"Tears of the Damned"

 

"I'm sorry," said Addison, "what?"

"Did I mumble?" said Punch.

"Well, it sounded like you said you wanted our immortal souls."

"So I wasn't mumbling," said the little man.

"Oh," said Addison.

"Okay," said Milford, "you know what? The hell with this madman. Let's go, Addison."

"Where are you going?" said Punch.

"Anywhere but here," said Milford.

"You'll never find the Hideaway on your own," said Punch.

"That's our problem."

"I assumed you wanted to lose your virginities," said the man.

"No one said anything about us losing our virginities," said Milford.

"No one had to," said Punch. "Just look at the pair of you. If ever there was a pair of unfucked fuckwads it was you two."

"Okay. Goodbye," said Milford. "Come on, Addison."

"That's right, go ahead," said the little man, "go ahead and wander around lost all night, and for the rest of your pathetic lives for all I care, it's no skin off my nose."

Milford gave a pat to Addison's arm.

"Come on."

"All right," said Addison.

"Go ahead, go," said Punch. "But which way?"

Milford paused. 

"Um," he said.

"See?" said Punch. "You don't even know which way to go, do you?"

Milford turned and looked one way along the hall, and then the other way in the opposite direction. Then he pointed the first  way, with his right hand.

"That way," he said.

"Got news for you," said Punch. "That's the wrong way."

"Fine," said Milford. "So we'll go the other way."

"Fat lot of good that will do you," said Punch, "because I can tell you right now that there are some several more turnings in that direction, a few more winding dark corridors, perhaps even a staircase or two, maybe three! No, I'm sorry, my dear fellows, the odds of you two finding the Hideaway on your own are, by my reckoning, slim to none."

"We'll take our chances," said Milford.

"Yes, but why take a chance?" said Punch. He reached into his old army coat and brought out a scroll of some sort, on thick yellowed and dirty-looking paper. "Here, I have a contract all written up. All I will need are your two John Hancocks, and we're good to go and ready to roll."

"Fuck your contract," said Milford.

"No need for such vulgar language. And I am surprised to hear it from a young gentleman of such obvious good breeding as yourself."

"Fuck your contract and fuck you," said Milford.

"Look, what's the big deal?" said Punch. "It's only your souls I'm after. And in return you just might possibly get your ends wet, at long last. How about you, Mr. Hattieson? You seem a reasonable sort."

"To be quite honest," said Addison, "I'm not so sure I even believe in the concept of an immortal soul."

"Fabulous," said Punch. "In that case, why not sign?"

"But what if there is some truth to the concept?" said Addison.

"So what?" said Punch. "Bottom line, you want to get to this bar where these alleged 'ladies' are, and maybe – just maybe mind you, perhaps – get laid, and I'm the feller can take you there." He put his cigarette in his lips and reached into his coat again, and came out with a quill pen. "Now all we require is your signature and, boom, Bob's your uncle."

"Don't you need some ink for that pen?" said Addison.

"Ink?" said the man. "Ha ha, no, we don't need ink, not for this kind of contract. What we do is, I jab you in the finger and draw some blood, and you make your mark with your own blood."

"No thanks," said Addison.

"Coward," said Punch.

"I may be a coward," said Addison, "but you, sir, are insane."

"Fine, call me insane if it makes you happy, I don't give a shit, and I've been called far worse."

"I don't doubt it," said Addison.

"Spawn of the devil, minion of evil, Satan's slave, Beelzebub's butt-boy, I've heard 'em all, and the epithets roll off my back like the tears of the damned."

"So you're saying you're a demon?" said Addison.

"What did you think I was? The Good Humor Man? Now, here, let me just poke your finger with this quill. It won't hurt. Not much."

"No, thank you," said Addison.

"Oh, okay, fine, so you want to be like your little buddy here, huh? Go the rest of your life without knowing what it's like to dip your wick into a woman's sacred socket of sensuality."

"Well," said Addison, thinking of his would-be paramour Bubbles, "I suppose if push came to shove, one could always pay for the privilege."

