"All He Had"

That thing happened that so often happened when Milford was in the company of more than one other person, that thing which happened only slightly less often when he was with one other person, in other words the words of the other person or persons became only a distant unintelligible murmuring like the sound of the ocean when you're three blocks from the beach while his tender brain followed its own winding path to nowhere.

The three women were talking, their lips were moving, but what were they saying? Who knew? Who cared? 

Look, said the voice in his brain, the voice of his alter ego, "Stoney", sure, these are famous women, brilliant women, especially Emily Dickinson, even if her poetry never did appeal to you, and, let's face it, you've never even read a word that Louisa May Alcott or Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote –

"I saw the movie of Little Women," said Milford to the voice, "the one with Katharine Hepburn, although I didn't see that more recent one –"

The one with June Allyson, said Stoney.

"Yeah, I didn't see that one. Was it any good?"

How should I know? said Stoney. I'm you, remember? Which means I didn't see it either.

"Oh, right," said Milford.

But, as I was saying, said Stoney, sure, these are famous and accomplished women, but, look, they're still women, and, let's face it, when they're with other women they're going to talk about "women" stuff, so why pay attention?

"Your point is well taken," said Milford, "but let's not forget that I find 'man talk' just as boring as 'women's talk', if not infinitely more so."

And now to you I must say, "Point taken," said Stoney. Let's face it, people are boring no matter what their gender.

"As am I," said Milford. "Let's be fair."

That goes without saying, my friend, said Stoney. After all, are you not a member of that benighted tribe we call "people"?

"Yes, nominally," said Milford.

So, relax, said Stoney. Accept the situation for what it is. They'll stop talking eventually, and then, and then –

"Then what?" said Milford.

Then, maybe, the other two will go away, and you and Miss Alcott will be alone again, and then, after some more more-or-less meaningless chitchat, perhaps – "perhaps" I say! – she will take you someplace –

"Where?" asked Milford.

How should I know where? said Stoney. But someplace. She must live somewhere, right?

"So one would think. But then she is, what did she say, one of the 'immortals'. Do immortals have places where they live? Maybe she lives here, in this bar?"

That would be really weird, said Stoney.

"Any more weird than what is already transpiring, than what has been transpiring these past several hours? Or, come to think of it, any more weird than what has transpired every second of my life ever since I was yanked, unwilling and screaming, from my mother's womb?"

Okay, I catch your drift, but let's assume – just for the sake of trying to avoid total despair – let us assume that Miss Alcott does have somewhere that she lives, and then, let us hope if not assume that if you play your cards right – "if" I say – it is within the realm of possibility that she might – "might" I say – take you to this place, and then, at long last, you might finally know what it is to make love with a woman.

"I only hope I am able to perform."

Well, I hope so too. But, hey, remember that terrific erection you had not so long ago?

"Oh, right," said Milford, "how could I ever forget? I felt as if my entire body had become an erect penis!"

Well, that was the mushrooms, but, look, the thing was, you did have an erection, and quite an impressive one, so what you want to do is to get alone with Miss Alcott, hope the erection returns, and then, you know –

"Okay, no need to spell it out. I have seen pornographic French postcards, you know."

Of course I know. So just do what they do in those postcards. How difficult can that be?

"In theory, not too difficult. But, remember, we're talking about me here. I'm the guy who has difficulty getting out of bed on my best days."

Getting out of bed is overrated. You've done some of your best thinking lying in bed.

"This is true, but you can't just lie in bed all your life."

Says who?

"Um," said Milford, and he wondered whose side his alter ego was on.

I heard that, said Stoney, and I assure you I am on your side. Remember, I am you. Or at least a far less drippy version of you.

"Okay," said Milford. "I meant no offense."

But, look, said Stoney, we're getting off the subject. What you have to do is to keep your eye on the goal. Which is to lose your virginity.

"But is it even worth it?"

There's no way of knowing that, my friend.

"Yes, I suppose you're right."

I know I'm right, said Stoney. Now listen, Miss Dickinson and Mrs. Stowe look like they're getting ready to take off finally, so try to pay attention.

"All right, I'll try," said Milford.

"It was so nice to meet you," said Emily Dickinson to Milford, and she offered her hand.

"Oh, you too, Miss, uh –"

"Emily, please."

"You too, Emily," said Milford, shaking her hand, or her fingers, since she had presented them in that horizontal way old-fashioned women did.

"Be nice to Lou," said Harriet Beecher Stowe, also offering her ladylike hand.

"I'll try," said Milford, dropping Emily's hand and taking Harriet's.

"Ta for now," said Harriet, "we're going to grab a table near the bandstand."

"Do please join us if you wish," said Emily. "There is a crackerjack ensemble performing here tonight!"

"Well, maybe," said Milford.

"Do you favor minstrel music, Mr. Milford?"

"I don't know if I've ever heard it," said Milford.

"It's Negro music, but played by white fellows wearing charcoal on their faces."

"Oh, well, uh –"

"Have a good time, Emily," said Lou. "You too, Harriet."

"Please join us, Lou," said Emily. "We can dance the Black Bottom!"

"All right, Miss Emily," said Harriet, "learn to take a hint. Come on." And she took Emily's arm.

"What do you mean, 'take a hint'?" said Miss Emily.

"I'll explain in due course," said Harriet. "Now let's go grab that table before the band comes on."

And off they went, Harriet pulling Emily by the arm.

"You were very patient," said Miss Alcott to Milford.

"I was?"

"Listening so politely to their chatter. It was very gentlemanly of you."

Don't tell her you weren't listening to a word they said, said Stoney.

"I didn't mind," said Milford.

Miss Alcott put her hand, again, on his thigh.

Okay, here we go, said Stoney.

"You can go away now," said Milford, and he felt a stirring down below.

"Pardon me?" said Miss Alcott.

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

"Were you talking to the voice in your head?"

"Yes."

"And so you have dismissed him?"

"I hope so," said Milford.

I'm still here, said the voice in Milford's head, but he chose to ignore it, or at least to try to ignore it, at least for the time being, as Miss Alcott's delicate but strong fingers caressed his thigh, and he felt his sluggish blood flowing down to what served as the physical representation of his manhood, such as it was, which might not be much, but it was all he had.

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