"John the Conqueroo"

"Ha ha," said Mr. Whitman, as the music of the combo crashed all around them, and the dancers on the dance floor thrashed and stomped, "charming, yes, well, then, I suppose I will have a great brimming tankard of Ballantine Ale then, thank you."

"Fabulous," said the lady. She wrote something on her pad with a pencil, and then looked at Miss Blackbourne. "How about you, missy?"

"I'll take a shot of bourbon, any kind, and a beer, any kind," said Miss Blackbourne.

"How's about an Early Times and a Rheingold?"

"Bring it on," said Miss Blackbourne, "and keep them coming."

"I like the way your brain works," said the lady, writing something on her pad. "What's your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"Margaret Blackbourne," said Miss Blackbourne.

"You look like one of them lost poet ladies," said the lady.

"Guilty as charged," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Ain't nothing wrong with it," said the lady.

"It's a living," said Miss Blackbourne. "Or should I say a dying. Your name is Polly Ann?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the lady.

"I think we could and should be friends," said Miss Blackbourne. "May I address you as Polly Ann?"

"Sure," said Polly Ann. "It's a hell of a lot better than Hey You."

"And please call me Margaret."

"You got it, Miss Margaret."

"And, dear Polly Ann, if we are to be friends, I humbly ask you to omit the Miss, and just call me Margaret."

"Sure, Margaret. I ain't never been friends with a white lady before."

"It's not that big a deal, believe me."

"I believe you," said Polly Ann. She turned to Jelly Roll. "Corn, Jelly?"

"You know me all too well, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll, who was rolling a cigarette, and she wrote something on her pad. 

"Y'all want to hear tonight's food specials now, or you want me to bring the drinks first?"

"Drinks first, please, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll.

"Be right back," said Polly Ann.

"Um," said Milford.

"You talking to me, cracker?"

"Yes," said Milford, "excuse me, miss, but –"

"Call me Polly Ann."

"Polly Ann, then, I would like to order some sarsaparilla if you have it."

She stared down at him.

"You're Mr. Milford, right?"

"Yes, but please, just call me Milford."

"Swell, well, here's the thing, Milford, we don't got sarsaparilla."

"Well, do you have anything non-alcoholic?"

"We got sweet tea."

"Fine, I should like a sweet tea then."

"Here's the other thing though," said Polly Ann. "John Henry told me to bring you a complimentary jar of corn."

"A jar of corn?" 

"Yes."

"Is this like boiled corn?"

"No, white boy, it's corn liquor, and we serve it in eight-ounce or pint jars, and John Henry told me to bring you a pint jar."

"And this corn liquor, is it an alcoholic beverage?"

"Yeah, but we cut it with branch water, so it ain't more than a hunnert proof."

"Oh, my God, I can't drink that."

"Why not?"

"I am an alcoholic, and if I drink a pint of that I'll be falling down drunk, and I'll wind up passed out in an alleyway, and it's snowing out. I could die."

"You could die just walking across the street, run over by a coal wagon drove by a coal man drunk on corn liquor."

"I realize that, but still –"

"You're gonna hurt John Henry's feelings you turn it down," said Polly Ann.

"Melfrydd," said Mr. Whitman, "I don't think you want to hurt John Henry's feelings. We are guests here, after all, and you don't want these good people to think you're racially prejudiced."

"No, but, really," said Milford, "I've already had several drinks tonight, more than several actually, when I shouldn't even have had one, not to mention the marijuana, and the mushrooms, and the, that stuff in your pipe –"

Mr. Whitman was smoking his pipe again.

"It's a mixture of fine Kentucky burley and Lebanese hashish," said Mr. Whitman, "would you like some more?"

"No!" said Milford. 

"Here, Milford," said Jelly Roll, and he proffered the fat cigarette he had just lighted up with a Zippo lighter. "Smoke this, it'll mellow you out."

Without thinking Milford took the cigarette, and took a drag from it.

"Oh, no," he said, "I forgot."

"Wudja forget, sonny?" said Polly Ann.

"I forgot that these cigarettes of Jelly Roll's contain drugs."

"Well, at least they don't contain alcohol, right?"

