Thursday, March 14, 2024

"Let's Get Drunk"



Miss Alcott stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray that was on the bar in front of her, next to her pack of Lucky Strikes and a blank book of matches.


"Would you like another Amontillado?" she said.


"No, I shouldn't," said Milford. "I think I mentioned that I'm an alcoholic."


"But you're so young!"


"Yes, but you can be young and still be an alcoholic."


"My dear father used to say, 'Anyone can be a drunk. That's no great accomplishment.'"


"Thus far it's the only thing I've accomplished in life."


"Milford, I like you."


"Really?"


"Yes. At least so far I do."


"Maybe I should leave now while I'm still ahead."


She lifted her small glass of sherry, took a gentle sip, and then put the glass down again. Then she turned and looked at him.


"I should prefer it if you stayed," she said.


Don't blow it, said that familiar voice in Milford's head. Don't blow it now.


"You want another Amontillado, buddy?"


This was the bartender, a man dressed in 19th century fashion, with decorative arm bands on his sleeves, an enormous moustache and mutton-chop sideburns.


"No, thank you," said Milford. "I wonder, do you have ginger ale?"


"We do have ginger ale, but if I may make a suggestion, we've got a mighty fine sarsaparilla. I brew it myself down in the sub-basement."


"Does it have alcohol in it?"


"No, sir, we brew it up specially for the temperance union folks."


"Okay, I'll have one of those then, please."


"Coming right up. What about you, Miss Lou? Another Amontillado?"


"Thank you, no, Bret, I'm still working on this one."


The man went away.


"Miss Alcott," said Milford, "may I ask you a question?"


"By all means, dear boy."


"What is this place?"


"Mr. Whitman didn't tell you?"


"Oh, Mr. Whitman. I'd forgotten about him. Yes, he said something about taking me to, to, what did he say, to Valhalla?"


"Well, that's the answer to your question."


"You mean," said Milford, "this, all this, this place, all these strange people, these endless corridors and strange men's rooms and barrooms full of sad clowns, all this, all this –"


"Yes, you have passed into the next world. Or should I say rather, another world."


"Does this mean I'm dead?"


"No, you're merely visiting."


"But then, everyone here, you, the bartender, that Nathaniel Hawthorne guy –"


"Here's your sarsaparilla, buddy," said the bartender, and he placed a metal tankard on the bar in front of Milford.


"Put it on my tab, Bret," said Miss Alcott.


"Sure thing, Miss Lou," said the man, and he went away again. 


Milford picked up the tankard and took a good long drink. It was actually delicious, and quite refreshing, not cloyingly sweet the way ginger ale tended to be, especially after drinking the first four or five glasses in a desperate attempt not to gulp whiskey or gin.


"Wow, that's really good," he said.


"Trade secret," said Miss Alcott, "Bret puts just the tiniest smidgeon of ambrosia into the brew."


"Ambrosia," said Milford.


"Yes. Food of the gods."


"Oh."


Milford decided to let that go for the nonce.


"So," he said, "to get back to what we were talking about, what you're saying is that everyone in here is dead?"


"No, we're not dead. We're immortal."


Milford sighed, a shallow sigh, but a sigh.


Miss Alcott picked up her pack of Luckies, gave it a shake, plucked one out and put it in her lips.


Milford remembered his manners, dug out his lighter, and gave her a light after only five or six unsuccessful clicks. Her gentle fingers touched his hand as she drew on the flame. She exhaled slowly and looked at him through the smoke.


"I'm guessing you're the sort of chap who sighs a lot," she said.


"You guess correctly," said Milford.


"You know, Milford," she said, "once you've worked in a military hospital as a nurse, as I have done, albeit briefly, you realize there are far worse torments than spiritual ones."


"I know," said Milford. "Or, rather, in theory I know, as I have led a very coddled life."


"Far worse torments," repeated Miss Alcott.


It was all Milford could do to stifle another sigh.


"Listen, Miss Alcott, I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but I wonder if you would care to, to –"


"What?"


He wanted to ask her to relieve him of his virginity. Why was it so hard just to say it? 


Just ask her, said the voice, the voice of his bold alter ego, known as "Stoney".


"I wonder," continued our hero, "if we could go somewhere, somewhere private, where we could, uh –"


"Make love?"


"Thank you," he said.


"Well, yes, we could," said Miss Alcott. "But we don't have to leave quite this second, do we?"


"Oh, no, not at all –"


"I should like at least to finish my cigarette, and my Amontillado."


"Yes, of course, please."


"So I can take my time?"


"Certainly. I didn't intend to, uh –"


"So you're not in any great hurry?"


"Oh, no, um, uh, by all means –"


He'd waited this long, what was another quarter century or so?


"Because here's the thing about experience," she said. "Once you've had it, that's it. You've had it. And you might even find that you were thinking of something else while you were having the experience. And then you're back to looking forward to the next experience, during which you will be perhaps thinking of something else, possibly even anticipating yet another experience that you won't appreciate while it's happening. Until at last comes that final experience. Your life flickering away, and as it flickers you will be thinking of all the experiences you had in your brief sojourn in your so-called life when you were thinking of something else, even as you're about to experience the ultimate experience of all. And maybe then you will realize that the something else itself is the experience."


