"Sawdust and Cigarette Butts"

Suddenly a man was standing in the space just outside the space between their barstools.

"Hello," he said.

Milford removed his hand from Miss Alcott's, and she removed her hand from his thigh.

"I hate to interrupt," said the man.

"Then don't do it," said Miss Alcott.

"Ha ha, you slay me, Lou."

"I just might do it in the literal sense, and very soon."

"Heh heh, as risible as ever, but I just wanted to come over and say hello to the young gentleman."

"Then pray do so," said Miss Alcott. "And then begone."

"My name is Hawthorne," said the man, quickly, "Nathaniel Hawthorne." When Milford said nothing in reply the man continued. "Perhaps you've heard of me." He was dressed in an old-fashioned and old brown serge three-piece suit, and he had long grey hair falling on either side of his balding head. Under his nose was a thick moustache with what looked like pretzel crumbs in it. "But my friends call me Nat, as I hope you will too."

"Just call him Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott to Milford. "No one calls him Nat."

"Ha ha again," said the man. "Slaying, Lou, absolutely slaying, as always. And you, sir," he said cocking his head toward Milford, "if I am not very much mistaken, are none other than Mr. Marion Milford."

"Yes," said Milford.

"May I shake your hand, sir?"

"If you insist," said Milford.

"I do not insist, as that would be rude, but I ask you most humbly to shake my own modest hand."

"You're not one of these guys who tries to crush another man's hand in his, just to prove that he is not homosexual, are you?"

"Oh, far from it, dear sir! My hand could hardly crush a soap bubble!"

"Okay, then," said Milford, and he extended his hand, which the man took in his own. It felt cold, papery, but still somehow fleshy, and weak, like a recently deceased reptile of some sort. The man gave a limp shake, and Milford withdrew his hand at once.

"I have heard about you, sir," said the man.

"That surprises me," said Milford. 

"But why should it surprise you?"

"Because I am nobody," said Milford.

"Oh, no, sir!"

"A nonentity's nonentity," said Milford. "My own mother

despises me as a waster and a fool. And when I get up to talk at my Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, even the most fervent reformed drunks fall asleep."

"But you are nonetheless a hero of your time, sir! Everyone has heard the legend of Milford! Why, just as Melville's Bartleby was the avatar of the mid-19th century man, so also are you, sir, the ultimate paragon of the lost and vacant man of today, the man who is without purpose or meaning, without religion or philosophy, without joy or love, in a universe that doesn't care, in short, the exemplary man in a world without exemplars. And, now, now, here you are, in person!"

"So?"

"I am all athrill, sir!"

"Look, Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott, "ask for his autograph and leave us, will you? Milford doesn't want to hear your sycophantic groveling."

"I would love to ask for Mr. Milford's autograph, Miss Lou," said the man. "But I would also like to ask him if I may be his chronicler."

"My what?" said Milford.

"I should like to tell your story, Mr. Milford, sir. And, I know, you would probably be disgusted at the idea of your name being used in a work of soi-disant literature, but I could change it if you wish. It would be an easy matter. The title I have in mind is (pace my friend Mr. Poe) The Fall of the House of Milford. But I could call it something else, like, I don't know, The Fall of the House of Dumford."

"No," said Milford.

"Rumford?"

"I don't think so."

"Bumford."

"The answer is no. My life is miserable enough as it is, without someone else turning it into a, a cheap paperback novel."

"It wouldn't have to be a cheap paperback. At least not on first publication."

"The man said no, Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott. "And now, you should pardon my lapse into the vernacular, kindly take a hike."

"I could cut you in on the royalties," said the man to Milford.

"No, thanks," said Milford.

"What would you say to, oh, twenty percent?"

"No."

"Twenty-five percent?"

"No."

"How about sixty-forty then? Forty percent for you, that is."

"I don't care about royalties," said Milford. "I care about preserving at least a small nugget-sized core of dignity somewhere deep within my wretched soul."

"Wow. Can I quote that? That was brilliant. I should love to spend a rich Boswellian season of afternoons in the coffee house of your choice, collecting just such choice bons mots which I could then salt-and-pepper throughout my proposed work, which I see running into three hefty volumes, published serially so as to optimize sales."

"I don't think so," said Milford.

"What about just some several afternoons."

"No."

"Two or three?"

"No."

"Even one would be better than nothing."

"I'm pretty busy."

"Just an hour."

"No."

"Not even an hour? I could buy you lunch."

"No, thanks," said Milford.

"What about dinner then? Have you ever been to Delmonico's? I've never been there, but I'm told their Beef Wellington is to die for."

"I've never been there either," said Milford, "nor do I want to go there."

"What about Bob's Bowery Bar? They have a really good Mulligan Stew I'm told."

"No, thanks," said Milford. "I prefer to eat at automats."

"We could go to an automat."

"See here, Nathaniel," said Miss Alcott, "can't you take a hint? The man doesn't want to have lunch or dinner with you."

"He didn't say that specifically, Lou."

"Ask him."

"Sir," said the man, "would you like to have lunch or dinner with me, anywhere, at my expense?"

"No," said Milford.

"What about an old-fashioned tavern crawl?"

"All right," said Miss Alcott, "I'm through being polite. If you don't leave Mr. Milford alone I shall have no recourse but to ask Bret to forcibly remove you."

"You split an infinitive there, Lou. I thought you were better than that."

"All right, I'm calling Bret if you don't go away at once."

"I'm a better writer than Bret ever was. His work has not a tenth of the resonance of mine. It completely lacks the spiritual element."

"Very well, that's it," said Miss Alcott. She turned towards the bartender, who was shaking a cocktail halfway down the bar. "I say, Bret! Will you kindly tell Mr. Hawthorne to stop bothering us?"

"Nathaniel!" yelled the bartender, presumably named Bret. "Leave them two alone and go back to your table!"

"Oh, all right," said Hawthorne in response, and then he turned to Milford again. "Just think about what I said, please. I can give you fifty percent of the royalties, and I promise I'll use whatever pseudonym you please. What about Bumpstead?"

"Hey!" yelled Bret the bartender. "Don't make me come down there, Nathaniel!"

"Okay, I'm going, I'm going," said Hawthorne. "Here, please take my card, sir. If I'm not in, just leave a message with my landlady."

He was holding out a calling card, so, just to get rid of him, Milford took it. The card read:

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Author and Motivational Speaker

Rates Negotiable

And under that was a MacDougal Street address.

"Really, stop by any time. Day or night," said Hawthorne. "And if I'm not at home you can usually find me here. By the way, do you think I could have your autograph? I have my little morocco bound notebook in my pocket, and a pencil."

"Sorry, but if I ever give anyone my autograph, then I'll know it's time for me to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Ha ha, such rapier wit! Again, may I quote you, sir?"

"I don't give a damn."

"Then I shall." The man noticed that the bartender was staring at him, and so he said, "Okay, great meeting you, Mr. Milford. Lou, always a pleasure. And now, before Bret throws me out, and if I may paraphrase Lady MacBeth, I shall stand not upon the order of my going, but go at once."

And finally he went away.

"He's so pathetic," said Miss Alcott. "Hasn't written anything decent in almost a century, and now he wants to ride your coattails. Do yourself a favor and rip that card to shreds."

And without hesitation Milford ripped the card up into tiny pieces and let them flutter down to the sawdust and cigarette butts and other torn-up hopes and dreams on the floor.

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