"Jimmy Crack Corn"

"I must say you intrigue me, Milford," said Miss Alcott. "Please do tell me of your hopes, and dreams."

"I will, if you insist," said Milford, "but here's the thing."

"Yes, darling boy, what is 'the thing'?"

"I don't quite know how to say this."

What he didn't know how to say was that her gentle hand on his thigh was causing what the popular authors called "his manhood" to grow, once again, and that if it continued to grow he might find it difficult to speak at all with any semblance of intelligence.

"Just blurt it out, lad," said Miss Alcott. "No one ever got anywhere by beating about the bush."

Ha ha, she said "bush", said that now-familiar voice in his head.

"I told you to go away!" blurted Milford.

"Excuse me?" said Miss Alcott.

"I didn't mean you, Miss Alcott," said Milford.

"Oh, I get it, it's that voice in your head again, isn't it?"

"Yes, damn him. Pardon my language."

"You are pardoned. What did he say?"

Don't tell her, whatever you do, said Milford's alter ego, "Stoney".

"I would prefer not to," said Milford. "It was very crude, and childish."

"You do realize," said Miss Alcott, "that this 'voice' is a part of you."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"A part of you that has risen from the murky depths of your mind, conjured forth undoubtedly by the sacred mushrooms of the Indians which you have ingested."

"Yes, I guess you're right."

"So, try to ignore him."

"I'm trying, but he keeps piping in, or up."

"Would you mind if I spoke to him?"

"Um, I don't know –"

"What did you say his name was? Punchy?"

"Stoney, actually."

"Very well, I shall address him now. Hello, Stoney, can you hear me in there?"

"Should I allow him to speak?" said Milford.

"Yes, please do," said Miss Alcott. "Hello, Stoney, may I speak with you?"

"Sure thing," said Stoney, through Milford's lips. Unlike Milford's nasal and weak voice, Stoney's voice was crisp and strong. "What's up, Miss Alcott?"

"Please, do call me 'Lou', Stoney. It's what all my friends call me, and I should like it if we could be friends."

"'Lou' it is then, Lou."

"Good, now, I wonder, Stoney, and I hope you won't take this as a slight, but I wonder if you would be so kind as to slip into abeyance for a time, whilst Milford and I attempt to have a civilized conversation."

"Hey, look, Lou, I'm only trying to help the guy," said Stoney.

"And I believe that you believe that," said Miss Alcott, "but still it's rather hard for us to converse if you keep butting in."

"Oh. Okay. Wow."

"And so I ask you to step offstage as it were, so that Milford and I may have at least a semblance of a normal colloquy."

"You'd be better off conversing with me, Miss Alcott. Because, just between you and me and the rest of the known and unknown universe, Milford don't exactly bring a whole lot to the party, if you know what I mean."

"I find him charming."

"Hey, try living in his brain for almost a quarter of a century, and then you'll see how charming he is."

"I will take my chances, dear sir."

"Do you know he masturbates nightly to fin-de-siècle French postcards he inherited from his besotted father?"

"How could I possibly know that?"

"Do you know he has no real friends?"

"Define 'real friends'."

"Do you know he writes laughably bad poetry?"

"I think he did mention that."

"He's a drip."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"You should find yourself a real man."

"I like him, real man or not."

"He's going to disappoint you."

"Like any woman, nay, like any human being regardless of gender, I am used to disappointment, and I am willing to take my chances."

"Y'know, Miss Alcott," said Stoney, "I'm starting to like you."

"And I, in a sense, like you, Stoney."

"Aw, gee."

"And now would you do me the favor of leaving Milford and myself alone for a while?"

"Well –"

"Please, Stoney."

"How long is a while?"

"Would an hour – perhaps two – be asking too much?"

"Well, okay, I guess I could do that."

"It would be most appreciated, Stoney."

"For you I will, Lou," said Stoney. "Not so much for Milford, but for you. On account of I like you."

"All right, thank you, Stoney," said Miss Alcott.

"I'll run along then. But before I go, can I just say something to Milford?"

"By all means," said Miss Alcott.

"Okay," said Stoney. "Listen, Milford, I'm gonna make like a breeze and blow now, but, look, this Miss Alcott is really nice. Like I said, I like her. And I believe you do too, as much as you're capable of liking anybody. So, and, believe me, I know this is asking a lot, but just try not to blow it, all right? Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes?" said Milford, in his own voice.

"If you get her in the sack, and if you find yourself shall we say faltering, call me, and I'll help you out. Give you a little pep talk. Okay?"

"Please go away now," said Milford.

"Okay, I'm going," said Stoney. "Really nice talking to you, Miss Alcott."

"Lou," said Miss Alcott.

"Nice talking to you, Lou," said Stoney. "And, please, be gentle with this guy, and not too demanding. He's a virgin you know. So you might have to guide him along, show him the ropes."

"Thank you, Stoney. I will try to be considerate."

"Right, I'm going to turn the microphone over to Milford now. Nice chatting with you, Lou, and if I don't catch you round, I'll catch you square."

Miss Alcott paused for a moment, looking into Milford's eyes behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

"Is he gone now?" she asked.

"Yes," said Milford. "I think so. And I want to apologize for all that."

"No need to, dear boy."

"I'm so embarrassed."

"Think nothing of it. We are not responsible for the voices that inhabit our inner beings. Would you care for another sarsaparilla?"

Milford realized his glass was empty.

"Well, if we're staying, yes, I suppose so," said Milford.

"I think I would like another Amontillado, actually," said Miss Alcott. "And look, the band has started up!"

Across the room a small string band composed of men in blackface had started singing and playing a song.

'Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care…'

Sometime during the previous conversation, Miss Alcott had removed her hand from Milford's thigh, and his incipient erection had subsided, but now, as he gazed at her womanly form turned to look at the band, he felt the downward flowing of his blood once again. 

Relax, pal, said Stoney, just let it happen. Nothing more natural in the world.

"Jimmy crack corn, and I don't care," sang the singer,

my master's gone away…"

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