idiot, I'll tell you that much."

"Well, at least you have a sense of humor about it," she said.

"Believe me, lady, being the alter ego of this guy, you have to have a sense of humor."

"Ha ha. This is weird. And I am used to weird, but I must say this is the first time I've ever spoken to someone's alter ego."

"Well, this is the first time I've ever spoken to another human being besides Milford, so it's weird for me, too."

"You don't sound too nonplussed about it."

"Look, Margaret, I take things as they come. Because this is the way to live, just striding manfully through life, living every second to the hilt and knocking out splendid poems when I'm in the mood, and then when I die, I can say, 'I have lived my life in full. Whatever happens now, be it nothingness or heaven or hell or reincarnation as a toad or a lion, bring it on, I have no regrets.'"

"What a delightful philosophy."

"I like to think so. Get it while you can, that's my motto. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. And, please pardon my language, but, fuck 'em all if they can't take a joke."

"Brilliant. I wonder if I may speak to Milburn again now?"

"Milford? Sure. Nice speaking with you, Margaret."

"Likewise, Stoney."

"And, listen, Margaret, don't be too hard on Milford. I know he's a jerk, but he doesn't mean any harm."

"I will bear that in mind. Goodbye, Stoney."

"Not goodbye, but shall we say au revoir?"

"Yes, of course, au revoir, Stoney."

"Till we meet again," said Stoney.

The lady paused, smoking her black cigarette.

"Is he gone?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Did you hear all that?"

"Yes."

"Good God."

"I know."

"This Stoney's rather full of himself, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"I hope you won't be offended if I say I prefer you to your drugs-induced subconscious alter ego."

"No." 

Boy, that hurts, said Stoney, in Milford's tortured brain. 

"Go away now, please," said Milford.

"What?" said the lady.

"I was speaking to him," said Milford. "To Stoney."

"Oh, good," she said. "But I shouldn't worry. He'll probably disappear for good once those mushrooms wear off."

"I hope so," said Milford. "It's bad enough having one personality, let alone two."

"You don't happen to have any more of those mushrooms on you, do you?"

"No, sorry."

"Quel dommage. As my good friend Charles Baudelaire put it, and I shall translate liberally, 'One must always get plastered. On wine, on poetry, on virtue, your choice.' To which I would add the sacred mushrooms of the noble red man. And woman. Drink up, Mordred."

Milford lifted his highball and drank, and sighed.

"Do you always sigh so much?"

"Yes," said Milford. "I wake up sighing, and go to sleep sighing, and in between I sigh, frequently."

"It could be worse," said the lady. "You could be one of these other losers in this joint. And at least you're young, for the moment. Once you hit thirty the downward slide begins."

"I feel that for me the downward slide began at birth."

"Ha ha. I almost regret that your corporeal being is so unimpressive."

"So do I, and there's no 'almost' to qualify my regret."

"Have you considered a course of physical self-improvement. The vigorous lifting of dumbbells, long swims in the ocean?"

"No, I generally detest any form of physical exertion, and the only reason I would jump into the ocean would be to attempt to drown myself. But there's no fear of my doing that, because as well as being a bad poet, and a lazy idle loafer, I am also a coward."

"Ha ha. You amuse me. I've met all kinds of lost poets in my time, and I admit I've even had carnal and sometimes even emotional relations with some several, but you, Malone, are the first time I've ever met a modest lost poet."

"I have nothing not to be modest about."

"Read some more of Theodore's poem."

"Okay."

Milford picked up the sheet of paper, found his place, and began to read aloud again.

And if you should kick me in my manly sac

and then strike me on the head with your purse,

I should not cry alas, nay, nor alack,

because to be ignored would be far worse.

Yes, I should fall to my knees, and worship,

even if you should grind your high heel (again)

into the back of my neck, its stiletto tip

causing me such sweet glorious pain.

Oh, Margaret, wilt thou not bless me

with a curse from your scarlet tongue

wilt thou not with disdain address me

as swine, as dog, as beetle dung? 

Milford laid down the sheet of paper.

"Can't take any more, Morton?" said the lady.

"I'll say this," said Milford. "It's nice to know there are possibly worse poets than myself."

"There are always worse poets, Muldoon," said the lady, dare he address her as Margaret?

"By the way," he said, "I know it doesn't really matter, but my name is actually Milford"

"Milford?"