"Hello, Lou," said a young woman, who was suddenly standing there.


"Hi, Lou," said another young woman, who was holding a cigarette.


Like Miss Alcott, they were both dressed in 19th century fashion.


"Introduce us to your new gentleman friend," said the first woman.


"Of course," said Miss Alcott. "Milford, allow me to introduce Miss Dickinson and Mrs. Stowe."


"Call me Emily," said the first woman.


"And please call me Harriet," said the other one.


Milford climbed off of his stool, not falling, and shook hands in turn with the two ladies.


Say something, said the voice in his head.


"Very, uh, pleased to meet you," he said.


"And shall we call you Milford?" said the one called Emily.


"Yes, please."


"An unusual prénom," said the one named Harriet.


Here we go again, thought Milford, But just get it over with, said the subcranial voice.


"My actual first if not Christian name is Marion," said Milford. "My middle name is even worse, Crackstone. Therefore I prefer to be called simply by my last name, which is the aforementioned Milford."


"You should I pray pardon me for saying so," said Emily, "but you have a passing strange way of speaking,"


"That might be because I am an idiot," said Milford, "lacking in the social or any other sort of graces."


"Milford's a poet," said Miss Alcott.


"That explains it, then," said Emily. "I too have been accused of strangeness. And does the strangeness come from my avocation of scribbling cryptic lines of verse, or, did the oddness inherent in my character cause me to become just such a scribbler?"


"Um," said Milford.


"Good answer, Milford," said Harriet. "And, please, resume your seat. We didn't want to crash your little party."


"Just wanted to say hello," said Emily.


Awkwardly Milford climbed back onto his stool.


Be a gentleman, said the internal voice. Offer to buy them a drink. Show some breeding.


"May I get you ladies something to drink?" said Milford.


"Thought you'd never ask," said Harriet.


"Thanks, Milford," said Emily. "I'll take a martini."


"Make that two," said Harriet. "And thank you, kind sir."


Milford lifted his narrow hindquarters from his seat, the better to extricate his old Boy Scout wallet. 


Look, said Stoney the alter ego, so far you haven't totally fucked things up yet, so take my advice, if you have something stupid to say, don't say it.


Milford raised a finger in an attempt to gain the bartender's attention. 


And just then, as if they were all in a movie, Milford became aware of the song playing on the jukebox, the likes of which would never be allowed by the Production Code, a woman singing:

You know my other man is out of town,

your other woman she's not around.

Now is the time to break 'em down,

let's get drunk and truck…


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

Thursday, March 7, 2024

"Sawdust and Cigarette Butts"





Suddenly a man was standing in the space just outside the space between their barstools.


"Hello," he said.


Milford removed his hand from Miss Alcott's, and she removed her hand from his thigh.


"I hate to interrupt," said the man.


"Then don't do it," said Miss Alcott.


"Ha ha, you slay me, Lou."


"I just might do it in the literal sense, and very soon."


"Heh heh, as risible as ever, but I just wanted to come over and say hello to the young gentleman."


"Then pray do so," said Miss Alcott. "And then begone."


"My name is Hawthorne," said the man, quickly, "Nathaniel Hawthorne." When Milford said nothing in reply the man continued. "Perhaps you've heard of me." He was dressed in an old-fashioned and old brown serge three-piece suit, and he had long grey hair falling on either side of his balding head. Under his nose was a thick moustache with what looked like pretzel crumbs in it. "But my friends call me Nat, as I hope you will too."


"Just call him Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott to Milford. "No one calls him Nat."


"Ha ha again," said the man. "Slaying, Lou, absolutely slaying, as always. And you, sir," he said cocking his head toward Milford, "if I am not very much mistaken, are none other than Mr. Marion Milford."


"Yes," said Milford.


"May I shake your hand, sir?"


"If you insist," said Milford.


"I do not insist, as that would be rude, but I ask you most humbly to shake my own modest hand."


"You're not one of these guys who tries to crush another man's hand in his, just to prove that he is not homosexual, are you?"


"Oh, far from it, dear sir! My hand could hardly crush a soap bubble!"


"Okay, then," said Milford, and he extended his hand, which the man took in his own. It felt cold, papery, but still somehow fleshy, and weak, like a recently deceased reptile of some sort. The man gave a limp shake, and Milford withdrew his hand at once.


"I have heard about you, sir," said the man.


"That surprises me," said Milford. 


"But why should it surprise you?"


"Because I am nobody," said Milford.


"Oh, no, sir!"


"A nonentity's nonentity," said Milford. "My own mother

despises me as a waster and a fool. And when I get up to talk at my Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, even the most fervent reformed drunks fall asleep."


"But you are nonetheless a hero of your time, sir! Everyone has heard the legend of Milford! Why, just as Melville's Bartleby was the avatar of the mid-19th century man, so also are you, sir, the ultimate paragon of the lost and vacant man of today, the man who is without purpose or meaning, without religion or philosophy, without joy or love, in a universe that doesn't care, in short, the exemplary man in a world without exemplars. And, now, now, here you are, in person!"


