"Follies of a Flâneur"

"Shall we retire to the living room?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Unless of course you would like another piece of cake, Mr. Plumbtree?"

Harry had already had two slices of the chocolate cake, and he could easily have devoured a third, but, despite his gluttony, he said no thank you.

Ralston was looking at a pocket watch on a chain.

"Good, we can still catch the beginning of The Waldo McGee & Mickey Pumpernickel Show."

The Negro maid Matilda had appeared, and with her another old woman who was addressed as "Cookie".

"Matilda," said Mrs. Lovechild, "you and Cookie can clear the table now. We're going to go in and watch the television."

"Would you like some popcorn, Mrs. Lovechild?" said the woman called Cookie.

"That would be lovely, Cookie, thank you," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"And don't stint on the butter, Cookie," said Ralston.

"Oh, Mr. Ralston, sure you'll die of a massive fatal heart attack if you don't watch all that butter you consume night and day."

"And if I do die of a heart attack, Cookie," said Ralston, "I shall die as I have lived, stomping the earth like a man and not trembling and skittering in fear like a mouse."

"Are you fond of television, Mr. Plumbly?" said Gwendolyn, addressing Harry.

"Well, I haven't watched much of it," said Harry. "I'm afraid I don't own a set."

"We finally got one last year," she said, "and now we are profoundly addicted. Wait till you see Mickey Pumpernickel. He's only a wooden dummy, but he's ever so clever, and you can barely see Waldo McGee's lips move. It's like Mickey Pumpernickel is a real person."

"Oh, um," said Harry.

Livingston pushed his chair back and stood up, patting Harry on the shoulder.

"Come up to my room, Harry. Want to show you something."

"Oh, but you'll miss Waldo McGee and Mickey Pumpernickel," said Gwendolyn.

"That puppet gives me the creeps," said Livingston. "Come on, Harry."

Harry thanked Mrs. Lovechild for the delicious meal, glanced awkwardly at Gwendolyn and shyly at Ralston, and then got up and followed Livingston out of the dining room, through a living room draped in shadows and flickering with light from the crackling fireplace and into a hallway with a staircase.

"Thanks for being so nice to the family," said Livingston. "I know they're a little eccentric, but they mean well."

"I think they're very nice," said Harry.

"My mother is quite insane," said Livingston. "Lives in her own world. As does Gwendolyn. And of course Ralston. Come to think of it, as do I. But don't we all? Aren't we all merely prisoners for life in the solitary confinements of our corporeal hosts? Anyhoo, I'm just on the second floor, follow me, old chap."

What could Harry do? In his borrowed woolen slippers he followed Livingston and his stockinged feet up the stairs to the second floor and then down a hall towards the front of the house where there was a tall window looking out onto the blizzard rumbling and churning outside. Livingston opened a door to the right.

"Here it is," he said. "My sanctum sanctorum. Welcome."

He waved with his hand, and Harry went in. Livingston came in behind him, flicked on an overhead light, and closed the door.

"Sorry about the mess," he said.

The room had a large brass bed with a canopy of faded embroidered drapery, and bookcases lined the walls, with stacks of books and magazines on the floor and on tables on either side of the bed. There was a roll-top desk in front of the one tall window, and in front of it was a swivel chair. A big black typewriter sat on the desk, with stacks of paper on either side of it.

"There it is," said Livingston. "That is where the magic happens."

He went over and switched on a gooseneck lamp on the desk.

"Come here, buddy, I'd like to show you something."

Again, what could Harry do? He came over to the desk.

"Sit down, Harry. Get comfortable."

Harry sat down in the swivel chair, but he didn't feel comfortable. What had he gotten himself into? Was a free meal of Chicken à la King worth it, even with some several glasses of fine red wine? Not to mention the chocolate cake and fresh strong coffee.

"Let me give you a little room here," said Livingston, and he pushed the typewriter, an old Royal, inward. Then with both hands he picked up a great stack of typescript to the right of where the typewriter had been, turned the stack over, and laid it down in front of Harry.

"And here," he said, "is my little magnum opus. Still in progress of course, but I wonder if you would be so kind as to read a page or two. Tell me what you think. You being a professional author and all. Not to mention my favorite living author."

This was every writer's worst nightmare, to be asked to read someone else's work.

"I mean, if you don't mind," said Livingston. 

"No, of course not," lied Harry, baldfaced, looking at the stack of paper, two reams at least, maybe even three.

He picked up the top sheet, on which was typed:

Follies of a Flâneur

by 

Livingston P. Lovechild

He turned the cover page over and picked up the next sheet and read.