"Yes," said Milford, "there's that at least," and again without thinking, no doubt because of all the alcohol and drugs he had already consumed over the present long evening's journey into oblivion, he took a second drag on the cigarette.

"Tell you what, honey boy," said Polly Ann, "I'll bring you a nice big jar of sweet tea, okay?"

"Oh!" said Milford, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "Sweet tea, yes, that would be nice, thank you very much, miss."

"Polly Ann."

"Thank you, Polly Ann," said Milford.

"And just a small jar of corn liquor on the side," she said.

"Oh," said Milford. "Uh, thank you."

"You're welcome, Milford," said Polly Ann, and she turned and walked away.

"Hey, Mel," said Mr. Whitman. "Don't worry. If you don't want your corn liquor, I'll drink it."

"Thank you," said Milford, so maybe he would survive this night after all, and he took another drag of the fat cigarette, and became intensely aware of the music the combo was playing, and the stomping and swirling of the dancers on the dance floor.

People were shouting through the music and the smoke and the stomping of the dancers, "Go, daddy, go!"

Other people shouted, "Shake that thang!"

Someone else shouted, "Shake it, mama, don't break it!"

A man sang into a microphone, "I got a wang dang doodle, I got a John the Conqueroo, look out pretty mama, I'm gonna rock with you…"

What did it matter? thought Milford. What did any of it matter? This was life, after all, it must be life, and was not life meant to be lived?

Someone or something tapped his shoulder, and Milford turned his head.

"Hello, you."

It took him only a second to realize who it was, which was Louisa May Alcott, or at least the woman who said she was Louisa May Alcott, and who was he to say any different?

"Oh," he said, coughing great jagged clouds of hot thick smoke, "hello."

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

"Five Spot"

They followed John Henry through the barroom, past a crowded bar and towards the sounds of loud crashing music.

Mr. Whitman took Milford's arm again and spoke into his ear.

"Hey, Mel, you got another five in that poke of yours?"

"What?" said Milford.

"Let me have a five-spot, will you? All's I got is twenties on me."

"If you have twenties why do you need a five?"

"Come on, just let me have a fiver, okay? I'll pay you back just as soon as I break a twenty."

"Can't you just get change from a waitress or a bartender?"

"Look, buddy, don't bust my balls. Didn't I give you a signed first edition of my book?"

"I didn't ask for it."

"Mel, I'm asking you, just loan me a goddam fin and stop being such a noodge already."

"Well, all right," said Milford. He didn't really care, but on the other hand moochers had been taking advantage of him ever since he was a child, because of his family's supposed and actual wealth and their imposing old townhouse on Bleecker Street. He dug into the back pocket of his dungarees and brought out his wallet.

"Just a five," said Mr. Whitman. "I mean if you can spare it."

"I can spare it," said Milford, opening the wallet.

"Nice wallet, by the way," said Mr. Whitman, touching the crude rawhide stitching. "Very 'rustic'."

"Thank you," said Milford. "I made it myself, during my brief tenure as a Boy Scout."

"I like it."

"My mother insisted on buying me an expensive Horween billfold from Brooks Brothers, but I have a sentimental attachment for this one."

"May I feel the leather?"

"Okay."

Mr. Whitman took the wallet from Milford's hand and stroked its scuffed and worn surface.

"What's this strange symbol burnt into the side? Is it a rune, or some sort of Chinese character?"

"No, it's supposed to be my monogram. I was trying to use Spencerian capitals, but I was using this hot iron, and I've never been very dexterous, so –"

"So, it's like, what, MM?"

"Yes."

"I see it now," said Mr. Whitman. "MM, for 'Marion Milstein' – see I remember your name. Oh, wow, look at those Negroes dancing up there."

Milford turned and looked. Up ahead beyond some tables there was a crowded dance floor, with people dancing to the music of a small but loud combo.

"Such a gay and happy race," said Mr. Whitman. "Here, I see you got one five left."

Milford turned back and Mr. Whitman was holding a five-dollar bill up in the air.

"Appreciate it, Mel," he said, and he handed the wallet back.

