There was one empty stool at the bar, and Milford claimed it.
Milford may have been young, but he knew the routine.
The first thing you did when you took a stool at a bar was to take out your cigarettes and light one up, and this Milford did, adding his own smoke to the smoke that every single other person in this barroom was emitting. And after that first satisfying exhalation it occurred to him that of all the smoky bars he had ever been in, this was undoubtedly the smokiest, which was fine by Milford. There was only one rule in a severely smoky bar, and that was never to rub your eyes, because then you were only rubbing the microscopic smoke granules deeper into your eyeballs, causing them to burn and flood with hot tears, and obliging you to make haste to the men's room in order to rinse your globules of vision copiously with cold water so that you could return to your seat and fire up another cigarette.
"Haven't seen you in here before," said a man to Milford's right.
"No, this is my first time," said Milford.
"I daresay it won't be the last," said the man.
His face was long and depressing, the skin the color of old paper, with one of those ugly weak goatees with the pale flesh showing through the thin whiskers, less convincing than the fake goatees that aristocratic art dealers and sadists wore on the stage and in films. On his head was a beret the color of soot, and he wore a tweed topcoat, the shoulders sprinkled with dandruff. Around his neck was a scarf, black like the beret, but with a greasy sheen.
"Pray do not look on me with disgust," said the man.
"I wasn't," lied Milford.
"I was once young like you."
"I don't doubt it," said Milford.
"Now I am the eternal 40-year-old, but the sort of 40-year-old who already gives off a faint odor of the sepulcher. Am I to be reviled and shunned for this?"
"No," said Milford.
"Just you wait, your time will come."
"I'm sure it will," said Milford, "unless I die first."
"Ah ha!" said the man, baring yellow jagged teeth. "Spoken like a true lost poet!"
He glared through the smoke at Milford with eyes that were bloodshot and milky at the same time.
"What do you want, buddy."
This was said by a bartender, or at least a big man pretending to be a bartender. He wore a red vest and a bowtie, and his face was bloated and shiny with a thin sheen of oil.
"I don't want anything," said Milford.
"You can't just sit here and take up space," said the bartender, or the man pretending to be a bartender.
"Do you have sarsaparilla?" asked Milford.
"No, we don't have fucking sarsaparilla," said the bartender.
"How about a ginger ale?"
"What are you, one of these reformed drunks?"
"Yes," said Milford.
"Well, fuck you," said the bartender. "Order a real drink or get the fuck out."
"Okay," said Milford. "I'll go."
"Wait, Thumper," said the man with the goatee. "I'll buy him a real drink. How about a ginger ale but with a nice shot of rye in it, my friend, just to give it a bit of oomph?"
"No thanks," said Milford.
"Bourbon then. Bourbon and ginger. A classic American libation."
"I don't drink alcohol."
"You look drunk to me," said the man.
"Well, it's true, I did drink a bit tonight, without really meaning to, but I also ate the sacred mushrooms of the Indians and smoked hashish."
"Well, that it explains it then," said the man. "Thumper, bring my friend what I'm drinking, and I'll pay for it."
"Fine," said the bartender impersonator, and he went away.
"Thumper gets testy," said the man. "It's hard serving poets, but it's especially hard serving lost poets."
"Yes, I imagine it is," said Milford.
"My name is Ezekiel Montayne," said the man, offering his hand, which was thin and pale, with tiny black hairs like spider legs on it.
"Oh, hi," said Milford, reluctantly shaking the man's hand. It felt like shaking a dead lizard, and Milford withdrew his own hand as quickly as he could.
"I don't blame you for recoiling from my touch," said the man who had given his name as Ezekiel Montayne. "I would too, were I not I. Imagine how I feel, encased in this prison of flesh?"
"Yes, it must be hard," said Milford.
"You don't know," said this Ezekiel Montayne. "No one knows the horror I experience simply by being me."
"Here's your 'libation'," said the bartender, and he set down a glass with something yellow in it, with a thin layer of yellow-white foam at the top.
"What's this?" said Milford.
"What's it look like?" said the bartender.
"Beer," said Milford.
"Bingo," said the bartender. "Give the man a prize. That'll be a nickel, Ezekiel."
"Oh, yes," said Ezekiel. He reached inside his topcoat and into his trousers pocket and brought out a small change purse made out of faded purple cloth. He clicked it open, took out a nickel, and laid it on the counter. The bartender picked it up.
"Thanks, big spender," said the bartender, and he went away again.
"See?" said Ezekiel. He clicked his purse shut. "He said thanks. At least he's polite." He stowed his purse back in his pocket. "Go ahead, drink your beer, pal."
"I've already said I don't drink."
"It's only beer. Look, I'm drinking one." He pointed to a half-full glass in front of him, picked it up, and took a sip. "Mm, so refreshing."
"I'm not supposed to drink. I'm an alcoholic."
"Well, so am I, but I'm drinking," said Ezekiel. "You don't see me making a big deal out of it."
"Maybe I'd better just go," said Milford.
"You would insult me by refusing a beer I purchased for you?"
