"King Snake Moan"

 

 

Milford drew deeply once again on the fat brown hand-rolled cigarette, breathing in its mysteries, its promises, and its secrets.

The combo continued to play, and a man's thick voice carried over the music and with the music, singing strange words that meant nothing and everything.

Here come the big king snake,

don't you hear him moanin'?

Here come my little gal,

Don't you hear her groanin'?

Come gather round this old camp fire,

come gather round and hear the tale.

Don't deny my name nor my desire,

don't you hear that night wind wail?

"Miss Alcott?" said Milford.

"Yes, dear boy?"

"I have decided that my entire life has been without meaning or purpose."

"Yes, and?"

"Well," said Milford. "That's all, I guess. I wonder, would it be best for me to make my way to the Brooklyn Bridge, way out to the middle of it, and then throw myself off?"

"How would I know?" said Miss Alcott. 

"But you are wise."

"I'm not that wise. Drink your sweet tea."

Milford looked down at the tall glass sitting on the bar, russet in color and beaded from the sparkling ice inside it.

"I'm afraid," he said.

"Of what? Of having an original thought?"

"I'm afraid if I drink the tea I will have to go to the men's room again."

"If you drink it I'm sure you will have to go to the men's room. In fact," she said, "even if you don't drink it you will in due course have to go to the men's room. Or perhaps to an alleyway. I'm told that men are particularly fond of making water in alleyways."

"There is something to be said for it," said Milford. "In fact there's much to be said for it."

"Expand upon your thesis, please."

"In an alleyway there is a much lesser chance that someone will try to talk to you."

"And is it so horrifying to be talked to in a men's room? I speak from a position of total ignorance you understand, never having been in one myself."

"I met Mr. Whitman in a men's room," said Milford, not exactly answering her question.

"Oh, dear," said Miss Alcott, "that must have been, if not horrifying, then, shall I say, disturbing?"

"It was," said Milford. "But it seems I can't go into any men's room without being spoken to by strangers."

"And is it always so 'disturbing'?"

Milford cast his memory back, through a thousand bars and even further back to the dreaded rest rooms at Princeton, at Andover, and even in grade school at Friends Seminary.

"Yes," he said, "it is always and invariably disturbing."

Miss Alcott took a drag of her Lucky Strike, slowly allowed the smoke to escape from her parted red lips, and then she said, "I'll tell you what's disturbing. What's disturbing is a young man who is afraid to drink his sweet tea because he doesn't want to use a public rest room. Are you going to live your entire life in fear?"

"She's got a point, Milford," said that voice in Milford's head. "Are you going to be a man, at long last? Or are you going to be a coward all your life?"

Before he could stop himself, Milford lifted the glass up, removed the straw, placed the straw on the bar top, then lifted the glass to his lips, gulping the tea. He paused halfway, then drank again. Then he shook the ice in the glass and took one more rattling drink, and laid the glass down.

"Bravo, Milford!" said Miss Alcott, smiling. "Let no one henceforth say that you are too afraid to drink a glass of sweet tea!"

"I owe it all to you, Miss Alcott," said Milford, "And to me," added the voice in his head, called Stoney.

"How do you feel now?" said Miss Alcott.

"I feel – and it might be because of this 'cigarette' I've been smoking," said Milford, "and also the delicious sweet tea – but I feel like a new man."

"How is – please pardon the personal question," said Miss Alcott, "but how is your erection?"

Milford gazed down toward his inguinal area.

"Oh," he said. "It seems to have subsided."

"Splendid," she said. "That means we can dance."

"Dance?"

"You heard me."

"But I don't dance."

"Perhaps not yet you don't. Look at those happy people."

She gestured towards the small area in front of the combo, which was filled with dark-skinned people cavorting.

"I don't know how to dance like that," said Milford.

"Then you will learn."

She stubbed out her Lucky Strike. 

"Um," said Milford.

She slipped off her bar stool, then picked up what was left of her glass of sherry and downed it.

"Come on," she said. "You're only young once."

Milford shifted his narrow hindquarters off of his seat.

"There's my boy," said Stoney, in the dark undiscovered caverns of his skull. "You can do this."

For a fraction of a second Milford wondered if he should leave his cigarette in the ashtray where Miss Alcott had stubbed out her Lucky Strike, but he decided to take it with him.

Miss Alcott took his arm and looked into his eyes with her marbled brown eyes.

"Let us," she said, "trip the light fantastic."

"Yes," said Milford. "Let's."

And arm in arm they made their way toward the small dance floor filled with dancing dark-skinned people, the women in brightly colored dresses, many of the men wearing zoot suits and long golden watch chains.

