"Let's Go"

 

"Right," said Addison. "I'm ready now."

He climbed off his stool, not falling, and Milford climbed off his stool, also without falling.

"Wait," said the fat man to Addison's left, "where are you chaps going?"

"Yes," said the weaselly man to Milford's right, "please don't leave."

"Sorry, gentlemen," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields, "but duty calls."

"What duty?" said the fat man, Addison had already forgotten his name.

"Indeed," said the weaselly man, Milford had forgotten his name, barely having taken note of it in the first place, "what possible duty could be more important than sitting at this bar?"

"Um," said Milford.

"Uh," said Addison, shaking the pack of cigarettes, and putting one in his thin lips, the only kind of lips he had.

"Oh," said the fat man. "I get it."

"You do?" said the weasel man.

"Yes," said the fat man. "I know what it is, Quintillius."

"Pray tell, Petronius," said the man presumably named Quintillius, "because unless our young friends are headed for the men's room to void their bladders, I can think of nothing warranting their leaving."

"Cherchez la femme," said the fat man apparently named Petronius, "or, in this case, les femmes."

"What?" said Quintillius. "Is this true?" he said to Milford. "You and your friend go in search of the females of the species?"

"Um, uh," said Milford.

"Yes, look at them, the fires of lust in their eyes," said Petronius. "Am I wrong, Radisson?" he said, addressing Addison.

Addison had just finished lighting up his cigarette with one of his paper matches from Bob's Bowery Bar, and he waved the match out and tossed it towards the nearest ashtray on the bar, missing it by six inches.

"You are not wrong, sir," he said. "We go in search of the divine female, or females, and, failing divinity, we shall accept gladly the merely human."

"Well, I only hope you have some money then," said the fat man. "Because, speaking only from what I have read in the popular magazines, female company does not come cheap, sir."

"I had female company once," said the weasel fellow. "I was very young, well, thirty-four to be exact, and sought to lose my virginity, just to find out for myself what all the fuss was about. It cost me two dollars, which back then was no small amount, I needn't tell you!"

"I think they'll need more than two dollars nowadays," said the fat man Petronius. "What with inflation, I daresay the price now could be as high as five dollars."

"Five dollars!" said Quintillius. "That's outrageous. Do you know how many imperial pints of lager one could purchase for five dollars?"

"Maths have never been my forte," said Petronius, "but I'm going to guess that's approximately twenty imperial pints of this delicious house lager."

"Preposterously overvalued," said the weasel guy. "Listen," he said, to Milford, touching his arm with a claw-like finger, the only sort of finger he had, "save your money, Pilford, it's not worth it. For more decades than I'd care to say I have regretted spending that two dollars, and for what? Just to shed my virginity? I should have kept my chastity and the two dollars and spent it on beer instead. I implore you, resume your seat and let us continue our conversation."

"Sorry," said Milford.

"Damn you for a young fool!" said Quintillius.

"Hey, there," said Petronius, "no need for such harsh words, Quintillius."

"I shall not take them back," said Quintillius. He addressed Milford again. "I apologize for the necessity of saying 'damn you', Mugford, but I feel very strongly in this matter, and so curse you I must if you persist in this folly. Do you not realize that this –" he waved his hand and his arm grandiosely, "this is the very essence and meaning and veritable quiddity of life, yea, of existence? To sit here, in this bar, losers among fellow losers, speaking nonsense endlessly and drinking untold imperial pints of lager, with perhaps the occasional shot of inexpensive bourbon to alleviate the monotony?"

"Maybe you're right," said Milford, "but we're going anyway."

"Petronius!" said Quintillius. "Talk to them. Don't let them waste their young lives."

"He's right you know," said Petronius, addressing Addison and Milford together. "I myself have never spent one penny for a woman's favors, and I have not the slightest regret."

"Well, look, Petronius is it?" said Addison.

"Yes," said Petronius, "I am honored you remembered my prénom, Hoberman."

"Yes, well, anyway," said Addison, "the ladies we go in search of are nice ladies, and so, not only will we possibly not have to pay for their favors, but it is also in the realm of faint possibility that they would refuse payment even were we to offer it."