Milford looked into his wallet. All he had left in it was two tens. He could have sworn there had been three tens there, but he let it go, closed up the wallet and put the wallet back in his jeans.

"Hey, let's catch up to the others, buddy," said Mr. Whitman, folding up the five-dollar bill, and he took Milford's arm and pulled him along.

They found Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne already sitting at a round table with four chairs at the edge of the dance floor, and John Henry was standing there talking to them.

"Hi, everybody," said Mr. Whitman.

John Henry turned.

"You get lost?"

"Oh, no, John Henry, we were just taking our time, heh heh. Oh, hey, what a nice table, right by the dancing. This is swell."

John Henry turned back to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne.

"Polly Ann'll be right over to get your orders. If you're hungry the possum stew is to die for tonight, and I can always recommend the fatback and beans, with cornbread."

"Oh, wow, I love fatback and beans," said Mr. Whitman.

"That's great," said John Henry, "then you should order it."

He turned back to Jelly Roll.

"Looking forward to hearing you get up and jam, my man."

"Oh, I definitely will, John Henry," said Jelly Roll.

"Cool, I'll catch you all later."

"Oh, by the way, John Henry," said Mr. Whitman.

"What?"

"Just want to shake your hand, sir."

"Oh. Okay."

John Henry extended his massive hand and Mr. Whitman inserted his own large but much less huge hand into it.

John Henry disengaged his hand and opened it, knuckles downward. There was a greenback folded in eighths in the center of the pale callused palm.

"What's this shit?" he said.

"Just a little token," said Mr. Whitman. 

"What's that, five bucks?"

"Yes, I hope it's enough –"

"I don't want your five dollars, man."

"Oh."

"Take it back."

"Um."

"I said take it."

Quickly Mr. Whitman reached over and took the folded bill out of John Henry's palm.

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to, uh –"

John Henry gave him a look, and Mr. Whitman said nothing. Then the big man turned again to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne. 

"See you later, Jelly Roll. A pleasure, Miss Margaret."

"All mine, I assure you, John Henry," said Miss Blackbourne, who was smoking one of her ebony cigarettes with the silver tip.

John Henry seemed to notice Milford, standing a little behind Mr. Whitman.

"You okay, Milford?"

"Yes," said Milford, "thank you."

"You don't look okay."

"That's okay," said Milford. "I always look this way."

"Sit down and get a drink, maybe you'll feel better with a little corn liquor in you."

"Maybe."

John Henry glanced at Mr. Whitman again, still holding his folded-up five dollar bill, and then he turned and strode away, his enormous legs covering a yard with each pace.

"Sit the fuck down, Walt," said Jelly Roll. "You too, Milford."

Mr. Whitman took the chair to Jelly Roll's left, and Milford sat down to Miss Blackbourne's right.

"Fuck sakes, Walt," said Jelly Roll to Mr. Whitman, "I distinctly recall asking you to attempt to be cool."

"I just wanted to, uh, show my appreciation," said Mr. Whitman.

"Just put that fucking five-spot back into your pocket."

"Look, how about if I get the first round with it?"

"We're gonna run a tab, dipshit, now put that five away and stop trying to showboat."

"Well, okay," said Mr. Whitman, and he leaned to one side and stuck the five into his trousers pocket.

Milford considered asking for the five back, but he let it go, as he let so many things go, as he always had and would no doubt continue to do.

A pretty Negro woman with a black apron appeared, with a tray under her arm and a pad in her hand. 

"Hey, Jelly Roll," she said. "Whatta ya hear, whatta ya say?"

"Nothing much, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll. "Just fixing to get my drunk on and get up and bang them eighty-eights, darling."

"Cool," said the lady. "What are you and your ofay friends drinking?"

"I wonder, miss," said Mr. Whitman, "do you have a nice hot grog?"

"No," said the lady.

"Perhaps a fine strong ale then, brewed in great oaken casks that are piled onto drays by sweaty men muscular and hearty, and then pulled by teams of stout horses through the wet cobblestone streets in the rose-dappled dawn?"

"We got Ballantine ale," said the lady, "if that's what you're talking about, you silly ass motherfucker." 

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A FLOPHOUSE IS NOT A HOME, illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}