"Yeah, sure, great," said Punch, "as if you would ever pay for it, 'cause I can tell just looking at you, you would never spend a dime for poontang that you could spend on cheap whiskey and green beer, don't make me laugh, ha, and look, please don't take this the wrong way, but all I have to say is, get used to Lady Five Fingers, pal, because she's the only lady you're ever likely to perform the act of darkness with, and that's for sure."

Was it true, thought Addison. Was he destined to die as he had lived, a lonely celibate? And was that necessarily even such a bad thing? Had not even Jesus of Nazareth been a confirmed bachelor?

He turned to Milford.

"Shall we go then, old chap?" he said.

"Yes," said Milford.

"Splendid," said Addison. "Which way?"

Milford sighed (his twelve thousandth and forty-first sigh since so reluctantly re-entering the world of consciousness the previous morning) then pointed one way, not the way he had pointed to just shortly before.

"That way," he said.

"Wrong way," said Punch.

"But you just said the other way is the wrong way," said Milford.

"I was lying," said Punch.

"Fine, we'll go the other way," said Milford.

"Also the wrong way," said Punch.

"I think you're lying again," said Milford.

"Last chance," said Punch. "Just sign the contract, and I'll have you where you want to go in a matter of minutes."

"How do we know you're not lying now?" said Milford.

"You don't. Now come on, sign the fucking scroll and we'll get this show on the road."

Milford looked at Addison, and Addison looked at Milford. They both looked one way, and then the other. Milford noticed that his Husky Boy had burnt down to a stub, and he let it drop to the littered floor, then stubbed it out with his sturdy workman's brogan. Addison took one last drag on his own Chesterfield butt, and then flicked it away, not worrying in the least about stubbing it out. And then as one the two companions turned and set off down the hall, in the direction Milford had first indicated not so long ago, although it felt like an hour ago, or a year ago.

"Go ahead!" called the man called Punch. "Fuck off, assholes, and godspeed and good luck, because you'll need it, and lots of it. I tried to help you, God knows, and the Devil too. Hey, don't let me stop you. Go on. Walk on endlessly into darkness and oblivion. Be my guests. Did I say fuck you? Well, I'm saying it now. Fuck you, the both of you. And your mothers too!"

Addison and Milford continued to walk down the dim corridor, toward the darkness. 

The voice of the little man echoed behind them, shouting imprecations, warnings, and dire predictions, and, gradually, it faded away as the two friends wended their way down the dim and dingy winding hallway into the shadows.

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

"A Man Called Punch"

 

Milford closed the door firmly behind him.

"So, once again," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields, and speaking in his best George Sanders voice, "the question is, 'Whither now?'"

Milford looked to the right and to the left, a dim and dingy hallway fading into darkness in both directions.

He sighed and took out his Husky Boys. Was this his twelve-thousandth and thirty-sixth sigh since awakening unwillingly in his comfortable bed in his cozy room that long ago morning on this selfsame day, now approaching another meaningless morning? No, there must have been a few more sighs in there somewhere. Better to round it off upward to twelve thousand and forty at least. He sighed again, for good measure, then put a cigarette into his thin lips, the only kind of lips he had.

Addison had lighted up his Chesterfield, and he offered the still burning Bob's Bowery Bar match to Milford.

"Oh, thank you," said Milford, drawing the flame into his Husky Boy.

Addison flicked the match to the floor, which Milford noticed was littered with innumerable other spent matches and butts of cigarettes and cigars, discarded crumpled cigarette packs, wads of chewing gum, the evidence of what men did in the course of their days and nights in aid of making their lives slightly less unbearable. He considered putting the sole of his workman's brogan on Addison's still-smoking match, but then thought, Why bother?

"Hi there, fellas. No offense!"

