Livingston P. Lovechild opened the door and beckoned, waving with a slight bow.
"After you, good sir!"
Despite the thick icy gusts of snow swirling through the doorway, Harry stepped through, and Livingston followed him, pulling the door closed behind him.
Outside the bar darkness had fallen, and the snow had apparently never stopped falling, now lying at least a foot and a half deep on the sidewalk and banked up in great drifts against the walls of the buildings and the iron pillars of the elevated train, completely covering the humped parked cars along the Bowery.
The neon sign heralding BOB'S BOWERY BAR cast its reddish orange glow through the falling snow and onto the snow on the ground, the pale light of a street lamp glowed faintly through the blizzard, and the pink face of Livingston P. Lovechild smiled broadly at Harry's appalled face.
"Isn't it glorious, Harry?" shouted Livingston. He was actually serious, or at least so he seemed. "I am reminded of the snowscapes of the Ashcan School. Are you familiar with the work of Robert Henri?"
"Who?" shouted back Harry.
"Robert Henri, the painter! Ashcan School!"
"I have no idea who you're talking about."
"Robert, H-E-N-R-I."
"You mean Robert Henri?" said Harry, pronouncing the last name in the French manner.
"Ah, but you see he pronounced his surname 'Hen-rye', in a proud American way. Hen-rye!"
"Oh," said Harry, already beginning to feel uncomfortably cold. "I didn't know that."
"Regardless," said Livingston, "isn't it just marvelous out? I often wonder why people waste their time in museums and galleries when all the world is a vast museum, don't you agree, Harry?"
"I, uh –"
"But come, we're wasting time here, let's mush!"
He grabbed Harry's arm. Harry hadn't noticed before but Livingston had put on thick woolen mittens. Harry for his part wore no gloves, and in fact he didn't own a pair.
"Wait, Liv-, Love-"
"Livingston is my name, Harry, and don't wear it out, ha ha."
"Livingston, don't you think that maybe it really is a little too snowy out for walking?"
"Harry," said Livingston. "My dear Harry." The lenses of his horn-rims had already become crusted over with frost, and he removed the glasses awkwardly with his mittened hands, and shoved them into a pocket of his mackinaw. "Y'know, I thought we had settled all this too snowy nonsense." His eyes without spectacles seemed much smaller, and they blinked against the falling snowflakes. "You're not going to back out on me now, are you?"
"Um," said Harry.
"On me, your biggest fan?"
"Well, I do appreciate your saying that," said Harry. "But –"
He looked up and around at the falling snow and at the snow on the ground reaching halfway up his calves.
"Then come!" said Livingston, beaming, and he pulled Harry onward, through the falling snow.
Oh well, thought Harry, what's the worst that could happen?
Perhaps it wasn't the worst that could have happened but it wasn't good when, having turned the corner from the Bowery onto Bleecker and proceeded slogging past the tenement where Harry lived and slowly onward to Elizabeth Street, and then progressively more slowly to Mott and to Mulberry, all the while seeing not another soul nor even a passing car, with Livingston babbling continuously about Harry knew not what, as they reached the corner of Lafayette Street, Livingston suddenly sat down in a snowbank at the curb.
"I am just going to rest a bit, Harry," said Livingston, weakly panting. "Carry on without me and I'll be along presently after I catch my breath."
Harry for his part was breathing quite heavily himself, and a thick bodily fluid dribbled ceaselessly from his nostrils.
"Livingsworth, listen," he said.
"Livingston, actually," said Livingston.
"Livingston, sorry," said Harry, "listen, I'm not going to just leave you here."
"Oh but you must. Go on ahead. I just need to muster my forces. Perhaps close my eyes for a minute."
"Livingston, if you close your eyes you'll freeze to death."
"Do you really think so?"
"Yes. Now get up."
"Perhaps you can send a party back for me. Perhaps I will still be alive when they get here."
"What do you mean a party?"
"A search party."
"And where would I find a search party?"
"When you get to my house, ask my mother to use the telephone, and call the police, or perhaps the fire department."
"Livingston, I don't even know where your house is."
"175 Bleecker, right at the corner of Sullivan. Big gabled house, with towers, you can't miss it. Just tell Mother you're my friend, and that unfortunately I couldn't crack on. She'll understand and she'll let you use the telephone."
"Look, Livingston, I'm not going on without you."
"But no one will blame you, old man. I only ask you this. Tell my mother – tell her I love her, despite, despite – well, just tell her I love her. I've never been able to tell her that when I was alive, but more's the pity. Also, my sister, Gwendolyn, tell her that –"
"Damn it, Livingston," said Harry.
"I beg your pardon."
Harry took his freezing ungloved hands out of his topcoat pockets and reached down and grabbed Livingston's arm, and pulled.
Harry was not a strong man, having avoided exercise and physical labor his entire life, and Livingston was a fat man, but a small fat man, and so after not more than a minute Harry got Livingston up on his feet, which he now noticed were encased in knee-length rubber boots, unlike his own, which were shod in worn old Thom McAn brogans.
"Good, you're standing," said Harry. "Now let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"To your house, remember?"
"Oh, yes, my house."
"To have dinner."
"Dinner, quite," said Livingston.
"Yes," said Harry. "Now let's go."
"Yes, we must stand not upon the order of our going, but go at once."
"Okay, then, let's go."
"Why are we standing here, anyway?"
"Because you sat down in that snow drift and refused to get up."
"Oh, yes," said Livingston. "But I am standing now, aren't I?"
"Yes, you are. Now come on."
"Where are we going again?"
"To your house. To have dinner."
"Yes. We must hurry."
"Okay, then, let's go," said Harry.
"Just one moment," said Livingston, and turning to look at the drift of snow, he collapsed into it again, face first.
Harry was not a praying man, but he looked up into the dark night through which the heavy snowflakes fell relentlessly.
Dear God, he prayed, just let me get this idiot to his house, and I promise I will never go off into a blizzard with some random drunk again.
Through the thick falling snow Harry heard the low mechanical hum of a motor.
He turned, and it was a taxicab, a dark green and grey cab with its roof light on, chains on its tires, approaching slowly up the middle of Bleecker Street.
Harry raised his hand.
Thank you, God, he thought. Thank you. I owe you one, sir.
{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}
