But as his urine streamed from him like a gushing yellow river, Milford suddenly felt as if he himself were streaming out of himself, splattering against the stained porcelain of the urinal and down into the drain.
So this is it, he thought, this is how it ends, swirling down into the drain of a men's room urinal. Or was it the end? Would his essence flow through the pipes and reassemble itself somewhere else? Where did the pipes lead to? The river? Which river was closest, the Hudson or the East? Not that it mattered. His being would flow into the river, and down through the harbor and thence into the ocean, where he would become part of the aquatic universe, insentient, uncaring, unknowing and unknown. Or would he become a fish? And like a tiny fish he swam through the dark green depths, through the ruins of sunken ancient cities, past the hulks of torpedoed ships, through valleys between mossy mountains higher than the Himalayas, yes, this was freedom, free at last, but then directly before him loomed an enormous white killer whale, its cavernous sawtoothed mouth agape and then the mighty jaws closed over him and all was darkness.
"Hey, buddy, you all right?"
The top of Milford's head in its newsboy's cap was pressed against the tiles above the urinal. He lifted his head and turned to see who had spoken, which was apparently a light-skinned Negro in a porkpie hat and with a large cigarette in his mouth.
"What?" was all that Milford could bring himself to say.
"You look like you's about to pass out, man."
"I, yes, I'm afraid it's been a long night."
"You're pissing like a champ, though."
"Yes, I really had to go."
"And you're still going."
"Yes, I think I will be finished soon."
The Negro man was also urinating, Milford could hear his urine splashing and gurgling, but he dared not look.
"I hope you don't mind standing next to a Negro," said the man.
"No, not at all."
"Because I can move if it bothers you."
"No, please!"
"I'll button up my Johnson and move, posthaste."
"No!"
"Wouldn't want to offend your fine sensibilities."
"Please, sir! I am a firm believer in the equality of races."
"So I guess you have lots of black friends."
"Well, no –"
"Ha ha, I knew it."
"But –"
"But what?"
"I don't have any friends."
"Now that's not true, Montaine," said Mr. Whitman, standing at the urinal to Milford's left. He held his pipe in his left hand, and, presumably, his generative member in his right (although of course Milford didn't look to make sure). "I'd like to think we are friends, and good friends, my boy. By the way, hi there, Jelly Roll."
"My man, Walter, how you doing, you old reprobate, you?" said the Negro man.
"I'm doing great," said Mr. Whitman, and, transferring his pipe to his mouth, and apparently switching his left hand to the wielding of his male organ, he extended his great right hand past Milford's chest, and the Negro man took the hand in his own. "And how are you, Jelly?"
"Never better, Walt, never better, been working on a new epic ballad called 'Whore House Hannah and the Butcher Boy from Baton Rouge', I think you'll like it."
"I should love to hear it, my friend!"
The two men continued to shake each other's hands right in front of Milford's chest. Milford's stream had stopped abruptly.
"Um," said Milford. "Uh."
"What's the matter, buddy?" said the Negro man.
"I don't mean to be rude," said Milford, "but I can't urinate with you two shaking hands right in front of me like this."
"So you are prejudiced," said the Negro man.
"No!" said Milford. "Not at all! It has nothing to do with your race, but it's just that I can't urinate while you two are shaking hands in front of me like this."
"In other words you're prejudiced."
"No! Look, I'll just find another urinal, and then you two can shake hands and talk all you want to."
"Kid," said the Negro man.
"Yes?"
"Relax. I'm fucking with you."
"Ha ha!" laughed Mr. Whitman. "Quite risible, Jelly Roll!"
At last the brown-skinned man and Mr. Whitman disengaged their mutual hands.
"Introduce me to your buddy, Walt," said the Negro man.
"Of course!" said Mr. Whitman, who was still urinating, as was the Negro man. "Merlin, I'd like you to meet the distinguished musician and composer, Mr. Jelly Roll Morton."
"Pleased to meet you, Merlin," said the man called Jelly Roll Morton. "Slip me some skin, son." He offered his powerful-looking hand.
"Okay, uh, two things," said Milford. "One, my name is Milford, not Merlin. And two, I can't shake your hand."
"Because I'm a Negro."
"No, it has nothing to do with you being a Negro! It's just, as you can see, I'm trying to finish urinating."
"So switch your johnson to your left hand the way me and Walt are doing and slide me five, Clive."
"But, but –"
"But what?"
"It's unsanitary to shake someone's hand when you're trying to pee."
"I don't have cooties, boy."
"I'm not saying you do, but, can't you wait at least until we're all finished urinating, and we've washed our hands, at least?"
"So you think you might have cooties?"
"No!"
"Well, you must think one of us has cooties. Perhaps me, because I am a Negro?"
"Mondragoon," said Mr. Whitman. "Stop being such a tightass and shake the man's hand."
"Oh, my God," said Milford. "Okay, look, Mr., uh –"
"Call me Jelly Roll," said the Negro man.
"Okay, look, 'Jelly Roll', if I shake your hand will you both just please allow me to finish urinating?"
"No one's stopping you, Mel," said the man called Jelly Roll. "Look, me and Walt are both still pissing away with no complaints."
"Jelly Roll's got a point, Melton," said Mr. Whitman. "Look at us, like two prize race horses, happily emptying our bladders on the rich verdant bluegrass of Kentucky."
"Oh, my God," said Milford, again, "okay, here, Jelly Roll, here is my hand. Please, take it."
He offered his pale weak hand and Jelly Roll took it in his strong brown hand.
"You got a soft and delicate hand," said the man, "just like a lady's. But don't worry, I'm not going to crush it."
"Thank you," said Milford.
True to his word, the man did not crush Milford's hand in his, and after a brief squeeze, he freed it.
"You know what you need?" said the man.
"I need many things," said Milford.
"Maybe so, but what you need right now is a drag of this."
He took the cigarette out of his mouth and offered it to Milford.
"No thank you," said Milford. "I have my own."
"This is special," said the man. "My own special blend, hand-rolled."
"Well, thank you," said Milford, "but I really prefer my own."
"Oh, okay, I get it. You don't want your lips to touch something a Negro's lips have touched."
"No!"
"Then take it, sonny."
"Go ahead, Mitchell," said Mr. Whitman. "You're gonna hurt Jelly Roll's feelings."
Milford sighed. By his count this was his twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-seventh sigh since he had reluctantly dragged his corporeal host from his bed the previous forenoon. But he took the cigarette from the brown-skinned man called Jelly Roll and put it in his thin lips and drew in a smoke thick and sweet and filled with dreams of gentle glory.
{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}
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