This was a voice to Milford's right, which is to say Addison's left, as they were facing each other. It was apparently the voice of a little man, yet another one, walking towards them on slightly limping but nimble short legs. He was shabby, wearing an oversized old army coat over baggy brown trousers, with a faded blue-and-grey striped scarf around his neck and a Greek fisherman's cap on his head. He had a stubble of whitish beard on his ravaged face, and a twinkle in his eye as he drew closer.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, "I mean no harm or disrespect, but I can tell at a glance that you two chaps are gentlemen, as I am myself. Oh, I know what you're thinking, I look like a tramp, but would you believe that I speak four languages fluently, and three others haltingly, and was once a champion coxswain on the Yale rowing team? I see by the way that you are both smoking cigarettes, and I wonder if either of you could spare one?"

"Sure, here you go, buddy," said Addison, taking out his cigarettes and giving the pack a shake so that one protruded from the opening.

"Ah, Chesterfields! A most delightful weed indeed," said the man. "I wonder if I may take two, one for now and one for later?"

"Certainly," said Addison.

The little man dug his grimy fingers into the pack, removed three cigarettes, and stuck them all into his coat pocket.

"And what about you, sir?" said the little man, to Milford.

"I"m sorry, what?" said Milford.

"Can you spare a smoke to a scholar fallen on hard times?"

"Oh, sorry," said Milford. He had put away his Husky Boys, but now he took them out again and offered them to the little man.

"Might I possibly take two?" said the man.

"Help yourself," said Milford, and the man took three.

Milford looked into the pack and saw he now had only two cigarettes left, then put them away.

The little man pocketed two of the newly cadged cigarettes and put one in his mouth. 

"Anybody got a light?"

"Oh, sorry," said Milford. He took out his Ronson, and after only half a dozen clicks, got it to produce a flame. 

The little man accepted the light, then exhaled an enormous cloud of smoke.

"My name," he said, "is Pontius Pilate Jones, but my friends call me Punch. Call me Punch."

"Hi, Punch," said Addison. 

"And your appellation, sir, unless of course you are travelling incognito, or operating undercover, or simply do not care to divulge it for whatever reason, and I'm sure if you have a reason it is a sound one."

"You want to know my name?" said Addison.

"Precisely," said the little man. "If it is not too forward of me to ask."

"Well," said Addison, "my friends all call me Addison, although my real name is –"

"If your friends call you Addison then so also shall I," said the man whose friends supposedly called him Punch. "And what," he said, turning his frightful visage with raised eyebrows to Milford, "may a poor wayfaring stranger address you as, young sir?"

"Milford," said Milford.

"And, if I may ask, and if I mayn't I apologize profusely, is that your surname or your prénom as the French say?"

"It's my last name," said Milford.

"And is it by this name that you prefer to be addressed?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Should I then call you Mr. Milford?"

"No, just Milford is fine," said Milford.

"And is there a reason you prefer not to be called by your Christian name?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"And may I know the reason, if not the name?"

"My reason for preferring to be addressed by my last name is that my first name is Marion," said Milford.

"Oh, yes, ha ha, I see," said the little man, "and with a first name myself like Pontius and a middle one like Pilate, I may well empathize, which is why really I prefer Punch. By the way, I would offer to shake your hands, gentlemen, but I don't want to take liberties. Unless of course you would like to clasp appendages with me in potential good fellowship."

He raised his right hand in a tentative manner. Its fingernails were yellow and lined with grime, and the flesh was the color of  ancient tissue paper lining a senior citizen's dresser drawer.

"Um," said Addison, reluctant to give voice to an outright negative response.

"Uh," said Milford, likewise.

"Very well then," said the little man called Punch, giving his dirty hand a carefree wave, "let us forget about handshakes, especially now, enmired as we are in cold and influenza season." He smiled, revealing dull yellow teeth, but to give him his due, he had teeth, or at least reasonably realistic dentures. "So, two young bucks out on the town, eh? Were you thinking of going into this place?"

He pointed to the door of The Prancing Fool.

"In fact we just left it," said Addison.

"Didn't get thrown out, did you?"

"No, we left willingly," said Addison.