"Now, my friend," said Petronius, "you have entered the realm of the fantastic."

"Perhaps I have, but if I have, nevertheless I am in possession of a ten dollar bill, just in case."

"Ten dollars, you say?" said Petronius.

"Yes," said Addison. "And I'm sure my friend has some of the ready on him as well."

"How much, if I may ask?" said Petronius, to Milford.

"I don't know," said Milford.

"Is it more than ten?"

"Yes, I think it's more than ten."

"Is it more than twenty?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It is more than twenty!" said the fat man.

"Okay," said Milford, to Addison, "let's go, Addison."

"Excuse me," said Petronius, "you're telling me that you have at least thirty dollars between the two of you, and yet still you are leaving? Do you have any idea of the number of imperial pints you could buy with that largesse?"

"It was nice meeting you," said Milford.

"What about me?" said Quintillius. "Was it not nice meeting me?"

"Uh, yes," said Milford. "Nice meeting you, too."

"And yet you persist in this folly."

"Yes," said Milford. "Good night."

"Mark my words," said Quintillius. "You will be back."

"Come on, Addison," said Milford.

"You still have time to change your minds," said Petronius. "Think of all the imperial pints! Not to mention the occasional shot of reasonably-price bourbon. Why, good heavens, you could even order some food! Just wait until you try the all-you-can eat spicy chicken wings, a bargain at only one U.S. dollar!"

"Pretty good, hey?" said Addison, tapping the first inch of ash of his Chesterfield to the floor, littered as it was with sawdust, spittle, and the butts of innumerable cigarettes and cigars.

"Not bad at all," said Petronius. "Go ahead, my lad, sit back down. The wings go really well with the house Loser Lager. The only thing is the bartender doesn't like it if you let other people share your wings, so maybe if you don't mind you could just go ahead and request four orders of the wings, that way we can all have some."

"Can you get them not so spicy?" asked Addison.

"Sure, just tell the bartender you want the mild spicy wings."

"Do they come with French fries?"

"Well, the French fries are à la carte actually, but for two bits you can get a very commodious basket."

"Pretty good fries? Crispy? I loathe soggy French fries."

"Addison," said Milford.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"Let's go."

"Oh," said Addison. "Okay."

"You're going to regret leaving," said Petronius.

"I've rarely done anything I haven't regretted," said Addison.

"But," said Petronius, "you haven't had the all-you-can-eat wings here, and that is something you will not regret, my friend. Good plump juicy chicken wings, their skin fried to just the perfect crackling consistency, slathered in either the spicy or mild proprietary sauce, and with heapings of eminently crispy browned French fries on the side, with your choice of either ketchup or house-made dipping aïoli."

"I hope the aïoli isn't too garlicky," said Addison.

"Not at all, my good fellow! Frankly I prefer good old Heinz ketchup myself, but the aïoli has only the most subtle lacing of fresh and fragrant garlic."

"Well," said Addison, who hadn't eaten since his long ago noontide breakfast of two glazed doughnuts and chicory coffee at Ma's Diner, "that does sound appetizing –"

"Addison," said Milford, and he touched Addison's arm, "look, you can stay if you want to, but I'm going."

Addison seemed to hesitate for a moment, thinking of the happy prospect of lashings of golden lager washing down unlimited mild spicy chicken wings, crispy French fries on the side, with just the occasional filip of a shot of inexpensive bourbon, but then he remembered the ladies, especially that one lady, Emily, although that other one Harriet wasn't bad either…

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

And the two friends turned away from the bar.

"You'll be sorry!" called Petronius. "The both of you!"

"You'll be back!" called Quintillius. "Tails betwixt your legs!"

Addison and Milford kept walking, through the smoke and the noise of the jukebox and the shouting of drunken men, towards the exit.