"So?"


"I am all athrill, sir!"


"Look, Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott, "ask for his autograph and leave us, will you? Milford doesn't want to hear your sycophantic groveling."


"I would love to ask for Mr. Milford's autograph, Miss Lou," said the man. "But I would also like to ask him if I may be his chronicler."


"My what?" said Milford.


"I should like to tell your story, Mr. Milford, sir. And, I know, you would probably be disgusted at the idea of your name being used in a work of soi-disant literature, but I could change it if you wish. It would be an easy matter. The title I have in mind is (pace my friend Mr. Poe) The Fall of the House of Milford. But I could call it something else, like, I don't know, The Fall of the House of Dumford."


"No," said Milford.


"Rumford?"


"I don't think so."


"Bumford."


"The answer is no. My life is miserable enough as it is, without someone else turning it into a, a cheap paperback novel."


"It wouldn't have to be a cheap paperback. At least not on first publication."


"The man said no, Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott. "And now, you should pardon my lapse into the vernacular, kindly take a hike."


"I could cut you in on the royalties," said the man to Milford.


"No, thanks," said Milford.


"What would you say to, oh, twenty percent?"


"No."


"Twenty-five percent?"


"No."


"How about sixty-forty then? Forty percent for you, that is."


"I don't care about royalties," said Milford. "I care about preserving at least a small nugget-sized core of dignity somewhere deep within my wretched soul."


"Wow. Can I quote that? That was brilliant. I should love to spend a rich Boswellian season of afternoons in the coffee house of your choice, collecting just such choice bons mots which I could then salt-and-pepper throughout my proposed work, which I see running into three hefty volumes, published serially so as to optimize sales."


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


"What about just some several afternoons."


"No."


"Two or three?"


"No."


"Even one would be better than nothing."


"I'm pretty busy."


"Just an hour."


"No."


"Not even an hour? I could buy you lunch."


"No, thanks," said Milford.


"What about dinner then? Have you ever been to Delmonico's? I've never been there, but I'm told their Beef Wellington is to die for."


"I've never been there either," said Milford, "nor do I want to go there."


"What about Bob's Bowery Bar? They have a really good Mulligan Stew I'm told."


"No, thanks," said Milford. "I prefer to eat at automats."


"We could go to an automat."


"See here, Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott, "can't you take a hint? The man doesn't want to have lunch or dinner with you."


"He didn't say that specifically, Lou."


"Ask him."


"Sir," said the man, "would you like to have lunch or dinner with me, anywhere, at my expense?"


"No," said Milford.


"What about an old-fashioned tavern crawl?"


"All right," said Miss Alcott, "I'm through being polite. If you don't leave Mr. Milford alone I shall have no recourse but to ask Bret to forcibly remove you."


"You split an infinitive there, Lou. I thought you were better than that."


"All right, I'm calling Bret if you don't go away at once."


"I'm a better writer than Bret ever was. His work has not a tenth of the resonance of mine. It completely lacks the spiritual element."


"Very well, that's it," said Miss Alcott. She turned towards the bartender, who was shaking a cocktail halfway down the bar. "I say, Bret! Will you kindly tell Mr. Hawthorne to stop bothering us?"


"Nathaniel!" yelled the bartender, presumably named Bret. "Leave them two alone and go back to your table!"


"Oh, all right," said Hawthorne in response, and then he turned to Milford again. "Just think about what I said, please. I can give you fifty percent of the royalties, and I promise I'll use whatever pseudonym you please. What about Bumpstead?"


"Hey!" yelled Bret the bartender. "Don't make me come down there, Nathaniel!"


"Okay, I'm going, I'm going," said Hawthorne. "Here, please take my card, sir. If I'm not in, just leave a message with my landlady."


He was holding out a calling card, so, just to get rid of him, Milford took it. The card read:



Nathaniel Hawthorne


Author and Motivational Speaker


Rates Negotiable



And under that was a MacDougal Street address.


"Really, stop by any time. Day or night," said Hawthorne. "And if I'm not at home you can usually find me here. By the way, do you think I could have your autograph? I have my little morocco bound notebook in my pocket, and a pencil."


"Sorry, but if I ever give anyone my autograph, then I'll know it's time for me to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge."


"Ha ha, such rapier wit! Again, may I quote you, sir?"


"I don't give a damn."


"Then I shall." The man noticed that the bartender was staring at him, and so he said, "Okay, great meeting you, Mr. Milford. Lou, always a pleasure. And now, before Bret throws me out, and if I may paraphrase Lady MacBeth, I shall stand not upon the order of my going, but go at once."


And finally he went away.


"He's so pathetic," said Miss Alcott. "Hasn't written anything decent in almost a century, and now he wants to ride your coattails. Do yourself a favor and rip that card to shreds."


And without hesitation Milford ripped the card up into tiny pieces and let them flutter down to the sawdust and cigarette butts and other torn-up hopes and dreams on the floor.


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