"Rescued"

The unknown words danced and sang and crashed like waves through the universe inside Milford's skull, he felt the moist warmth of the four women subsuming his corporeal host, he breathed in their perfume and their animal scent and their breath tasting of juniper berries and mulled Christmas wine, and he felt his self dissolving.

Okay, said his inner voice, his alter ego, laughably called Stoney, this is it, whatever it is, now you enter some other realm, never to return, but don't feel bad, my friend, the realm you come from was never that great to begin with…

"Don't be afraid," said the blonde-haired woman, looking into his eyes, and with both of her hands on his cheeks.

"Nothing to be afraid of," said the woman with mahogany-colored hair, caressing and squeezing his right arm.

"Yeah, relax, baby," said the one with the upswept dark hair, palpating his negligible biceps muscle, "let us take care of you."

The one behind him, the red-headed woman, pressed her fingers into his ribcage, and continued to whisper the foreign words and phrases into his ear.

"My, you are sweating profusely," said the blonde, smiling, and she lifted a sweat-daubed finger from Milford's cheek, and touched it to her tongue. "You should let us remove this heavy peacoat."

"And that thick ribbed fisherman's sweater you have on under it," said the mahogany-haired woman.

"Might as well get out of those dungarees and stout workman's brogans while we're at it," said the dark-haired woman.

The redhead behind him said something foreign, but Milford caught what sounded like the phrase "boxer shorts".

"No," he said, weakly.

"Yes," said the blonde woman, and the women to his right and left also said yes. The one behind him said something foreign, but Milford had no doubt she was saying yes as well.

Yes, also said Stoney, his faithful inner being, this really is it, then, it was nice knowing you, I guess…

"Melbourne!"

A loud, deep, commanding voice, a man's voice.

"Milbourne, what the hell are you doing in here?"

All four of the women drew back from their quadruple embrace, and Milford managed to turn around.

There, standing in the open doorway, was Walt Whitman, or at least the man who claimed to be Walt Whitman.

"What the hell, son?"

"Um," said Milford.

"'Scuse me, Red," said Mr. Whitman, and, putting the pipe he held into his teeth, he gently moved the red-headed woman aside, lifting her up and setting her down with both of his huge hands, then he took the pipe out of his mouth again. "All right, now just what the hell is going on in this den of female iniquity?"

"Nothing," said the blonde woman.

"Yeah, nothing at all," said the mahogany-haired woman.

"Less than nothing," said the dark-haired woman.

"I love the way you lifted me up like that, Walt," said the redhead. "So masterful!"

"Yeah, great, Red," said Mr. Whitman, and he grabbed Milford's arm. "Come on, little buddy, let's get you out of this accursed hen house."

"Why do you want to spoil our fun, Walt?" said the blonde.

"I will choose not to dignify that question with a direct response, Blondie," said Mr. Whitman, "but I will say that I shall not allow you wenches to spoil what precious innocence this lad possesses. And now, if you will excuse us, come on, Molbourne."

"It's Milford," said Milford.

"What did I say?" 

"Melbourne, then Milbourne, and then Molbourne."

"Okay, whatever, come on."

He pulled Milford by the arm, toward the doorway.

"'Bye, Milford!" trilled all four women, in unison.

At least they got his name right.

Mr. Whitman pulled Milford through the doorway, shutting the door behind him. He turned and looked down at the younger man.

"Jeeze, it seems I can't leave you alone for a minute. What the hell were you doing in there?"

"I was looking for the men's room. I had to pee."

Mr. Whitman sighed, and brushed off Milford's peacoat with his hands, even though there wasn't anything to brush off.

"You reek of perfume now, and of woman-musk. And also you're absolutely drenched with perspiration."

"I'm sorry."

"What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking."

"Well, I suppose that's obvious. Stupid question, I suppose. I've been looking all over for you. What happened to you? Louisa and I came back to the bar from dancing the Black Bottom, and you had quite disappeared!"

"I just felt I had to leave,, because of the mushrooms, and the hashish, and everything, and I wandered through strange corridors, and somehow I wound up in this bar…"

Mr. Whitman glanced into the bowl of his pipe, then knocked it against the door jamb, letting the dead ashes fall to the floor.

"So," he said, taking out his tobacco pouch from the pocket of his chore coat, "you left one bar and wound up in another bar."