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

"Dear Diary"

 

This was the thing about sitting with an alleged friend at a crowded and noisy bar. Invariably some guy sitting next to your acquaintance would start talking to him, you could barely hear anything either of them said, and soon you were left alone with your beer and the noise and the jukebox music, and maybe it was just as well, since all barroom conversations were by their very nature tedious and meaningless. 

But then some new stranger sitting on your other side started talking to you, and a new insanity began.

"I beg your pardon," said a voice to Milford's right.

Milford turned. It was never a beautiful girl. No, it was always a man, and usually a homely and unprepossessing one.

"Yes?" said Milford, despite himself.

"I couldn't help but notice you and your friend," said the man.

What did the man look like? He looked like a weasel. Small, with beady eyes behind thick glasses, a sparse goatee, a broad-brimmed hat of the sort that people wore who wanted other people to know that they weren't like other people. He might have been fifty, or seventy, he might have been dead but just too stupid to fall over.

"My name is Quintillius T. Jasper," said the man. "My friends call me Quintillius. I hope you don't think I am a homosexual trying to pick you up. I am merely a literary man who loves to meet other people, especially other literary men, and I overheard your friend saying you are a poet."

"Um," said Milford.

"Did he say your name was Milberd?"

"What?" 

"I heard your friend say your name, and I believe it was Milborne. Is that correct?"

"No," said Milford.

"Then why, if I may ask, did he say your name was Redburn?"

"He said Milford," said Milford, with that familiar feeling of ennui that could only grow more unbearable.

"Milford, you say?" said the man.

"Yes," said Milford. "Not Milberd, or Milborne, or Redburn, but Milford."

"Milford," said the man.

"Yes," said Milford.

"Do you remember my name?"

"No," said Milford.

"It's Quintillius T. Jasper. But please call me Quintillius. All my friends call me Quintillius."

"Okay," said Milford, deliberately not saying the name. 

"I am always glad to make acquaintance with an up and coming young literary man. I'll bet your poetry is quite exciting."

"It's not," said Milford.

"Please allow me to disagree," said the man. "It is only the poets who despise their own work who are capable of writing the really good stuff. Or don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know," said Milford. "The only kind of poetry I know how to write is the bad kind."

"Your very words are proof that your poetry is of the highest caliber."

"A cursory glance at a page of it would prove you wrong," said Milford.

"The more you protest, the more you convince me that your work will assure you pride of place in literary Valhalla."

"Okay, fine," said Milford, and he turned his gaze to the beer in his imperial pint mug. On the one hand he didn't even want the beer, but on the other hand he wanted to lift it to his lips and down it in one go, and then request another, and a shot of cheap bourbon to go with it.

"I myself do not write poetry," said the man, who was obviously not the sort to take a hint.

Milford said nothing. Maybe if he continued to say nothing the man would give up. 

"I wish I could write poetry," said the man. "You know who I'd like to be able to write poetry like?"

Milford continued to say nothing. It was nearly always better to say nothing, especially when being accosted by a bore, and the vast majority of people were bores, especially the ones who accosted you in bars.

"Carl Sandburg," said the man, relentlessly. "That's who I'd like to be able to write poetry like. Muscular poetry, y'know? I'd like to be able to write poetry about those guys who work building skyscrapers, or digging coal, or maybe those chaps who operate jackhammers in the streets or on the great highways. That's the kind of stuff I'd like to write. Not this effete, sensitive, limp-wristed crap. But, unfortunately, poetry is not where my talent lies."

Milford stared into his beer. To his left he could hear Addison and that fat guy talking, about what he didn't know or care.

"Guess where my talent lies," said the man on his right.

Milford picked up the big mug and took a drink, only his second drink from it so far. It was beer, like any other beer, neither great nor horrible, but the thing was you had to drink it while it was cold, or else it really was horrible.

"Okay, you give up," said the man, "so I'll tell you. You'll never guess, but I am a diarist."

Milford put down the mug. He shouldn't be drinking at all. What he should do was tell Addison they should leave, and then try to find that other place where the ladies were. Maybe that girl Lou would still be there. Maybe she would relieve him of his virginity, if not tonight, then some other night, maybe.

