"Big Bottomed Mama"

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Call me Anne," said Mistress Bradstreet.

"Hello, Anne," said Milford.

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

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

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

"Thank you," said Milford. 

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

I got a big bottomed mama,

she don't give me no big drama,

she throws me down on the bed

and loves me till I'm dead…

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

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

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

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

Milford became aware that Miss Alcott was looking at him.

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

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

Mrs. Stowe addressed Miss Alcott.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Whitman ignored this response and addressed Addison.

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

"Hi," said Addison.

"Turgison, is it not?"

"Well, actually, they call me Addison –"

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

"Okay, uh, Walt," said Addison.

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

"Do you mean Milford there?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't go," said Emily.

"I'm sorry," said Milford. 

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

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

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

"I'll manage," said Milford.

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

"No need," said Milford.

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

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

"Walt," said Walt.

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

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

"Uh-oh," said Mrs. Stowe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the little stage Jelly Roll played and sang.

I got a big bottomed mama

and I ain't got no mañana,

I got a bottle of good whiskey

and I'm feeling mighty frisky…

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

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

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

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

Yes, I got a big bottomed mama

and she rides me like a llama,

and when she bends down low,

you should see her go…

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

"Sawdust and Ashes"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, but I care, said Milford. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have given my all,

perhaps I should have given less,

but I heard the siren call

of ridiculousness.

I have emptied my brains

of the garbage they contained

but they have filled up again

like a broken water main.

What is the meaning 

of these words 

that mean nothing?

What is the sound of 

a deaf man singing?

These are the questions 

that will puzzle me

but apparently not muzzle me

until I gasp my final breath

and sink into grateful death.

And so I bid a fond adieu

to you good people in this room.

I wish I could be a little like you,

not stumbling around 

in stygian gloom,

but laughing and shouting 

and raising a convivial glass,

not mumbling and pouting

and behaving like an ass.

I will now give you over 

to my acquaintance Jelly Roll

who, unlike me, possesses a soul.

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

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

"Milford actually," said Milford.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause.

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

And can you blame them? asked Stoney.

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

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

Jelly Roll played his piano and sang.

I got a big bottomed mama

from the state of Alabama,

her name is Mary Lou

and she knows how to do the do…

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

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

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

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

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

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