These are the confessions of a failure. But perhaps these confessions will in themselves prove to be his ultimate triumph. 

"What do you think so far?" said Livingston.

"Well, I've only read the first two sentences," said Harry.

"Only about two million sentences left to go," said Livingston. "Don't worry, it picks up." 

Harry read on.

From my earliest age I noticed one thing that all human beings had in common, to wit, they were annoying. Some more so, some less. And experience proved that even the less annoying people became more annoying the more you were in their company. Not that I was exempt, as I annoyed myself as well. 

 

Harry laid the sheet down.

"Oh, no," said Livingston. "Is it that bad?"

"No, not at all," said Harry. "But I wonder if I could have a cigarette."

"Oh, sure," said Livingston. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em. In fact–"

He opened a little drawer in the desk and brought out a small engraved wooden box and opened it. In it were a dozen or so hand-rolled cigarettes.

"Have one of these," he said.

"Oh, but I have my own," said Harry. "Husky Boys."

"An excellent smoke," said Livingston, "but try one of these bad boys instead."

"What are they?"

"Marijuana. Ever try it?"

"No."

"Oh, you simply must, old boy."

"I don't know. Won't I get addicted?"

"Not at all. Go ahead, take one."

What did Harry have to lose? He picked one out, and Livingston gave him a light with an Ohio Blue Tip match from a box on the desk.

"You gotta breathe it in deep and hold it in for as long as you can," said Livingston.

Harry breathed in the smoke and held it in.

"Okay," said Livingston. "Now start reading again. The more you smoke the better the writing is."

Harry picked up the page, still holding in the smoke, and began to read again: 

I shall pass over in silence my early years. It was tedious enough having to live through them, let alone having to relive them in memory. No, let us begin these confessions shortly after I was sent down in disgrace from Yale and returned to the familial manse on Bleecker Street, for that was when my life began in earnest, when I finally embraced my true calling as a committed idler, a master of the fine art of doing as little as possible.  

Harry exhaled the rich sweet smoke. And then he read on.

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

"The Benighted Hearth"

 

"Are you enjoying your Chicken à la King, Mr. Peachman?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

Harry's mouth was full, and so he chewed as quickly as he could.

"I should think he is," said Ralston.

"I love to see a man eat with gusto," said Gwendolyn.

Harry swallowed, trying not to choke, and then he dabbed his lips with the damask napkin he had been supplied with.

"Yes, Mrs. Lovechild, very much so," he finally managed to say.

"Would you care for seconds?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"I think you mean thirds, Mother," said Ralston.

"Ralston, don't be such a cunt," said Gwendolyn.

"Gwendolyn, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Language."

"Here, Mr. Peachum," said Gwendolyn, rising up from her seat, "let me help you with that last bit of chicken and noodles."

"Waste not want not," said Ralston, putting a cigarette into his black holder.

"Oh, thank you," said Harry, "but, really, I couldn't –"

"Of course you could," said Gwendolyn, "now here," and she lifted the serving dish with one hand and with the other she spooned the last of the chicken and noodles and cream sauce onto Harry's plate, spilling only a small amount onto the table cloth. "There you are, old chap, now eat up."

To tell the truth, Harry still had an appetite.

"Thank you," he said. "If you insist."

"You must be simply famished after dragging Livingston home through this frightful blizzard," said Gwendolyn, putting down the dish and sitting back down. 

"Well, we took a cab part of the way," said Harry, forking some more of the delicious food into his mouth.

"Be that as it may," said Gwendolyn. "We owe Livingston's life to you. I'm sure he should never have made it home alive otherwise."

"Peachman," said Ralston, exhaling a great cloud of smoke, the sort of cloud Harry would have described as "thoughtful" in one of his detective stories. "Where have I heard that name."

"Mm," said Harry, if one could be said to "say" the sound "mm".

"What's that?" said Ralston.

"He's got his mouth full," said Gwendolyn. "Let him finish chewing, brother."

"Mea culpa," said Ralston. "Chew away, old man."

"Yes," said Mrs. Lovechild, "let Mr. Peachings swallow his food before answering. You know I hate the way you bolt your food, Ralston."

"Yes, Mother," said Ralston, "as you have told me at the very least one million times."

"Then why do you persist in doing it," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Because it's the way I like to eat," said Ralston. "Dive right in, that's my motto. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes."

"Language, Ralston," said Mrs. Lovechild. "We have a guest at table."

Harry dabbed his lips again with the napkin, and said, "Actually my name is Beachcroft."

"What was that?" said Ralston.

"Beachcroft," said Harry. "My name is actually Beachcroft, Harry Beachcroft."