The man at the microphone sang.

Shake it up and shake it on down,

kick that can all the way uptown,

come on, pretty baby now, come on

we gonna boogie till the break of dawn…

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq. And we wish a happy Thanksgiving to all our beloved readers…}

"Home"

 

{Herewith our Fifth Anniversary episode of this weekly series. Please enjoy responsibly…}

Through the thick falling snow Addison trudged, not without difficulty, so deep was the fallen snow on the sidewalk. It was a shame he was not wearing stout knee-high Wellington boots such as his mother had outfitted him with as a child, no, alas, all he wore were the same old brogans he had acquired when he first went to work at the parachute factory during the war, in lieu of military service because of his flat feet, knock knees, and heart murmur, and, to boot, what the Selective Service doctor had called his "psychological fragility". 

No matter, soon he would be in his favorite place, that place called "bar". And with a whole ten dollars to spend! It was good of his "friend" Milford to have given him the money, even if Addison had failed to use it for its intended purpose, i.e., to disencumber himself of the burden of his virginity. 

But hadn't Bubbles been willing to relieve him of that burden? It wasn't her fault, poor girl, that she had fallen asleep. She had doubtless had a long day, and a long night, and many drinks after all. Of course Addison also had had many drinks, but he was a man, hang it all, yes, despite all his faults, he was still a man, and even if he had flat feet and knock knees and whatever "psychological fragility" was, oh, and a murmuring heart, that proud heart which had not failed him yet, despite all the drinks and cigarettes and poor diet and lack of healthful exercise, no, someday of course it would fail him, and probably the way he was going sooner than later, but as of this moment he was alive, hang and damn it all, breathing in the wet freezing air through his dribbling nose and panting mouth, the fat snowflakes striking his face and wetting his lips, and, after consideration, wasn't Bubbles's intention to make the beast with two backs with him almost as good as what the reality of it might have been? And what if he had lost his tumescence before he could complete the act? How embarrassing might that have been! And would Bubbles still have charged him the full ten, or would she have let it go, or at least given him a discount? 

No matter again, that was all in the distant past of possible pasts, and now was the eternal now, trudging along through the snow both falling and fallen, and now, what was this?

Addison ceased his trudging, brought to a standstill by a throbbing reddish electric sign to his left, a sign that glowed the one sacred word 

RHEINGOLD

What was this?

It was that most joyful of undiscovered worlds, that world most brimming with promise, in short a bar he had never (at least that he could remember) gone into before.

How had he gotten here, to the verge of this potentially brave new world?

He turned around, to his right, and looked across the street, and there, through the unrelenting falling snow, he saw that other beckoning neon sign, in large vertical letters

B

A

R

That sacred sign of the Kettle of Fish! And, turning ninety degrees farther to the right, he saw that other holy electric sign, that of the 

S

A

N

R

E

M

O

CAFE

He completed his turn full circle and gazed again at the Rheingold sign. It stood in a snow-crusted glass-brick window to the right of a doorway down four or five steps in a dim areaway, the light of the sign tinging pink the sloped smooth snow that covered the steps and the paving below. 

What strange mysterious bar was this, hidden away below ground on MacDougal Street? A bar with no name, unless of course its name was "Rheingold", which Addison somehow doubted. No, this was that special sort of bar, the sort of bar that didn't need anything so vulgar as a sign bearing its name. No, this was one of those bars known only to those who knew, the few, and like the U.S. Marines, the proud. 

He remembered now seeing this selfsame Rheingold sign from across the street, when he and Bubbles had emerged from the Kettle of Fish not twenty minutes ago (although, in a sense, it felt like twenty years ago). Why had he never noticed this sign, this place before? Had it even existed before this night? So many hundreds, nay, thousands of bars had he gone into in his life, how had this one escaped him? 

Well, hang it, damn it, and, yes, blast it all, this mystery-bar wouldn't escape him now!

There was a snow-ridged handrail going downwards into the areaway, and Addison used it with his ungloved hand, gripping it tight as he went slowly down the steps, invisible under their hillock of snow. He stumbled once, then twice, but managed not to fall, and in less than a minute he stood before the door, of old-looking raw wood, and he put his hand on the curved iron handle and depressed its thumb-catch, and, yes, the door opened, and from inside burst that most beautiful world of all worlds: bar world, with dim lights and thick smoke, and laughing and shouting people, and the music of a jukebox.

Inside Addison stood, gathering his bearings.

A fat bald man in an old-fashioned tweed suit with a stiff-collared shirt stood up from a stool at the end of the bar on the right, and approached, a cigar in hand.