"I tried to go in there once," said Punch. "They kicked me out. I told them I was a failed lyric poet, but they wouldn't believe me. Why did you leave?"

"It wasn't quite our sort of place," said Addison.

"You mean you're not bad artists or writers?"

"Well, let's just say we haven't quite accepted the inevitable status of 'bad'," said Addison.

"So you are indeed artists or writers of some sort."

"Yes," said Addison. "I am a novelist, or at least trying to be one, and my friend Milford is a poet."

"And you say you're not bad?"

"We wouldn't I think go that far," said Addison, "but let's just say we haven't yet abandoned all hope."

"I would like to write a novel some day," said Punch. "Or a poem."

"What would you like to write a novel about?" said Addison.

"I should like I think to write a novel about a chap who wants to write a novel, except the problem – and I think every good novel needs a problem – the problem is my hero has no talent."

"And what would you like to write a poem about?" asked Addison.

"I daresay I should like," said Punch, "to write a poem about wanting to write a poem, but having no talent to write a poem, except, of course, perhaps a bad poem."

"Maybe," said Addison, "you could combine your two desires, and write a novel about a man who wants to write a poem, but who has no talent for writing poetry."

"Killing two birds with one stone, if one may speak in cliché," said Punch.

"As it were," said Addison.

"That's such a brilliant idea," said the man called Punch. "Now I only need a room, and a pencil, and some paper, perhaps even a typewriter."

"Yes, I think a typewriter would be a good idea," said Addison, "as I think that the days of publishers accepting handwritten manuscripts are long gone, especially manuscripts written in pencil."

"Bad luck for me then!" said the man called Punch. "So, what are you fellas up to now?"

"Well," said Addison, "we're trying to get back to this bar where we left some lady friends."

"Lady friends?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"Actual ladies?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"Not transvestites then? And mind you, I am not being judgmental."

"No, they're not transvestites," said Addison.

"Then they must be quite elderly ladies I presume."

"No, not especially so," said Addison.

"Oh, I get it, they're lesbians! I should have known."

"Why do you say that?" spoke up Milford.

"That they're lesbians?" said Punch. "Or that I should have known they're lesbians."

"Both," said Milford.

"Well, only because two gentlemen such as yourselves – with shall we say a delicate bearing and bent – would only naturally have acquaintance with ladies of a sapphic inclination."

"Are you implying that we are homosexual?"

"My good fellow, I assure you again I am the the least judgmental of men. Who am I to tell two red-blooded lads they cannot seek solace in each other's embrace. I can assure you that such alliances were quite common in my days at Choate, not only among the students but between the students and masters. How well I remember the nocturnal cries of ecstasy resounding through the dormitories as I lay sleepless in my lonely cot."

"Look, pal," said Milford, attempting to deepen his naturally shallow and thin speaking voice, "we are not homosexual, and I don't know why people keep accusing us of being so."

"Gee, pal, I meant no disparagement."

"Well, anyway," said Milford, "enjoy your cigarettes, but, as my friend said, we have to go somewhere."

"To this bar where these aforementioned 'ladies' are?"

"Yes."

"And what bar is this?"

"It's called The Hideaway I think."

"The Negro bar?"

"Yes, do you know it?"

"Indeed I do. A delightful establishment."

"Well, that's where we're going," said Milford.

"If we can find it," said Addison.

"You mean to say you don't know where it is?" said Punch.

"Not exactly," said Addison.

"What about inexactly?"

"No, we don't know where it is, exactly or inexactly," said Milford.

"I can take you there," said Punch.

Both Addison and Milford took pause. Could they trust this bum? Quite possibly not. But what did they have to lose? The two friends exchanged glances, and each of them, after another pause, nodded slightly.

"All right," said Milford. "We would appreciate it if you could show us the way."

"Gladly," said Punch. "And I ask only one thing in return."

"What's that?" asked Milford.

"Not much," said the little man.

"Then what?" said Milford.

"Two things, actually," said the man.

"What?" said Addison.

"Your souls," said the little man called Punch. "I ask only for your immortal souls." 

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