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon. I thought it was Murgatroyd or something like that. Milborn, you say?"

"Milford."

"Milford."

"Yes."

"Very well, I shall call you Milford then."

Ask her if you can call her Margaret, said the voice in Milford's head.

"May I call you Margaret?" asked Milford.

She paused. 

"It may be too soon," she said.

"I understand," he said.

"I have always regretted allowing men even the slightest leeway."

"I don't blame you."

"You may call me Miss Blackbourne, at least for the nonce."

"Of course," said Milford.

"Better not to rush into intimacy."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, Miss Blackbourne?"

"That's better. And I shall call you, what was it, Mifford?"

"Milford."

"I shall call you Milford."

Baby steps, said the voice of Milford's alter ego Stoney, who was still there, lurking behind the scenes in his brain. You're taking baby steps for now. But maybe someday you will walk proudly, like a man.

Milford was on the verge of responding to this last remark of his alter ego's, but he remembered that Miss Blackbourne was sitting right there across the table from him, from him and from Stoney both, and so he held his peace.

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

"A Fantastical Supposition"

"Perhaps you are wondering why I dragged you away from the bar," said the woman in black named Margaret.

"Yes, the question had passed through the private mental ward I call my brain," said Milford.

"I'll tell you why," she said. "If you want me to."

Would she say it was because she found him sexually attractive? As fantastical as that supposition might be? But, no…

"I will take your silence as an affirmative," she said. "And the reason I dragged you by main force away from the bar and to this table was simply that I just couldn't bear to see that ghoul Ezekiel drooling all over you. Let him find some other catamite."

"But I'm not a catamite."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"I am quite sure of nothing."

"Let me reformulate the question. Have you ever had sexual relations with a male human being."

"No," said Milford. "But –"

"But what?"

"But I've never had sexual relations with a female human being either."

"Please don't be offended if I say I'm not surprised."

"I won't be."

"Take comfort if you will in the thought that sexual relations are invariably unpleasant."

"I will try to do that." 

Milford saw his beer glass there, and, forgetting that "he didn't drink", he picked up the glass and drank.

Sighing, for the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-fourth time since he had unwillingly emerged from sleep long ago the previous morning, he set the glass back down, as another sad song played on the jukebox.

"Masturbation, however," said the lady, "is another matter entirely. How enjoyable to suffer as many orgasms as one can manage, and not have to share one's bed with some malodorous oaf, and to listen to his drivelings, before, during, and especially after. Not to mention his labored post-coital snoring."

"Uh," was Milford's only vocalized response.

Suddenly the waitress appeared again out of the fog of tobacco smoke, carrying her tray with two highball glasses on it.

"Oh, thank you, Ruthie," said Margaret, Margaret Blackthorne was it? "Please start a tab for me. We may be here for some time."

"Thumper said the round is on the house," said the waitress, putting down the drinks. "He said the next six rounds will also be on the house, on account of you have to put up with so much shit from all the male and lesbian and even hermaphroditic lost poets in this place, on account of you are the only truly beautiful woman in here."

"Yes, we all have our crosses to bear," said Miss whatever her name was. "Tell Thumper I thank him, and that I should like to buy you and him the shots of your choice."

"You ain't got to buy us shots, Margaret. We drink shots all the time, just to ease the horror of working here. It's like one of the perquisites of the job, even a necessity you might say." The waitress turned her gaze on Milford. She was a very short, round-faced woman with orange hair, but Milford knew that if it came to it she could beat him easily in a fight. "You better be nice to her, buddy. You don't know what an honor it is to have Miss Blackbourne invite you to sit with her at a table."

"I intend to be nice," said Milford, thinking, Blackbourne, I must remember that –

"Oh, wait a minute," said the waitress, "are you a poofter?"

"A what?"

"Are you a member of the American homosexual community?"

"Not that I know of."

"'Cause you look kind of queer."

"No, I'm only a bad poet."

"You finished with that beer by the way?"

"Oh," said Milford, and he raised his beer glass, swallowed what was left in it, and handed the glass to the waitress, who put it on her tray.

"I'll be back in five minutes or so to see if you guys need a refill," she said.

"Thank you, Ruthie," said Miss Blackbourne, not Blackthorne, and the waitress disappeared into the smoke and the babble again.

"Read the poem," said Miss Blackbourne.

