"The Island of Lost Poets"

 

"You okay?" said Stoney.

"Yes, I think so," said Milford.

"You're not going to fall over?"

"I hope not."

It was so strange, talking to one's alter ego like this, but the strange had now become normal for Milford. He took a deep breath.

"You ready?" asked Stoney.

"Yes," said Milford. 

"Don't forget your cigarettes. And your lighter."

"Oh, right, thanks."

Milford picked up the pack of Husky Boys and his lighter from the bar top, put them in his peacoat pocket.

"Good," said Stoney. "Now let's go."

Milford glanced over at the dance floor. Mr. Whitman and Miss Alcott were still dancing, vigorously.

"Don't worry about them," said his alter ego. "They're having a good time."

Milford wished he could have a good time.

"Well, keep wishing," said Stoney. "Maybe it'll happen someday."

"You heard what I thought," said Milford.

"Of course I heard it. I am you, remember?"

"Oh, yes," said Milford.

"The better part of you."

"Yes, I can see that."

"Unfortunately not the dominant part."

"Yes, I am aware of that also."

"Why are you still standing here?"

"No reason. Or, rather, a host of reasons, too many to go into in less than four hundred pages of densely printed text."

"That was funny," said Stoney. "Now move it."

"I still feel bad about just leaving like this, without a word to Miss Alcott."

"Oh, my God. Look," said Stoney. "wait here. I'll go over and speak to her."

"You will?"

"No problem. Stay right here, don't talk to anybody, and I'll be back in one minute, maybe two."

Stoney ambled confidently over to the dance floor, as the singer of the minstrel band sang.

I'm gonna jump up on that railroad train

gonna sleep in that freight car again

gonna go to Californy and jump in the ocean

gonna drown my troubles and my pain…

"Hello there," said a man with great bushy sideburns who was sitting to the right of the stool Milford had just gotten up from.

"Oh, hi," said Milford.

"My name's Longfellow. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow? Maybe you've heard of me."

"Uh, yeah, sure," said Milford.

"You don't seem so sure."

"No, I'm sure."

"Then who am I?"

"A famous poet?"

"Correct. Can you name one of my poems?"

"Uh, 'The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere'?"

"Close. The actual title was simply 'Paul Revere's Ride'."

"Sorry."

"I saw you talking with Whitman and Alcott."

"Yes."

"May I know your name?"

"Only if you won't make fun of it."

"I promise not to."

"Marion Milford."

"Marion?"

"Yes. You can blame my mother for that."

"You poor lad. I'm guessing you're a poet too."

"Yes, but I'm a bad one."

"Admirable modesty. May I buy you a libation?"

"No thanks, I was just going."

"A pity. We see so very few living poets in here. May I give you some advice?"

"Sure."

"Enjoy your life while you're alive. It doesn't last."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you for knowing who I am, and for knowing at least the title, sort of, of one of my poems."

"You're welcome."

"Makes me think that my time in the land of the living was not entirely misspent. May I shake your hand, young sir?"

The sideburned man offered his hand and Milford took it. The hand was dry and seemed almost insubstantial, like papier mâché. Milford shook it gently, so as not to crush it, and the man looked at him with eyes like distant clouds at sunset. He turned away and picked up his drink, which seemed to be red wine of some sort.

Stoney was back.

"I told you not to talk to anybody," he said, in a stage whisper.

"I'm sorry," said Milford. "It couldn't be helped. He introduced himself to me."

"Whatever. Look, I spoke with Miss Alcott, explained to her that you were very tired, and extremely high, and a little drunk, and that you really thought it best that you leave."

"What did she say?"

"She said she understood."

"What did Walt Whitman say?"

"He said that when he was a young lad in Brooklyn he would drink and dance until the taverns closed and then go out and take a good long swim in the river. He said you were a lightweight, and he was disappointed in you."

"And then what?"

"Then they resumed dancing."

"Oh."

"Listen, Milford. You have to learn, people are not staying up all night worrying about you and your little problems."

"Oh."

"They have their own worries, okay? Their own concerns."

"Yes, I guess you're right."

"They're not thinking about you."

"Right."

"They don't care."

"I get it."

"They don't give a shit."

Milford said nothing. He got it.

"Okay," said Stoney, "now let's go."

And finally Milford cast his corporeal host away from the bar, in the direction of the exit.

He made it to the door without further incident, he opened the door and went out into the corridor, the door closed behind him. He could still hear the music, the singing, and the muffled babbling of voices. 

He realized he was alone again. Stoney had gone back to wherever he came from. 

He started walking along the dim corridor. He had no idea how to get out of this place, but he figured as long as he kept going he must reach the street again, eventually.

He stopped.

He wondered if Stoney had really spoken to Miss Alcott and Mr. Whitman. If Stoney were actually he, and he, Milford, had remained at the bar, talking to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, how could Stoney, if he was really he, Milford, simultaneously be talking to Mr. Whitman and Miss Alcott? Could he have been in two places at once? Or was Stoney merely a figment of his unconscious mind? Or was he a figment of Stoney's mind? Milford had no answers to these questions. 

He resumed walking down the dim corridor, and after a minute the corridor came to an intersection, crossing another corridor going to the right and left, while the corridor he had been walking along continued straight ahead into shadows. 

Milford stopped again, pricking up his small, shell-like ears under his newsboy's cap. Faint sounds emanated from the corridor running to the left. He hesitated for a moment, and then went that way. After two minutes the corridor came to an end, crossed by another corridor going to the right and to the left. The sounds, less faint now, came from the left, and so he went that way, even though the corridor seemed to lead into darkness. He walked into the darkness, and he no longer knew where he was going, or why, but the sounds grew louder, and after a minute he saw a dim light up ahead. He continued to walk and the light grew less dim, until he came to a door with a bare lightbulb stuck in the wall above it. From behind the door came the sound of a gentle song, and on the door was a hand-painted sign.

The Island of Lost Poets

Fine Food and Drinks

We Never Close

Welcome

Milford knew he probably shouldn't, But, he thought, that's why I should.

He turned the doorknob, the door opened, he went inside, and the door closed behind him.

It was another dimly-lit barroom, much like all the other barrooms that Milford had known in his young life. Tables and booths, and to the right a long counter with stools. A song played, apparently from a jukebox. The place was filled with people. These must be the lost poets.

Milford was lost, he was a poet, albeit a bad poet. He should fit right in here. He went over to the bar.

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