"Yes, and I met this woman, I think her name was Miss Blackbourne –"

"Oh, Margaret Blackbourne?"

"You know her?"

"Know her well," said Mr. Whitman, refilling his pipe with the gummy stuff in the pouch, "they call her 'the Black Widow', also 'the Queen of Darkness', or, my personal favorite, 'the Doyenne of Doom' – nice gal if you like that pale gloomy femme fatale type. Me, I go more for strong country gals and washerwomen, with thick strong wrists and powerful legs, but, hey, if she's your type, who am I to be judgmental." He put away the pouch and took out his box of Blue Tips, struck one and put the flame to his pipe. "Why?" he said, puffing and drawing the thick fragrant smoke. "Did you find her attractive?"

"I find any woman who talks to me attractive."

"Not picky then, eh, my lad?"

"I can't afford to be picky. As I think I told you, I'm still a virgin, and at the rate I'm going I'm going to die a virgin."

"Ah, my boy," Mr. Whitman exhaled an enormous cloud of the thick smoke into Milford's face, "there is plenty of time still for you to enjoy the vigorous hearty joys of copulation. Why are you fidgeting? I hope I'm not boring you."

"No," lied Milford, and then, truthfully, "but I still really have to pee."

"Oh, of course. Well, we wouldn't want you to pee yourself, would we? Come on, let's get you to the men's room. I could go for a stout manly piss myself."

"I'm afraid."

"Afraid of what, for the Godhead's sake?"

"I'm afraid of going to the men's room."

"Afraid of going to the men's room. You're kidding me, right?"

"No. Every time I go to a men's room something weird happens."

"Okay. Listen, Morton –"

"Milford."

"Listen, Milford, I'm going to tell you something which you'd do well to learn and take to heart. It took me a long time to learn it myself, but, mark me well, my lad, the sooner you learn it, the happier you'll be."

"I don't think I'll ever be happy."

"Okay, fine, then let's say less miserable. Can you accept that possibility?"

"Yes, provisionally."

"Then do you want to hear it?"

"I don't care."

"Well, here it is anyway. Hearken to me, my son."

"Okay."

"Are you listening?"

"As well as I am able to, while desperately needing to pee."

"Well, hold it in for just a minute whilst I unmuzzle my wisdom, as the bawdy Bard once said."

"Okay, I'm listening," said Milford, just to get it over with.

"It is only this, my dear Millfold, this and only this. Everywhere you go, anywhere you go, or are taken to, or dragged kicking and screaming to, or wind up in seemingly merely by chance – something weird will happen. Anywhere, everywhere, anyhow, anyway, count on it, the one and only thing you can count on is something weird will happen. Until you die. Which will also be weird. And only then will the weirdness cease, although, unfortunately, so will you."

"All right."

"I give you this piece of hard-won wisdom, free, gratis and for nothing. And why? Because I like you. Don't ask me why, but I do."

"Thank you."

"Good. Now let's go and get you to that men's room."

"Okay."

"It's just right over here. Come on."

He took Milford's arm again, and led him up, or down, the dim corridor and around a corner to another door, on the left. This one actually had a sign, reading

Hommes

"Hommes," said Mr. Whitman. "How pretentious, but what do you expect, it's a poets' bar."

"I'm still afraid."

"Well, get over it then, unless you want to piss in your jeans, now stop being such a pussy. I'll be in there with you."

"I can't help it. I'm terrified."

"Oh, for Vishnu's sake, here," he proffered his pipe to Milford, "take a few big tokes of this, it'll calm you down.

Forgetting for the nonce that the pipe's bowl held a mixture of burley and hashish, Milford took the pipe. Mr. Whitman struck another kitchen match, put the flame to the bowl, and Milford  drew deeply, once, twice, thrice, and then for good measure a fourth time. And as he exhaled the thick sweet smoke it was as if he also exhaled his terror, or at least the better part of it.

"Feel better now?" asked Mr. Whitman, tossing away the match.

"Yes," admitted Milford.

"Good," said Mr. Whitman, and he took the pipe from Milford's hand. "Now get the hell in there."

Milford sighed, this was his twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-sixth sigh since unwillingly rising up out of oblivion many months ago the previous morning. If his doom lay in here, or madness, or both, then at least he could face it, or them, with an empty bladder.

He pushed open the door and went, or floated, inside, guided along by Mr. Whitman's powerful hand on his back.

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