"What?" said Milford.

"Theodore's poem. Read it aloud. I could use a laugh."

Milford looked at the sheet of paper on the table.

"I'm not a very good reader," said Milford. "I've been told I recite in one of those awful sing-song 'poet's voices' that poets read with."

"I would expect nothing less, and all the better. Now read."

Milford took a sip of the drink the waitress had put in front of him. It tasted like a highball, scotch and soda, not his favorite drink, but then he shouldn't be drinking at all. How many times had he already "slipped" this endless evening and night? Was it a half-dozen times? At this rate he would have enough material for a full year of AA meetings.

He cleared his throat, took a drag of his Husky Boy, lifted the sheet of paper closer to his nearsighted eyes, and began to read, aloud.

For Margaret: a Paean of Praise

They call her the Black Widow, the black widow spider

but all I desire is to sit down beside her,

to drink in her beauty, like rich red wine,

and then, having drunk it, to feel so very fine.

And were she to touch me, her flesh upon my flesh,

it would be all I could do not to get a trifle fresh,

and if she then slapped me, as I'm sure she would,

the sting would surely cause a stirring in my manhood.

Oh, Margaret, dear Margaret, goddess of gloom, 

won't you take me up into your room,

my heart beating like that of a spastic,

where we can trip the light fantastic?

Milford paused his reading, and looked at the lady, smoking her black-and-silver cigarette.

"Do you want me to continue?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "pray continue."

Milford took a deep breath of the smoky air, and continued.

Yes, and will you allow me to enter your fleshly pocket,

to thrust and burrow deeply like a rocket

into the vast dark reaches of inner space,

or shall I be relegated to celibate disgrace?

Dear Margaret, please allow me just one chance

to stand before you with lowered pants

my trembling grasping hands outstretched,

and all my wretched soul upon you retched?

Milford put the sheet of paper down, picked up his highball and took another drink.

"Why did you stop?" said Margaret.

"I just needed a little break. There's a lot more as you can see. His handwriting is very small, and he's filled up both sides of this sheet of paper."

"Please feel free to take a rest."

"Thank you."

"And now do you see why I'm not crazy about sexual relations?"

Milford sighed again. Was this sigh the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-fifth sigh of this long day and night's journey into endless night, pace Eugene O'Neill?

"Yes," he said, "if this poem is any indication, I can understand your, uh, disaffection."

"If you were a woman you would understand even better."

A voice spoke in Milford's brain, a familiar voice he hadn't heard in a half hour or so.

Well, I guess you better not get your hopes up, Milford, said the voice, the voice of his alter ego, named Stoney.

"Don't worry, my hopes are far from up," said Milford.

"What?" said Miss Blackbourne.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Milford. "I wasn't addressing you."

"And whom, may I ask, were you addressing?"

"A voice in my head," he said. "Myself. Part of myself. No one."

She took a good drag of her black cigarette, and then stubbed it out in the ashtray that was there.

"I'm starting to find you strangely attractive, Murphy," she said.

Yes, said the voice in Milford's head, yes! Maybe there's still a chance after all?

"I'm not so sure of that," said Milford, aloud. 

Miss Blackbourne said nothing, as yet another sad song of lost love played on the jukebox.

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

"A Paean of Praise"

She gazed, smoking, out at the smoky barroom and Milford realized that in the preceding confusion he had left his own most recent cigarette burning in the ashtray at the bar, and that it was therefore incumbent upon him now to light up another. It was true, this situation was awkward, and there was nothing to be done in any awkward situation but to light up a cigarette. He dug out his pack of Husky Boys and his Ronson, and soon enough, after clicking the lighter no more than six times, he had a cigarette ignited and in his lips, and as he appreciated the hot rasping feeling in his weak and ravaged lungs it occurred to him that every single and general situation in his life had been awkward, up to and including this present moment. No wonder he had so many nightmares, because science had not yet devised a way to allow human beings to smoke while they slept.

The woman named Margaret now steered her gaze toward Milford.

"I like it that you know how to remain silent. It's a rare quality in any man, the ability to keep his thoughts to himself, rarer still amongst poets, and all but nonexistent among so-called lost poets. Of which cohort I assume you are one."

"It's true I am lost," said Milford, after a minute's pause, while another sad song sung by a sad woman played on the jukebox and the ghostlike figures in the bar babbled. "But as for being a poet, I realized today that I have only written bad poetry."

