"Memoirs of a Moron"

 

 

My name (and don't we all have one?) is Livingston P. Lovechild. I ask you, dear reader, if you exist, what was I to do with my life, cursed with such an appellation? Let's face it, you hear a name like Livingston P. Lovechild, and the first thing you think is, "He must be a cunt." And pardon my language, but I am only trying to be truthful here. No one with a name like Livingston P. Lovechild could be anything less or more than a cunt. His parents have already damned him to cunthood for all eternity. And I know what you're thinking, "If it bothers you that much, why not just change your name?" And I admit that this maneuver has occurred to me. Oh the gloriously resonant names I considered: Jack Jackson. Nick Harper. Joe McCool. I even considered some Jewish names: Barry Rothenberg. Jake Cohen. Barry "Buck" Blitztein. Nor did I ignore the Italians: Lou Santone. "Big Mike" Dallesandro. Al "the Pal" Dellarossa. For a while there I wanted to go French: Jean-Claude Chagrin. Louis St. Louis. Marc Le Parc. Yes, so many names I considered, but in the end I kept the name I had been anointed with at baptism. Because, in the end, who would be kidding whom? No matter what I tried to call myself, the truth was bound to come out, that I was Livingston P. Lovechild and no one else, and that I was an obvious cunt.

Harry had come to the end of the page, and he turned the sheet over.

"Well, what do you think, buddy?" said Livingston.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Livingston had pulled an armchair over and had sat himself to Harry's right. Harry's keen novelist's eye perceived that Livingston was now also apparently smoking one of the marijuana cigarettes from the wooden box.

"It's uh," said Harry. "Um."

"Yes, but does it breathe?" said Livingston. "Does it have the touch of life to it?"

"Yes," said Harry. "It does, but."

"Oh. I know. It sucks, right? Enormous donkey dick. You can level with me, Harry. I can take it."

"No," said Harry. "In fact I think it's rather good so far."

"Oh, wow, thank you, pal, that's all I wanted to hear. And from you, my favorite writer. Even more than James Branch Cabell. Even more than Edgar Rice Burroughs or Earl Derr Biggers."

"Thanks, Livingston," said Harry, "but."

"But? But what?" said Livingston.

"You can't write the word cunt."

"What do you mean?"

"No publisher will publish anything with the word cunt in it. Especially five or six times on the very first page."

"Hey, there's a lot more cunts coming in the next fifteen hundred pages or so, believe you me, Harry."

"But you can't write that word," said Harry.

"Why not? It's a perfectly good word."

"That well may be," said Harry. "But no publisher will publish a book with that word in it."

"Well, fuck them then," said Livingston.

"Fuck them?"

"Yeah," said Livingston. "And the horses they rode in on. Who needs them?"

"But, but, um, but," said Harry.

"Know what I'll do?" said Livingston. "I'll start my own publishing company. I'll publish this book myself if I want to, and peddle it from door to door. All I need to know from you, Harry, is, 'Is it good?' And don't worry about a few cunts here and there. Is it good, that's all I want to know."

"Well, I've only read the first page."

"And you sort of liked that, right?"

"I actually did, yes," said Harry. And he took another puff on his marijuana cigarette, which he now noticed was almost halfway smoked down. 

"How do you like the reefer, by the way?" said Livingston.

"The reefer?"

"What you're smoking there," said Livingston. "The reefer. The muggles, the doobie, daddy-o."

"I –" Harry paused. "I think I like it."

"It's good stuff," said Livingston. "And you know what the best part is? No hangover. Smoke as much as you want, and, unlike with the lush, no ill effects the next day."

"Really?"

"Yeah, like, you take tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow, if the Russians don't drop an A-bomb on us, or if I don't kick off from a stroke in my sleep, but tomorrow what I'll probably do is just lie in bed and smoke weed and drink tea and munch wholegrain rusks and oatmeal cookies all day. Nothing better for the health of the old corporeal host, not to mention one's mental and spiritual salubrity. I call these days my recovery days. Take a day or two off from the bars, maybe even three, possibly four, and then I'm ready to hit the streets and make it real all over again. The call of the wild, y'know?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Harry, taking another deep draw on the reefer.

"The sacred primeval call," said Livingston. "The call of so many bars, bars and saloons and taprooms and cocktail lounges, all of them beckoning, saying, 'Come, my son, heaven awaits you here. Come. You are welcome.'"

