"Get Plastered"

 

 

"I'm sorry," said Milford, after a resonant pause, "I was addressing the voice in my head again."

"I surmised as much," said Miss Blackbourne. "And do please tell me about this 'voice' in your head."

"It's apparently my alter ego," said Milford. "His name is Stoney, and he is what I would or could be were I not who and what I actually am."

"An idealized version of yourself then."

"Yes. I first started hearing his voice about an hour or so ago, although it feels closer to six months. And then a short time later, although it felt like a long time, I was wandering through these endless corridors wondering which way to go, and he appeared to me in the flesh."

"Indeed? And what did he look like?"

"He looked just like me, a slight young man in a peacoat and newsboy’s cap, with thick round glasses, and smoking a cigarette, but he was me without all my boring faults and personality traits. He was me if I were not a twerp."

"The better part of you, shall we say?"

"Yes. He was standing right before me. But right now he is only in my head."

The lady took a drag of her cigarette (the sort of drag the writers of the trashy novels Milford surreptitiously read called "a contemplative drag") and then exhaled an enormous cloud of smoke which blended seamlessly into the greater cloud of smoke in which they sat.

"I hope you won't take this the wrong way," she then said, "but has it occurred to you that you may very well be in the midst of what the headshrinkers call a psychotic episode?"

"Well, okay, but here's the thing."

"Oh, there's a thing."

"Yes, you see, earlier this evening I foolishly ate a handful of these mushrooms –"

"Ah, the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians?"

"Yes."

"I see. And so then could it not be that this alter ego of yours, this – what was his name?"

"Stoney."

"Stoney."

"Yes, he said his name was Stoney."

"Could it not then be that this 'Stoney' is perhaps – perhaps I say – an hallucination brought on by the mushrooms?"

"Well, maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yes, I say maybe because maybe he was always there, inside me, but it took the mushrooms for me to be able to see him, to hear him –"

"To converse with him."

"Yes," said Milford.

"And even to appear to you in person?"

"Well, uh, I know it's a little hard to believe, but –"

"And is he in there right now, in your head?"

"I believe so, yes."

"May I speak to him?"

Go ahead, Milford, said Stoney's voice in Milford's head. Let me talk to her.

"Well, maybe just briefly," said Milford.

"Hello," said Stoney, through Milford's voice.

"Is this Stoney speaking?" said the lady.

"Yes, it's me," said Stoney, in his strong and confident voice. "Very pleased to meet you. Margaret, isn't it?"

"Yes. Margaret Blackbourne. How are you, Stoney?"

"I'd be better if I wasn't trapped in the carcass of this idiot, I'll tell you that much."

"Well, at least you have a sense of humor about it," she said.

"Believe me, lady, being the alter ego of this guy, you have to have a sense of humor."

"Ha ha. This is weird. And I am used to weird, but I must say this is the first time I've ever spoken to someone's alter ego."

"Well, this is the first time I've ever spoken to another human being besides Milford, so it's weird for me, too."

"You don't sound too nonplussed about it."

"Look, Margaret, I take things as they come. Because this is the way to live, just striding manfully through life, living every second to the hilt and knocking out splendid poems when I'm in the mood, and then when I die, I can say, 'I have lived my life in full. Whatever happens now, be it nothingness or heaven or hell or reincarnation as a toad or a lion, bring it on, I have no regrets.'"

"What a delightful philosophy."

"I like to think so. Get it while you can, that's my motto. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. And, please pardon my language, but, fuck 'em all if they can't take a joke."

"Brilliant. I wonder if I may speak to Milburn again now?"

"Milford? Sure. Nice speaking with you, Margaret."

"Likewise, Stoney."

"And, listen, Margaret, don't be too hard on Milford. I know he's a jerk, but he doesn't mean any harm."

"I will bear that in mind. Goodbye, Stoney."

"Not goodbye, but shall we say au revoir?"

"Yes, of course, au revoir, Stoney."

"Till we meet again," said Stoney.

The lady paused, smoking her black cigarette.