"So you are a lost bad poet."

"Yes," said Milford, after a shorter pause. "I would say that is an accurate description."

A man emerged from the smoke and stood at their table.

He wore a long dark cloak-like coat, and a Greek fisherman's cap. His skin was pale grey, his cheeks hollow, as were his eyes, on either side of a nose that was long and sharp. His face was stubbled with dark whiskers, and he held a brown cigarette.

"Why do you torture me, Margaret," the man said.

"Why do you torture me, Theodore?"

"I torture you only because you torture me."

"Exactly the same reason why I torture you," she said. "Oh, by the way, Milvern is it?"

"Milford actually," said Milford.

"Milford," she said, "meet Theodore. A fellow lost poet."

"I prefer the term poète maudit," said the man.

"No one cares what you prefer, Theodore," said Margaret.

"Hello," said the man to Milford.

"Hello," said Milford. He stood up awkwardly and awkwardly extended his hand, but then realized he was holding his cigarette in that hand. He quickly shifted the cigarette to his left or non-shaking hand, and re-offered his right hand.

"I will accept your handshake," said the man, "but only grudgingly and because I don't want to make a scene." 

They shook hands, and, thank God (in whom I fervently and now more than ever do not believe, thought Milford), the man's handshake was weak, even weaker than Milford's, which was certainly weak, from a lifetime of taking no exercise more vigorous than the lighting of cigarettes.

"Pleased to meet you," said Milford, withdrawing his hand with a slight slithering sound.

"I wish I could say the same," said the man. "I hope you know that Margaret will destroy your manhood."

"Well, we've only just met," said Milford. "But –"

He paused.

"But what?" said the man called Theodore.

"But I'm not so sure I have a manhood to destroy," said Milford.

Now the man paused, as Milford stood there, awkwardly.

"Damn you," said the man, finally. "Damn you and all your kind."

"If you're wishing me to be damned to hell," said Milford, not knowing what he was going to say, "that may well happen, if there is a hell, and if if men are to be damned to it for being lazy talentless layabouts."

"Damn your eyes," said the man. "If I were not a coward I should slap you, not just once but twice, one with open hand and one back handed."

"It's always good to meet a fellow coward," said Milford.

"Yes, that's true," said the man. "Perhaps not good, but not bad." He turned to Margaret. "I'm almost starting to like this fellow, Margaret."

"What?" she said.

"I said I'm almost starting to like your new paramour."

"Who gives a damn who you like or don't like, Theodore?"

"It should be 'whom' I like or don't like."

"Oh, fuck off."

"I beg your pardon."

"I said fuck off."

"Do you mean that in the physical sense, or the metaphorical?"

"I mean it in every possible sense."

"You're saying you want me to quit your presence."

"Yes."

"Very well. If you want me to leave, I shall."

"Good."

"Don't beat about the bush, just say it."

"Fuck off."

"Just say it and I'll never trouble you with my presence again."

"Okay," said Margaret. She took a drag of her cigarette, exhaled a great cloud of smoke, and then repeated, "Fuck off."

"Oh," said the man. "And you really mean that?"

"Yes," she said.

"Okay, fine, I'll leave then, gladly." he said. "But first, here."

He reached into the depths of his cloakish coat and came out with a folded-up sheet of paper. He unfolded it and proffered it to Margaret. She ignored it.

"It's a poem," he said.

"Why am I not surprised?" she said.

"Do you want me to read it to you?"

"No," she said.

"Okay," he said. "I'll just leave it on the table here." 

He placed the sheet of paper on the table.

"You can read it whenever you get a chance, a spare moment."

She said nothing.

Milford was still standing there, awkwardly.

"You can read it too, Millibrand," said the man. "You seem like a sensitive guy."

"Oh, okay," said Milford. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," said the man. "But please bear in mind that I just wrote it not five minutes ago, so it might still be a bit raw. I might need to do a few small revisions."

"Okay," said Milford.

"I am a great believer in the first bold flush of inspiration, and yet even the most brilliant effusions sometimes need a bit of rewriting, a slight touch of polish. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, I suppose that's so. But then also I suspect that no amount of rewriting or polishing can save something that was essentially rubbish from the start."

"An interesting thesis, but I am not sure I agree."

"I'm not sure I agree either," said Milford.

