"Five-and-Dime Daisy"

On they marched, following the tiny man singing his song

Oh, I knowed a dark haired lady

way down in Saskatchewan,

and such a dose she gave me

I thought I couldn't go on,

but a croaker named Doc Benway

shot me full of penicillin

and soon I was up and back in play

with any old gal that was willin'…

"Look, Mr. Whitman," said Milford, "if you don't mind, I'm just going to grab one of these empty urinals, because –"

"Wait, Millard, what did you call me?"

"Mr. Whitman?"

"Yes. And what did I ask you to call me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot – 'Walt' –"

"Walt," said Mr. Whitman, taking his pipe out of the thicket of his beard. "Now don't make me tell you again, Martin, or you're gonna hurt my feelings, because I thought we were buddies."

"Okay, Walt, then," said Milford, "and, by the way, I know it's not important, but my name is not Martin, or Millard, or Mumford, or Mervyn, or Melvoin –"

"It's not?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"Again, and for the hundredth time, it's Milford, okay? Milford. Why is that so hard to remember?"

Mr. Whitman stopped, and turned to look down at his young friend.

"Say it again for me."

"Milford," said Milford.

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I know my own name?"

"I don't know. I suppose you might have your reasons, and who am I, a humble poetaster, to question them?"

"Well, I am pretty sure that I know my own name."

"Okay, well, now it's my turn to say I'm sorry."

"All right," said Milford. "Anyway –"

"But there's no need to get upset, my friend."

The tiny man, who was now ten yards ahead, stopped singing his song and turned around.

"Hey, what's the hold-up back there?"

"Sorry, Benny!" called Mr. Whitman, and he touched Milford's arm. "Come on, we're lagging behind."

"It wasn't I who stopped, Mr. Whit-, um, I mean, Walt –"

"Let's not play the blame game, Milfred," said Mr. Whitman. "We're both better than that. At least I'd like to think we are."

"I'm waiting," yelled the tiny man.

 "Come on, buddy, let's not keep Benny waiting," said Mr. Whitman.

"Look," said Milford, "I'm just going to take this urinal right here," and he pointed to an unoccupied urinal immediately to his right.

"No!" said Mr. Whitman, and his mighty hand tightened on Milford's not mighty biceps muscle.

"But, Mr. Wh-, I mean Walt, I have to go!" said Milford, his voice breaking.

"But you'll get Benny upset, Mimfern," said Mr. Whitman, in a loud stage whisper. "His instructions were, specifically, to find us two adjoining urinals, and, I don't know if you noticed it, but he takes his job very seriously."

"I don't care!"

"Wow," said Mr. Whitman. "Just – 'wow' is all I can say to that. Because that's no way to be. Where would we be if none of us cared about what other people cared about?"

"We'd be exactly where we are, in a living hell."

"That's a little extreme."

"Hey, youse two!" yelled Benny. "Get the lead out. I got two adjoining urinals for yez right up here."

"Coming!" said Mr. Whitman, and he turned to Milford. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Milford said nothing, rather than screaming, and allowed Mr. Whitman to pull him forward until they closed the distance to the tiny man.

"There yez go," said the tiny man, pointing with his tiny thumb in its white glove. "Two urinals, adjoining."

"Thanks so much, Benny," said Mr. Whitman, and, putting his pipe in his teeth, he took his change purse out of his baggy workman's trousers and opened it. "Shit, all the coin I got is a nickel and some pennies."

"That's okay, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man. "You can catch me the next time."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Whitman. "Melphries, do you have, oh, I don't know, fifty cents or so?"

Milford started to check his pockets, but then stopped. 

"No, sorry," he said, "I just remembered I'm all out of small change, because when I went to buy some cigarettes from the machine –"

"Look, it's okay," said Benny. "Next time."

"Benny," said Mr. Whitman, "I wouldn't hear of it. Here, just give me a second." He put the change purse away and dug his hand in his back pocket and brought out a wallet, old and worn, and almost as large as a woman's purse. He opened it and peered within. "I don't believe it," he said, thumbing through the thick wad of bills inside the wallet. "All's I have is twenties. Mungford, you wouldn't have a single on you, would you?"

In desperation Milford brought out his own old wallet, fashioned by himself during his brief tenure as a Cub Scout, and opened it. "No, I don't have any singles, sorry –"

"What do you have?" said Mr. Whitman, peering down into the wallet.

"Just, uh, a couple of fives, tens –"

"Okay, give Benny a five then, and I'll pay you back."

"Mr. Whitman," said Benny, "that ain't necessary."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Whitman, and, taking charge, he dipped his thumb and finger into Milford's wallet, picked out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the tiny man.

"Gee, thanks, Mr. Whitman," said the little fellow.

"Don't mention it, Benny. Spend it well, my friend!"

"You bet I will!" said the tiny man, folding up the bill. "I knows a little lady who will appreciate this fin, that's for sure. And I will appreciate what she gives me for it, if ya know what I mean."

"Oh, I think I do, you scamp," said Mr. Whitman.

"I'm talking about what they call a Baltimore handshake, Mr. Whitman. And from one of the prettiest little midget gals you ever seen."

"I'm sure she is, Benny," said Mr. Whitman.

"They calls her Five-and-Dime Daisy, on accounta she charges five for a Baltimore handshake, and ten for a –"

"Okay, look," said Milford, putting away his wallet, "if it's all right, I'm just going to take one of these urinals."

"Well, that was kind of rude," said the little man. "Just interrupting me like that."

"I'm sorry," said Milford, "but I have to go!"

"Oh, okay," said the small man. "Don't let me stop you."

He stuck the bill, folded into eighths, into the breast pocket of his red jacket.

Mr. Whitman once again put his great hand on Milford's arm.

"Milphrum, aren't we forgetting something?"

"What?" said Milford, through a film of tears.

"Shouldn't we thank Benny?"

"That ain't necessary, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man.

"Yes it is," said Mr. Whitman.

"Okay, thank you!" cried Milford.

"You're very welcome," said the tiny man, and he turned to Mr. Whitman. "See ya on the way out, Mr. Whitman."

He set off in the opposite direction, back towards the entrance of the men's room, which was so far away it was barely visible.

"I think you hurt his feelings," said Mr. Whitman.

Milford said nothing to this, but he realized that Mr. Whitman still held onto his arm. 

"Mr. Whitman, could you let go of my arm? I really have to pee now, or I'm going to burst."

"Oh, of course," said Mr. Whitman, and he loosened his grip. "Which urinal do you want?"

"I don't care. At this point I would gladly pee on the floor, or against the wall."

"I would prefer the one on the left. Is that okay with you?"

"Yes, fine."

"Very well then," said Mr. Whitman, and without another word, Milford staggered the few steps over to the urinal on the left, unbuttoning the fly of his dungarees with desperate fingers as he did so.

Just barely in time he disinterred his allegedly virile member and soon he knew an ecstasy he had never known before, and the likes of which he was fated never to know again.

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