"You should put that in your book," said Harry.

"Oh, I'm sure I have," said Livingston. "Do you want to read some more?"

"Okay," said Harry, and he picked up the fresh page and read.

Perhaps I am wrong to title these pages the Follies of a Flâneur. Would it not be better, more truthful, to call them Confessions of a Cunt? Or, perhaps, The Memoirs of a Moron? Oh, well, no need to decide now.

Let's go back to the beginning, to where I choose to begin, my return to the old house on Bleecker Street after getting kicked so unceremoniously out of Yale. This was a dark time for the world at large. War, as they say, was looming on the horizon. But what did I care? Men had always fought wars, and they would continue to do so. But my father had died the previous year, leaving the family quite well off, and with a steady stream of revenue from "our" electric toaster factory. The point is, I didn't "need" to work. I had never set foot in the factory, and never would, and yet its existence provided me with an income more than suitable for my humble habits. And what were these habits? I shall enumerate them:

Sleeping late, every day. What luxury to lie abed, comfortably, while the world churns obliviously outside my window?

My "strolls". Days when I feel properly rested and full of the jumping beans of life and insanity, after a good lunch to set forth down the steps to Bleecker Street, and to turn right, or left, as the mood strikes me, and to walk on, turning left or right at random, until I see a sign: Joe's Bar. Sam's Bar. Chuck's Bar. Whatever, a bar, and to go into that cave of twinkling dimness and climb a stool, and the barman comes over and says, "Yes, sir?"

And I look behind him at all the glittering bottles, and I gaze down the bar at the gleaming polished tap handles, and I say, "Ah, yes, where to begin?"

A cunty sort of thing to say to a bartender who only wants to know what you want to drink, but, hey, that's me, I told you I was a cunt, and this is just the sort of thing I tend to say. 

I can't help it if I'm a cunt. That's just what I am.

"Look, mister," the bartender might say, and has said, "I just want to know what you want to fucking drink…"

"I'll take a beer," I say.

"Great," says the bartender. "What kind?"

"The cold kind," I say, and the bartender, after a brief pause, turns away to get the beer, presumably a cold one, and I can't help but hear him mutter, under his breath, the single word:

"Cunt."

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

"Follies of a Flâneur"

"Shall we retire to the living room?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Unless of course you would like another piece of cake, Mr. Plumbtree?"

Harry had already had two slices of the chocolate cake, and he could easily have devoured a third, but, despite his gluttony, he said no thank you.

Ralston was looking at a pocket watch on a chain.

"Good, we can still catch the beginning of The Waldo McGee & Mickey Pumpernickel Show."

The Negro maid Matilda had appeared, and with her another old woman who was addressed as "Cookie".

"Matilda," said Mrs. Lovechild, "you and Cookie can clear the table now. We're going to go in and watch the television."

"Would you like some popcorn, Mrs. Lovechild?" said the woman called Cookie.

"That would be lovely, Cookie, thank you," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"And don't stint on the butter, Cookie," said Ralston.

"Oh, Mr. Ralston, sure you'll die of a massive fatal heart attack if you don't watch all that butter you consume night and day."

"And if I do die of a heart attack, Cookie," said Ralston, "I shall die as I have lived, stomping the earth like a man and not trembling and skittering in fear like a mouse."

"Are you fond of television, Mr. Plumbly?" said Gwendolyn, addressing Harry.

"Well, I haven't watched much of it," said Harry. "I'm afraid I don't own a set."

"We finally got one last year," she said, "and now we are profoundly addicted. Wait till you see Mickey Pumpernickel. He's only a wooden dummy, but he's ever so clever, and you can barely see Waldo McGee's lips move. It's like Mickey Pumpernickel is a real person."

"Oh, um," said Harry.

Livingston pushed his chair back and stood up, patting Harry on the shoulder.

"Come up to my room, Harry. Want to show you something."

"Oh, but you'll miss Waldo McGee and Mickey Pumpernickel," said Gwendolyn.

"That puppet gives me the creeps," said Livingston. "Come on, Harry."

Harry thanked Mrs. Lovechild for the delicious meal, glanced awkwardly at Gwendolyn and shyly at Ralston, and then got up and followed Livingston out of the dining room, through a living room draped in shadows and flickering with light from the crackling fireplace and into a hallway with a staircase.

"Thanks for being so nice to the family," said Livingston. "I know they're a little eccentric, but they mean well."