"Nonetheless, I'd actually be interested in hearing your thoughts."

"My thoughts?"

"Yes."

"About –"

"About my poem."

"Oh, right, sure."

"What did you say your name was again. Melliford? That's an odd name for a first name."

"I, uh," said Milford.

"Theodore," said Margaret.

"Yes?" said Theodore.

"Fuck off," she said.

A waitress came over, carrying a round bar-tray under her arm. At least Milford assumed she was a waitress, as she wore a black apron over her pale grey smock.

"Do you want me to find you a chair?" she said to Theodore.

"No, Ruthie," said Margaret. "He's not staying."

"I wouldn't mind sitting for a bit," said Theodore. "We could read my poem, and then discuss it."

"I would rather punch myself in the face," said Margaret. "Repeatedly."

"We don't have to read the poem right now."

"Don't make me put this cigarette out in your hand, Theodore," said Margaret.

"I wish you would," said Theodore. "I should wear the scar like a badge of honor."

"I wish I had a drink so I could throw it in your face," said Margaret.

"Speaking of which," said the waitress, "can I get you a drink, Margaret?"

"Sure, Ruth," said Margaret, "tell Thumper I'll take my usual, and better bring my friend Milburn here another glass of beer."

"Oh, that's okay," said Milford, "I don't want another beer."

"Bring him what I'm drinking then," said Margaret.

"I would like an absinthe," said Theodore.

"I'm sure you would," said Margaret, "but you're not drinking it at this table."

"So you would really like me to go."

"Yes," said Margaret.

"You know, I wrote that poem for you."

"I have no doubt."

"Poured out my heart and soul."

"Milbert," said Margaret.

"Me?" said Milford.

"Yes, whatever your name is, if this fellow doesn't leave at once I want you to punch him. I would do it myself, but I like to think I am a lady."

"But," said Milford.

"But what?"

"I have never punched anyone in my life."

"Then it's high time you learned how. Give him a good hard right to the breadbasket, that way you're less likely to hurt your hand."

"All right, all right, there is no need for violence, I'm going," said Theodore. "Ruthie, would you please bring me another absinthe to my table, with another small carafe of water? Oh, and I may need some more sugar cubes."

"Sure, Teddy," said the waitress, and she walked away.

"Well, okay, I'm going then," said Theodore.

"Goodbye," said Margaret. "And good riddance."

Theodore addressed Milford again.

"Let me know what you think of the poem. I'll be sitting across the room there with some other chaps, they're all poètes maudits as well."

"Uh," said Milford.

At last the man went away, into the smoke.

"You can sit down now," said Margaret.

"Oh, right," said Milford, and he took his seat again. 

The sheet of paper was lying right there. It was covered in scrawled ink. Idly Milford turned the paper with his fingers so that the writing was facing him. Centered at the top of the page were written the words

For Margaret: a Paean of Praise

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

"Black Widow"

 

There was one empty stool at the bar, and Milford claimed it.

Milford may have been young, but he knew the routine. 

The first thing you did when you took a stool at a bar was to take out your cigarettes and light one up, and this Milford did, adding his own smoke to the smoke that every single other person in this barroom was emitting. And after that first satisfying exhalation it occurred to him that of all the smoky bars he had ever been in, this was undoubtedly the smokiest, which was fine by Milford. There was only one rule in a severely smoky bar, and that was never to rub your eyes, because then you were only rubbing the microscopic smoke granules deeper into your eyeballs, causing them to burn and flood with hot tears, and obliging you to make haste to the men's room in order to rinse your globules of vision copiously with cold water so that you could return to your seat and fire up another cigarette.

"Haven't seen you in here before," said a man to Milford's right.

"No, this is my first time," said Milford.

"I daresay it won't be the last," said the man.

His face was long and depressing, the skin the color of old paper, with one of those ugly weak goatees with the pale flesh showing through the thin whiskers, less convincing than the fake goatees that aristocratic art dealers and sadists wore on the stage and in films. On his head was a beret the color of soot, and he wore a tweed topcoat, the shoulders sprinkled with dandruff. Around his neck was a scarf, black like the beret, but with a greasy sheen.

"Pray do not look on me with disgust," said the man.

"I wasn't," lied Milford.

"I was once young like you."

"I don't doubt it," said Milford.