"Is he gone?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Did you hear all that?"

"Yes."

"Good God."

"I know."

"This Stoney's rather full of himself, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"I hope you won't be offended if I say I prefer you to your drugs-induced subconscious alter ego."

"No." 

Boy, that hurts, said Stoney, in Milford's tortured brain. 

"Go away now, please," said Milford.

"What?" said the lady.

"I was speaking to him," said Milford. "To Stoney."

"Oh, good," she said. "But I shouldn't worry. He'll probably disappear for good once those mushrooms wear off."

"I hope so," said Milford. "It's bad enough having one personality, let alone two."

"You don't happen to have any more of those mushrooms on you, do you?"

"No, sorry."

"Quel dommage. As my good friend Charles Baudelaire put it, and I shall translate liberally, 'One must always get plastered. On wine, on poetry, on virtue, your choice.' To which I would add the sacred mushrooms of the noble red man. And woman. Drink up, Mordred."

Milford lifted his highball and drank, and sighed.

"Do you always sigh so much?"

"Yes," said Milford. "I wake up sighing, and go to sleep sighing, and in between I sigh, frequently."

"It could be worse," said the lady. "You could be one of these other losers in this joint. And at least you're young, for the moment. Once you hit thirty the downward slide begins."

"I feel that for me the downward slide began at birth."

"Ha ha. I almost regret that your corporeal being is so unimpressive."

"So do I, and there's no 'almost' to qualify my regret."

"Have you considered a course of physical self-improvement. The vigorous lifting of dumbbells, long swims in the ocean?"

"No, I generally detest any form of physical exertion, and the only reason I would jump into the ocean would be to attempt to drown myself. But there's no fear of my doing that, because as well as being a bad poet, and a lazy idle loafer, I am also a coward."

"Ha ha. You amuse me. I've met all kinds of lost poets in my time, and I admit I've even had carnal and sometimes even emotional relations with some several, but you, Malone, are the first time I've ever met a modest lost poet."

"I have nothing not to be modest about."

"Read some more of Theodore's poem."

"Okay."

Milford picked up the sheet of paper, found his place, and began to read aloud again.

And if you should kick me in my manly sac

and then strike me on the head with your purse,

I should not cry alas, nay, nor alack,

because to be ignored would be far worse.

Yes, I should fall to my knees, and worship,

even if you should grind your high heel (again)

into the back of my neck, its stiletto tip

causing me such sweet glorious pain.

Oh, Margaret, wilt thou not bless me

with a curse from your scarlet tongue

wilt thou not with disdain address me

as swine, as dog, as beetle dung? 

Milford laid down the sheet of paper.

"Can't take any more, Morton?" said the lady.

"I'll say this," said Milford. "It's nice to know there are possibly worse poets than myself."

"There are always worse poets, Muldoon," said the lady, dare he address her as Margaret?

"By the way," he said, "I know it doesn't really matter, but my name is actually Milford"

"Milford?"

"Yes."

"I beg your pardon. I thought it was Murgatroyd or something like that. Milborn, you say?"

"Milford."

"Milford."

"Yes."

"Very well, I shall call you Milford then."

Ask her if you can call her Margaret, said the voice in Milford's head.

"May I call you Margaret?" asked Milford.

She paused. 

"It may be too soon," she said.

"I understand," he said.

"I have always regretted allowing men even the slightest leeway."

"I don't blame you."

"You may call me Miss Blackbourne, at least for the nonce."

"Of course," said Milford.

"Better not to rush into intimacy."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Okay, Miss Blackbourne?"

"That's better. And I shall call you, what was it, Mifford?"

"Milford."

"I shall call you Milford."

Baby steps, said the voice of Milford's alter ego Stoney, who was still there, lurking behind the scenes in his brain. You're taking baby steps for now. But maybe someday you will walk proudly, like a man.

Milford was on the verge of responding to this last remark of his alter ego's, but he remembered that Miss Blackbourne was sitting right there across the table from him, from him and from Stoney both, and so he held his peace.

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