"You drink it."
"But I bought it for you. Why do you want to make me feel bad? Don't I feel bad enough simply by existing? And you would make me feel worse?"
"Oh, Christ."
"One little glass of beer is not going to kill you."
Milford gave a quick sigh, the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-third sigh of this seemingly endless day and night, and then he lifted up the glass in front of him and put it to his lips and drank. He drank approximately one-third of its contents and then put the glass back down.
"Well, how was it?" said Ezekiel Montayne, showing his yellow teeth in a hideous smile.
"Superb," said Milford, even though it tasted no better or worse than any other beer you got in a bar.
"I'm so glad you like it," said Ezekiel. "It's the house brew. Lost Poets Lager. Get it? This bar is called the Island of Lost Poets, and the house beer is called Lost Poets Lager."
"Yeah, that's pretty clever," said Milford.
"What's your name?"
Milford sighed for the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-fourth time since falling unwillingly into wakefulness that morning.
"I prefer just to be called Milford."
"Oh," said Ezekiel. "What's your real name?"
"My real name is Milford, but it's my last name, and before you can ask me, my first name is Marion."
"And that's why you prefer to be called Milford."
"Correct."
"Because Marion is a feminine name."
"It can be, yes."
"I would say it usually is."
"Just call me Milford."
"Okay, Milford."
"He's not queer, Ezekiel," said a woman's voice to Milford's left.
Milford turned. The voice apparently belonged to a woman all dressed in black, with a tiny black pillbox hat on her head.
"What?" said Milford.
"I was telling Ezekiel you're not queer."
"Oh," said Milford.
"So he should give up."
"You meddling intrusive bitch," said Ezekiel, to the woman. "I was only trying to be friendly with the young chap."
"We all know what that means, Ezekiel," said the woman.
"How dare you."
"The boy walks in here, and before he can even order a drink you're trying to seduce him."
"Pardon my French, but you're being a frightful C-word, Margaret."
"Don't call me a C-word, you desiccated ponce."
"Desiccated am I? No more than that Gobi Desert you call your womanhood."
"Come on, chum," said the woman to Milford. She polished off the drink she was holding, then slipped off her stool and tugged at Milford's arm. "Grab your beer and come with me."
"Where are we going?" asked Milford.
"Anywhere away from this two-bit poofter. Let's go. Don't forget that beer. And your cigarettes and lighter."
"You frightful twat, Margaret," said Ezekiel. "There, I said it, twat, and I don't regret it."
"You're a bigger twat than I'll ever be, Ezekiel," said the woman, and to Milford she said, "Don't forget your cigarettes and lighter, honey."
Milford scooped up his pack of Husky Boys and his lighter, stuck them in his peacoat pocket, picked up his beer and got off his stool. He was afraid of the woman, but he was more afraid of Ezekiel.
"Nice meeting you, Milford," called Ezekiel.
At least he had remembered his name, thought Milford.
"Well, thanks for the beer," he said, now feeling slightly sorry for the fellow.
"You're so very welcome," said Ezekiel. "Oh, and by the way, if it comes to that, I implore you, please use a condom, for your own protection if not for Margaret's."
"Asswipe," said the woman, apparently named Margaret, and she took Milford by the arm and pulled him away.
Could this be it? wondered Milford. After all the travails of this endless day and night, could this at last be his chance to divest himself of his virginity?
As the woman pulled him along through the smoke, through the vague babble of voices and the recorded voice of a lady singing a sad song, he stole a glance at her.
She was almost the same height as Milford, but then Milford was not tall. Her grip on his arm felt strong, probably stronger than Milford's were he ever to grip something, which he had never done. Her skin was the color of snow, the hair under her small black hat was also black, falling to the shoulders of her black dress. Could she possibly be a nun of some sort? It was a matter of indifference to Milford if she were a nun, he held all religions in equal contempt. She looked older, perhaps thirty or even thirty-five, but this also did not matter to Milford. Surely it was better to have his first time be with a woman who actually knew what she was doing. He hoped she would be patient, and perhaps even kind.
They came to a small round table in a corner, it looked like the only empty table in the room.
"Okay," she said. "Sit down."
"May I help you with your chair?" said Milford, who had seen this maneuver in films and plays.
"I can pull my own chair out," she said, and she did, and sat down. Milford was not a very observant fellow, and so he only now noticed that she carried a handbag, which seemed to be made of black leather, and which she put on the table and clicked open, taking out a black-and-sliver cigarette case and a thin ebony lighter. She looked up at him.
"I told you to sit down."
"Oh, sorry," said Milford, and he pulled the empty chair out and sat, putting his beer glass on the table.
"My name is Margaret Blackbourne," said the woman. She opened the cigarette case and took out a black cigarette with a shiny silver-colored filter. "They call me the Black Widow, but please do not be put off by that."
Milford quickly started to dig his cigarette lighter out, but she beat him to it, lighting herself up with the lacquered ebony lighter.
"I haven't ever actually killed one of my lovers," she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the greater cloud of smoke all around them. "Not yet I haven't, anyway."
{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}