"Now I am the eternal 40-year-old, but the sort of 40-year-old who already gives off a faint odor of the sepulcher. Am I to be reviled and shunned for this?"

"No," said Milford.

"Just you wait, your time will come."

"I'm sure it will," said Milford, "unless I die first."

"Ah ha!" said the man, baring yellow jagged teeth. "Spoken like a true lost poet!"

He glared through the smoke at Milford with eyes that were bloodshot and milky at the same time.

"What do you want, buddy."

This was said by a bartender, or at least a big man pretending to be a bartender. He wore a red vest and a bowtie, and his face was bloated and shiny with a thin sheen of oil.

"I don't want anything," said Milford.

"You can't just sit here and take up space," said the bartender, or the man pretending to be a bartender.

"Do you have sarsaparilla?" asked Milford.

"No, we don't have fucking sarsaparilla," said the bartender.

"How about a ginger ale?"

"What are you, one of these reformed drunks?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Well, fuck you," said the bartender. "Order a real drink or get the fuck out."

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

"Wait, Thumper," said the man with the goatee. "I'll buy him a real drink. How about a ginger ale but with a nice shot of rye in it, my friend, just to give it a bit of oomph?"

"No thanks," said Milford.

"Bourbon then. Bourbon and ginger. A classic American libation."

"I don't drink alcohol."

"You look drunk to me," said the man.

"Well, it's true, I did drink a bit tonight, without really meaning to, but I also ate the sacred mushrooms of the Indians and smoked hashish."

"Well, that it explains it then," said the man. "Thumper, bring my friend what I'm drinking, and I'll pay for it."

"Fine," said the bartender impersonator, and he went away.

"Thumper gets testy," said the man. "It's hard serving poets, but it's especially hard serving lost poets."

"Yes, I imagine it is," said Milford.

"My name is Ezekiel Montayne," said the man, offering his hand, which was thin and pale, with tiny black hairs like spider legs on it.

"Oh, hi," said Milford, reluctantly shaking the man's hand. It felt like shaking a dead lizard, and Milford withdrew his own hand as quickly as he could.

"I don't blame you for recoiling from my touch," said the man who had given his name as Ezekiel Montayne. "I would too, were I not I. Imagine how I feel, encased in this prison of flesh?"

"Yes, it must be hard," said Milford.

"You don't know," said this Ezekiel Montayne. "No one knows the horror I experience simply by being me."

"Here's your 'libation'," said the bartender, and he set down a glass with something yellow in it, with a thin layer of yellow-white foam at the top.

"What's this?" said Milford.

"What's it look like?" said the bartender.

"Beer," said Milford.

"Bingo," said the bartender. "Give the man a prize. That'll be a nickel, Ezekiel."

"Oh, yes," said Ezekiel. He reached inside his topcoat and into his trousers pocket and brought out a small change purse made out of faded purple cloth. He clicked it open, took out a nickel, and laid it on the counter. The bartender picked it up.

"Thanks, big spender," said the bartender, and he went away again.

"See?" said Ezekiel. He clicked his purse shut. "He said thanks. At least he's polite." He stowed his purse back in his pocket. "Go ahead, drink your beer, pal."

"I've already said I don't drink."

"It's only beer. Look, I'm drinking one." He pointed to a half-full glass in front of him, picked it up, and took a sip. "Mm, so refreshing."

"I'm not supposed to drink. I'm an alcoholic."

"Well, so am I, but I'm drinking," said Ezekiel. "You don't see me making a big deal out of it."

"Maybe I'd better just go," said Milford.

"You would insult me by refusing a beer I purchased for you?"

"You drink it."

"But I bought it for you. Why do you want to make me feel bad? Don't I feel bad enough simply by existing? And you would make me feel worse?"

"Oh, Christ."

"One little glass of beer is not going to kill you."

Milford gave a quick sigh, the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-third sigh of this seemingly endless day and night, and then he lifted up the glass in front of him and put it to his lips and drank. He drank approximately one-third of its contents and then put the glass back down.

"Well, how was it?" said Ezekiel Montayne, showing his yellow teeth in a hideous smile.

"Superb," said Milford, even though it tasted no better or worse than any other beer you got in a bar.

"I'm so glad you like it," said Ezekiel. "It's the house brew. Lost Poets Lager. Get it? This bar is called the Island of Lost Poets, and the house beer is called Lost Poets Lager."