"My life's work," said the man, "is to keep a meticulous diary, and I have kept it up since I was fourteen years old. Every night before I go to bed I get out my diary and record in exhaustive detail the events of the day, no matter how seemingly mundane. I have now accumulated some forty-five thousand pages of 'material' in this fashion. And when I get home tonight I will get out my diary – I write in these enormous leather-bound ledgers by the way, using a quill pen – and I will recount this very conversation we are having now, verbatim. And so you see, all the life I have lived is contained in these ledgers, these diaries, and the diaries themselves are my life, my life feeding off the diaries and the diaries feeding off my life. It is all one. I have been shopping it around, intending to publish it in completely unexpurgated form in a uniform series of separate volumes, totaling in number at least fifty, but so far I haven't been able to find a publisher willing to meet my demands. I don't know why. I am sure there would be a market for it. Who else is writing a diary consisting of a man's life whose sole raison d'être is to write a diary recounting every moment of his life, and not just his waking moments, but his dreams, at least the ones he can remember. Who, I ask you, who?"

"What?" said Milford, roused from his own reveries.

"Who else is writing such a mammoth epic work?"

"What mammoth epic work?"

"The one I'm writing," said the man. "My diary in which I recount my entire life in exhaustive detail."

"Oh," said Milford.

"And do you know what I'm calling it?"

"Calling what?"

"Do you know what the title of my life's work is, my monumental undertaking, recounting my entire life since I was fourteen years old, nearly all of which has been spent sitting at this very bar?"

"No, I don't," said Milford.

"Guess."

"The Diary of a Lunatic?"

"No, that's good, but guess again."

"The Diary of an Insufferable Bore?"

"Pretty good again, but wrong. Try again."

"The Journal of a Man Who Should Never Have Been Born?"

"Wrong again. Do you give up?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"My book, my masterpiece," said the man, "is called – drumroll, please – The Diary of a Dickhead."

"Oh," said Milford. 

"Diary of a Dickhead."

"Okay."

"Because, yes, I know I'm a dickhead. I am not that deluded. But answer me this, is not a dickhead's life worthy of being recorded?"

"Um."

"Well, I'm here to say it is. And I'll fight the man who disagrees with me. And I will lose, but I don't care. The dickheads of this world need a voice, same as anyone else, and I intend to be that voice. Do you gainsay me?"

"No," said Milford.

"The Diary of a Dickhead, by Quintillius T. Jasper."

"Right."

"Kind of got a ring to it, don't you think?"

"Uh," said Milford.

"My marketing plan is that people can purchase it gradually in separate volumes, using S&H Green Stamps they will pick up at their local supermarkets. Collect so many stamps, get another volume, until eventually you have the whole fifty-volume set. Pretty smart, huh?"

"Yes," said Milford. 

"I figure to make a pretty penny from the project, keep me comfortable in my golden years, as I continue to churn out more volumes. Who knows, maybe eventually the thing will be a hundred volumes long."

The man had one of those extra-large mugs in front of him, half-full, or half empty, depending on how you looked at it, and he now lifted it, took a sip, put the mug back down again.

"Diary of a Dickhead," he said, "by Quintillius T. Jasper. Look for it on display at your local A&P."

"I will," said Milford.

"Not now, but after I get my publishing deal."

"Okay."

"And you'll be in it, Moffatt. It is Moffatt, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"You'll be in the book, Mofford."

"I will?"

"Of course. Which means you'll be famous too."

"Oh."

The man turned away, to look down into the golden depths of the big beer mug that sat on the counter in front of him.

Milford turned to Addison and touched his arm.

Addison had been saying something to the fat man, but he allowed himself to be interrupted, not really minding because he had been boring himself actually.

"Yes, Milford?"

"Let's go," said Milford.

"Now?" said Addison.

"Yes."

"But you've hardly even touched your beer."

"I don't want it. Let's go."

Addison's own large mug was empty.

"Okay, buddy," he said. "But, waste not, want not."

He picked up Milford's mug, raised it to his lips, and forty-five seconds later when he put it back down on the bar top it was empty.

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