"I say, young fellow, how about closing that door behind you, unless, and in which case I retroactively forgive you, you were brought up in a barn."

"Oh, sorry," said Addison, and he turned and pulled the door shut.

"Perhaps you assumed," said the fat man, "that our door was equipped with one of those modern pneumatic door-closing devices."

"No," said Addison, "I assumed nothing. I merely was too awe-stricken to notice that the door was still open."

"Awe-stricken?" said the fat man. "By our humble caravansary?"

"Yes, sir," said Addison, "because something tells me, something deep in my soul –"

"Ah!" said the man. "So you believe in the soul, do you? A traditionalist!"

"Yes, sir," said Addison, "I do, and I am. But, as I was saying, something deep in my soul tells me that this bar, of all bars, in this or any other possible universe, is the most special bar of all."

"I like the cut of your jib, my lad," said the man. "However, this establishment is a private one."

"Oh," said Addison. "Just my luck. Well, no matter, I should have known better. I guess I'll just have to go back across the street, to the Kettle of Fish, that's not such a bad place –"

"If I may interrupt," said the man, "I said private, but not exclusive. You may indeed still perhaps enjoy our hospitality, with all the privileges incumbent thereunto –"

"If it's a question of money, I have in my possession a ten-dollar bill, but –"

"Please, sir, let us not speak of such base matters as money. We have members who are millionaires, and others who have rarely a penny in their purses, nor a pot to piss in; no, it is not through filthy lucre that one becomes a member of our society, but through nobility of the spirit, of the soul, as soi-disant traditionalists such as yourself would call that invisible je ne sais quoi which distinguishes man from beast."

"If I may venture, sir, I have always tried to behave as befits the noble of soul."

"I'm glad to hear it, m'boy, however it is I who will be the judge of the quantity and, more important, the quality of any nobility you might possess. And, so, to the point, a few questions. Are you an artist, sir, no matter be it in the realms of letters or oils or granite, or in any of the performing arts?"

"I am a novelist," said Addison.

"Published?"

"Not yet. You see, I am still in the beginning stages of what I hope to be my magnum opus, a saga of the Old West, which I am calling Six Guns to El Paso."

"Hmm, sounds delightful," said the man. "But, please tell me, what are the themes of this proposed masterpiece."

"The futility of all human endeavor is my primary theme," said Addison, "but I hope also to delve deeply into those of the hopelessness of human life, the impossibility of understanding existence, and the fear of oblivion. I should like also to touch on the topic of human love, both platonic and, shall we say, concupiscent."

"Good answer," said the man. "One more question: what do you most love to do in this life."

"To sit or stand at a bar," said Addison, without hesitation, "drinking alcoholic beverages, and speaking nonsense, while listening, or pretending to listen, to the nonsense of others."

"You have answered all my questions admirably, and so I welcome you to our establishment. My name is James, Henry my Christian name, perhaps you've heard of me."

"James Henry?"

"Flip it around."

"Henry James?" said Addison. "Why yes, of course I have heard of you, and I have read and admired your work all my life."

"Oh, splendid, so nice to hear this from a member of the younger generation, usually so 'hepped up' on these newer upstarts like James Branch Cabell and Booth Tarkington."

"Not a patch on you, sir."

"Any favorites?"

"Favorite what?"

"Favorites from among my oeuvre."

"Well, let me see, that's hard to say," said Addison, which it was, because he had never been able to finish anything by the man, not even a short story.

"I do hope you're not one of those who find my later works, and I quote, 'difficult'."

"Not at all," said Addison. "I love your later works."

"Thank you," said the fat man. "And your name, sir?"

"Oh, just call me Addison, Mr. James, everyone else does."

"Addison it is, then. May I press your hand, sir?"

"Of course," said Addison, and he took the fat man's hand, which was warm, and damp.

"My, your hand is cold, sir, like that of a marble statue in one of the cinquecento colonnades of Florence!"

"Yes, it is rather gelid outside, and I seem incapable of not losing gloves."

"We must warm you up! Allow me to welcome you to our little confraternity with a complimentary tankard of our proprietary hot spiced grog."

"Sounds great, sir," said Addison. 

The fat man took his arm, and led him toward the bar, which was crowded with laughing and shouting people. The whole place was crowded, with laughing people, shouting people, with smoke and music.

Mr. James brought them to two empty stools at the end of the bar, and gestured to Addison to take one, which he did, without falling over, and Mr. James took the adjoining stool.

"By the way, Mr. James," said Addison. "What is the name of this delightful place?"

"Valhalla," said Mr. James.

"Valhalla," repeated Addison.

So, at long last, he had found it.

He was home.

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