"Yeah, that's pretty clever," said Milford.

"What's your name?"

Milford sighed for the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-fourth time since falling unwillingly into wakefulness that morning.

"I prefer just to be called Milford."

"Oh," said Ezekiel. "What's your real name?"

"My real name is Milford, but it's my last name, and before you can ask me, my first name is Marion."

"And that's why you prefer to be called Milford."

"Correct."

"Because Marion is a feminine name."

"It can be, yes."

"I would say it usually is."

"Just call me Milford."

"Okay, Milford."

"He's not queer, Ezekiel," said a woman's voice to Milford's left.

Milford turned. The voice apparently belonged to a woman all dressed in black, with a tiny black pillbox hat on her head.

"What?" said Milford.

"I was telling Ezekiel you're not queer."

"Oh," said Milford.

"So he should give up."

"You meddling intrusive bitch," said Ezekiel, to the woman. "I was only trying to be friendly with the young chap."

"We all know what that means, Ezekiel," said the woman. 

"How dare you."

"The boy walks in here, and before he can even order a drink you're trying to seduce him."

"Pardon my French, but you're being a frightful C-word, Margaret."

"Don't call me a C-word, you desiccated ponce."

"Desiccated am I? No more than that Gobi Desert you call your womanhood."

"Come on, chum," said the woman to Milford. She polished off the drink she was holding, then slipped off her stool and tugged at Milford's arm. "Grab your beer and come with me."

"Where are we going?" asked Milford.

"Anywhere away from this two-bit poofter. Let's go. Don't forget that beer. And your cigarettes and lighter."

"You frightful twat, Margaret," said Ezekiel. "There, I said it, twat, and I don't regret it."

"You're a bigger twat than I'll ever be, Ezekiel," said the woman, and to Milford she said, "Don't forget your cigarettes and lighter, honey."

Milford scooped up his pack of Husky Boys and his lighter, stuck them in his peacoat pocket, picked up his beer and got off his stool. He was afraid of the woman, but he was more afraid of Ezekiel.

"Nice meeting you, Milford," called Ezekiel.

At least he had remembered his name, thought Milford.

"Well, thanks for the beer," he said, now feeling slightly sorry for the fellow.

"You're so very welcome," said Ezekiel. "Oh, and by the way, if it comes to that, I implore you, please use a condom, for your own protection if not for Margaret's."

"Asswipe," said the woman, apparently named Margaret, and she took Milford by the arm and pulled him away.

Could this be it? wondered Milford. After all the travails of this endless day and night, could this at last be his chance to divest himself of his virginity? 

As the woman pulled him along through the smoke, through the vague babble of voices and the recorded voice of a lady singing a sad song, he stole a glance at her. 

She was almost the same height as Milford, but then Milford was not tall. Her grip on his arm felt strong, probably stronger than Milford's were he ever to grip something, which he had never done. Her skin was the color of snow, the hair under her small black hat was also black, falling to the shoulders of her black dress. Could she possibly be a nun of some sort? It was a matter of indifference to Milford if she were a nun, he held all religions in equal contempt. She looked older, perhaps thirty or even thirty-five, but this also did not matter to Milford. Surely it was better to have his first time be with a woman who actually knew what she was doing. He hoped she would be patient, and perhaps even kind. 

They came to a small round table in a corner, it looked like the only empty table in the room.

"Okay," she said. "Sit down."

"May I help you with your chair?" said Milford, who had seen this maneuver in films and plays.

"I can pull my own chair out," she said, and she did, and sat down. Milford was not a very observant fellow, and so he only now noticed that she carried a handbag, which seemed to be made of black leather, and which she put on the table and clicked open, taking out a black-and-sliver cigarette case and a thin ebony lighter. She looked up at him.

"I told you to sit down."

"Oh, sorry," said Milford, and he pulled the empty chair out and sat, putting his beer glass on the table.

"My name is Margaret Blackbourne," said the woman. She opened the cigarette case and took out a black cigarette with a shiny silver-colored filter. "They call me the Black Widow, but please do not be put off by that."

Milford quickly started to dig his cigarette lighter out, but she beat him to it, lighting herself up with the lacquered ebony lighter.

"I haven't ever actually killed one of my lovers," she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the greater cloud of smoke all around them. "Not yet I haven't, anyway."

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