“What Am I Doing Here?”

Not for the first time in his life, and it wouldn’t be the last, Milford wondered, What am I doing here?



Sitting here almost sober at this table in the San Remo Café with six drunken, jabbering and shouting fellows, including T.S. Eliot to his right, while the one guy Lucas Z. Billingsworth declaimed his extemporaneous poem, snatches of which entered Milford’s consciousness…

“They call me the big beat daddy,
and that’s what I am for real,
zipping along in a ’32 Ford
driven by my old pal Neal

while I sing sad songs of the road
and the simple wise fellaheen
and the gals in gingham dresses
just barely turned eighteen…”

Nonetheless, it seemed that Milford had at last joined a literary movement, so there was that… 



Yes, all well and good, but what about the lovely Bubbles, still sitting over there at the bar, who had tentatively agreed to relieve him of his virginity this night, and at the very reasonable price of only ten dollars, which included the cost of a French letter? Should he excuse himself to his new comrades and rejoin her, even if she didn’t want to talk to him? And what about Polly, Polly Powell, with whom he was supposed to be having dinner, but who now seemed to be happily ensconced in conversation with that weirdo Addison? What to do? As usual, Milford did nothing while trying to decide what he should do, feeling, as usual, separate from all humanity and the universe, but then a large old man was standing looming behind him, between him and Mr. Eliot.

“Hey, Eliot, I got a bone to pick with you, buddy.”

“Oh, hello, Stevens, how are you?” said Mr. Eliot, turning around in his seat to look up at the big man.

“I’m fine,” said the man. He wore a heavy tweed topcoat and a fedora. “I’m very fine. But you, my fine friend, are about to be not so fine.”


“I do beg your pardon.”

“Don’t give me that shit. Sitting here with your young epigones. I’ll bet they’re all kissing your lily-white narrow ass.”

”Hey, just wait a minute, Stevens, no need to be so hostile.”

“Oh, no? After you called my collection, and I quote, ‘the usual impenetrable sentimental twaddle we have come to expect from Stevens’?”

“Oh, that. Well, my dear fellow –”

“Don’t give me that faux-British ‘my dear fellow’ crapola, pal. You Midwesterners are all the same. As soon as you leave the corn fields and go to Harvard you start to talk like Ronald Colman.”

“I assure you I have never been in a corn field in my life.”

“I’m gonna fuck you up, Eliot. And all your little boyfriends here are not gonna stop me.”

“Now, look, Stevens, can’t we be civilized?”

“Fuck you. I’m going over to the bar for a Rob Roy. In five minutes I want you to meet me outside on Bleecker, and we’ll settle this like men. If you’re not outside in five minutes I’m gonna come over here and drag you out to the street by your Savile Row rep necktie. Later, dipshit.”

And with that the large old man lumbered away.

No one else at the table seemed to have noticed the exchange. Lucas was still spouting his extemporaneous poem, and the other fellows were all babbling obliviously away at each other.

Mr. Eliot and Milford both watched as the large man shoved himself into a place at the crowded bar. Mr. Eliot lifted his martini and took a sip.

“Wow,” said Milford. “Who was that, Mr. Eliot?”

“Stevens. Wallace Stevens. I gave one of his books a pan in Criterion about twenty years ago, and it seems he’s still a bit cheesed off about it.”

“Gee, what are you going to do?”

Mr. Eliot put down his drink and leaned toward Milford.



“Listen, I want you to do me a favor, Melville.” Again Milford decided not to correct Mr. Eliot. What did it matter what he called him? “A small favor, but I should be ever so grateful.” 



“What is it, Mr. Eliot?”

“Tom.”

“What is it, Tom?”

“I want you to deal with him, Melville.”

“With Wallace Stevens?”

“Yes.”

“What do mean?”

“Go over to the bar and try to mollify him. Offer him the proverbial olive branch on my behalf. Tell him I’ll publish a belated retraction to my review.”

“Will you?”

“Of course not, but just tell him that.”

“What if he doesn’t accept the, uh, olive branch?”

“Then, you know, deal with him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Step outside with him if you have to.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He’s old and in bad condition, whereas you are young and vital. Give him a good thrashing. Nothing too serious, but give him the old one-two to the breadbasket, that should put him down. He’s got the reach, so what you should do is go inside and work on the midsection, and, as you saw, he’s got a lot of midsection. You can’t miss. Just put him down on the pavement, and then come back inside. He’ll behave after he gets his wind back.”

“Wait a minute, you want me to beat up Wallace Stevens?”

“You don’t have to knock him out or put him in the hospital. Just take the wind out of his sails.”

“Mr. Eliot –”

“Tom.”

“Tom, I have never been in a fight in my life.”

“There’s a first time for everything, my boy.”

“But he’s enormous. I am not a strong person, Mr. Eliot –”

“Tom.”

“I am not a strong or athletic person, Tom. I’ve avoided strenuous exercise my entire life, and also he has about a hundred pounds and eight inches in height on me.”

“This is all to your advantage. You are small but lithe, like a monkey, and you can duck under his wild roundhouse haymakers and plant those little fists of yours right into his fat gut.”

“But besides being small I am weak.”

“You don’t need strength or size to be a good fighter. Think of David and Goliath. Just move in quickly and try to land a shot to the solar plexus, if you can find it under those rolls of blubber on the fellow.”

“Really, Mr. Eliot –”

“Tom.”

“Really, Tom –”

“Listen, Melville, you do realize I am an editor at a prestigious publishing firm, do you not?”

“Um, yeah, I think I heard that.”

“Deal with Stevens for me and I’ll have my firm publish you.”

“You will?”

“Yes. I mean, if your stuff is at all good. Is it good?”

“I’m not sure –”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I actually brought the opening section of a long poem with me tonight. It’s still sitting on the bar, because I gave it to this young lady to read –”

“Fine. Give me the poem, and if it’s any good, I’ll give you a contract. Now look, the five minutes are almost up, so before that brute comes back here and makes a scene, get up and go over there to him and try to, you know, smooth things over.”

“Well –”

“Go on, Melville. As you young fellows say, ‘Do a brother a solid.’”

“Um –”

“Hurry.”

“Well, okay.”

Milford stood up. Mr. Eliot put his hand on his arm.

“Oh, and Melville –”

“Yes?”

“Remember, if it comes to fisticuffs, and I pray it doesn’t, take note. Go inside. Keep your head down and pummel that breadbasket, short quick jabs, left-right, left-right. I guarantee he’ll go down like a ton of bricks.”

“Well, I’m going to try to avoid fisticuffs, Mr. Eliot.”

“Tom.”

“I’m going to try to mollify him, Tom.”

“Good,” said Mr. Eliot. “But if – and I say if, mind you – if it comes to a barney, remember, he’s got the reach, and the heighth, and the weight, and also the strength advantage, so slip inside and work that midsection.”

“Okay, but –”

“And when he goes down, just don’t let him fall on you, or else you’ll be the one going to hospital. Now go. And godspeed and good luck.”

Milford didn’t feel good about it, but the prospect of being published (and with none other than T.S. Eliot as his editor!) gave him, if not courage, then determination, and off he headed on rubbery legs toward the bar where the large old poet stood glowering, Rob Roy in hand.

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