"I think they're very nice," said Harry.

"My mother is quite insane," said Livingston. "Lives in her own world. As does Gwendolyn. And of course Ralston. Come to think of it, as do I. But don't we all? Aren't we all merely prisoners for life in the solitary confinements of our corporeal hosts? Anyhoo, I'm just on the second floor, follow me, old chap."

What could Harry do? In his borrowed woolen slippers he followed Livingston and his stockinged feet up the stairs to the second floor and then down a hall towards the front of the house where there was a tall window looking out onto the blizzard rumbling and churning outside. Livingston opened a door to the right.

"Here it is," he said. "My sanctum sanctorum. Welcome."

He waved with his hand, and Harry went in. Livingston came in behind him, flicked on an overhead light, and closed the door.

"Sorry about the mess," he said.

The room had a large brass bed with a canopy of faded embroidered drapery, and bookcases lined the walls, with stacks of books and magazines on the floor and on tables on either side of the bed. There was a roll-top desk in front of the one tall window, and in front of it was a swivel chair. A big black typewriter sat on the desk, with stacks of paper on either side of it.

"There it is," said Livingston. "That is where the magic happens."

He went over and switched on a gooseneck lamp on the desk.

"Come here, buddy, I'd like to show you something."

Again, what could Harry do? He came over to the desk.

"Sit down, Harry. Get comfortable."

Harry sat down in the swivel chair, but he didn't feel comfortable. What had he gotten himself into? Was a free meal of Chicken à la King worth it, even with some several glasses of fine red wine? Not to mention the chocolate cake and fresh strong coffee.

"Let me give you a little room here," said Livingston, and he pushed the typewriter, an old Royal, inward. Then with both hands he picked up a great stack of typescript to the right of where the typewriter had been, turned the stack over, and laid it down in front of Harry.

"And here," he said, "is my little magnum opus. Still in progress of course, but I wonder if you would be so kind as to read a page or two. Tell me what you think. You being a professional author and all. Not to mention my favorite living author."

This was every writer's worst nightmare, to be asked to read someone else's work.

"I mean, if you don't mind," said Livingston. 

"No, of course not," lied Harry, baldfaced, looking at the stack of paper, two reams at least, maybe even three.

He picked up the top sheet, on which was typed:

Follies of a Flâneur

by 

Livingston P. Lovechild

He turned the cover page over and picked up the next sheet and read.

These are the confessions of a failure. But perhaps these confessions will in themselves prove to be his ultimate triumph. 

"What do you think so far?" said Livingston.

"Well, I've only read the first two sentences," said Harry.

"Only about two million sentences left to go," said Livingston. "Don't worry, it picks up." 

Harry read on.

From my earliest age I noticed one thing that all human beings had in common, to wit, they were annoying. Some more so, some less. And experience proved that even the less annoying people became more annoying the more you were in their company. Not that I was exempt, as I annoyed myself as well. 

 

Harry laid the sheet down.

"Oh, no," said Livingston. "Is it that bad?"

"No, not at all," said Harry. "But I wonder if I could have a cigarette."

"Oh, sure," said Livingston. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em. In fact–"

He opened a little drawer in the desk and brought out a small engraved wooden box and opened it. In it were a dozen or so hand-rolled cigarettes.

"Have one of these," he said.

"Oh, but I have my own," said Harry. "Husky Boys."

"An excellent smoke," said Livingston, "but try one of these bad boys instead."

"What are they?"

"Marijuana. Ever try it?"

"No."

"Oh, you simply must, old boy."

"I don't know. Won't I get addicted?"

"Not at all. Go ahead, take one."

What did Harry have to lose? He picked one out, and Livingston gave him a light with an Ohio Blue Tip match from a box on the desk.

"You gotta breathe it in deep and hold it in for as long as you can," said Livingston.

Harry breathed in the smoke and held it in.

"Okay," said Livingston. "Now start reading again. The more you smoke the better the writing is."

Harry picked up the page, still holding in the smoke, and began to read again: 

I shall pass over in silence my early years. It was tedious enough having to live through them, let alone having to relive them in memory. No, let us begin these confessions shortly after I was sent down in disgrace from Yale and returned to the familial manse on Bleecker Street, for that was when my life began in earnest, when I finally embraced my true calling as a committed idler, a master of the fine art of doing as little as possible.  

Harry exhaled the rich sweet smoke. And then he read on.

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