"Harry Beachcroft?" said Ralston.

"Beachcroft?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Harry?" said Gwendolyn.

"Yes," said Harry.

"And here I've been calling you Mr. Peachams," said Gwendolyn.

"You must forgive us," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Mister – what was it? Peachcroft?"

"Beachcroft," said Harry. "With a B, not a P."

"Please forgive us, Mr. Peachcroft, I mean – what was it again?"

"Beachcroft," said Harry.

"Yes, that," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Please forgive us."

"I feel I've seen that name somewhere," said Ralston.

"Me too, I think," said Gwendolyn. "Harry Peachcroft. Are you by any chance on the stage, Mr. Peachcrab?"

"No, I'm afraid not," said Harry.

"You remind me of a fellow I saw in a play," she said. "What was it. The Benighted Heart? The Abandoned Hearth? Anyway, it had Hyacinth Wilde in it, and it was about how Hyacinth's dead fiancé came back from the war, because he wasn't dead, only a prisoner, and he'd lost his memory, and you played her older brother. His name was Terence, I remember it now, except he had a moustache."

"I'm afraid it wasn't me," said Harry.

"You're quite sure."

"Yes," said Harry.

"Harry Peachcraft, you say," said Ralston.

"Not Peachcraft," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Peachcroft." She was also smoking a cigarette now, but without a holder.

"Well, Beachcroft," said Harry.

"What?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"It's Beachcroft," he said. "With an initial B. I mean, it doesn't really matter, but –"

"Of course it matters," said Mrs. Lovechild, "Mister, uh –"

"Beachcroft," said Harry.

"Now I've got it," said Ralston. "Harry Beachcroft. I've seen that name on these paperback novels Livingston's always reading, lying on the divan where even now he reclines, snoring contentedly. Are we to understand that your are that Harry Beachcroft?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Harry.

"There you are," said Ralston. "We have a celebrated author in our midst."

"Well –" said Harry, in vague modesty.

"You write books?" said Gwendolyn.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Harry.

"I adore books," said Mrs. Lovechild. "What books have you written?"

"Oh, uh," said Harry.

"I want to read your books," said Gwendolyn.

"Livingston's got loads of them in his room," said Ralston. "Stacks of them."

"I, uh," said Harry.

"What should I read first?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Well, um," said Harry.

"Do you write mysteries?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"I have written mysteries, yes," said Harry.

"What about romances?" said Gwendolyn.

"Well, yes, I've written some of those," said Harry, "but mostly under the pen name of Lucille de la Strange."

"I want to read them," said Gwendolyn.

"You know what I like to read," said Ralston, "I like books about small-town girls who come to Hollywood to make it in pictures. But they keep meeting rotters who take advantage of their good nature. Got anything in that line?"

"He does in fact," said a familiar voice, and Harry turned to see that Livingston had entered the room. He was in his stockinged feet, and wore a plaid flannel shirt of the kind that lumberjacks presumably wore. "Harry has written a delightful novel called The Girl on the Greyhound Bus, and it is about a lass who comes to Hollywood to make it big in pictures, but gets caught up in a web of passion and betrayal, and, yes, murder."

"The sleeper awakes," said Ralston.

"Just needed to rest my eyes for a minute," said Livingston. "Is there any Chicken à la King left?"

Harry stared guiltily at his empty plate.

"I'm afraid it's all gone, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Sit down and you may join us for coffee and dessert."

There was a little tarnished brass bell on the table, and she picked it up by its wooden handle and rang it.

"Oh, well," said Livingston, pulling out the empty chair to Harry's left and seating himself. "You know what they say."

"What do they say, dear?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"When you snooze you lose," said Livingston. He reached over the table and picked up one of the three wine bottles there. "Chambertin," he said, looking at the faded label. "Excellent."

There was an empty wine glass at his place, and he filled it with ruby red dark wine.

He turned to Harry. 

"Top you off, Harry?"

"I really shouldn't," said Harry, for no honest reason.

"Nonsense," said Livingston, and he refilled Harry's glass.

Putting down the bottle he raised his glass.

"Up the long ladder," he said, "and down the short rope. To hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope."

And he drank, and so did Harry. 

What did it matter? 

How would he get home tonight?

Would he even get home tonight?

Did it matter if he got home tonight?

Outside the tall front windows the snow continued to fall heavily over Bleecker Street, illuminated by a street lamp, pattering against the glass panes, the wind deeply whistling, but inside this house all was warm and smelling of the burning wood in the fireplace and of wine and women's perfume. 

Gwendolyn looked at him through her large blue eyes over her wine glass.

Perhaps Harry would never leave here.

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