"Five Spot"

They followed John Henry through the barroom, past a crowded bar and towards the sounds of loud crashing music.

Mr. Whitman took Milford's arm again and spoke into his ear.

"Hey, Mel, you got another five in that poke of yours?"

"What?" said Milford.

"Let me have a five-spot, will you? All's I got is twenties on me."

"If you have twenties why do you need a five?"

"Come on, just let me have a fiver, okay? I'll pay you back just as soon as I break a twenty."

"Can't you just get change from a waitress or a bartender?"

"Look, buddy, don't bust my balls. Didn't I give you a signed first edition of my book?"

"I didn't ask for it."

"Mel, I'm asking you, just loan me a goddam fin and stop being such a noodge already."

"Well, all right," said Milford. He didn't really care, but on the other hand moochers had been taking advantage of him ever since he was a child, because of his family's supposed and actual wealth and their imposing old townhouse on Bleecker Street. He dug into the back pocket of his dungarees and brought out his wallet.

"Just a five," said Mr. Whitman. "I mean if you can spare it."

"I can spare it," said Milford, opening the wallet.

"Nice wallet, by the way," said Mr. Whitman, touching the crude rawhide stitching. "Very 'rustic'."

"Thank you," said Milford. "I made it myself, during my brief tenure as a Boy Scout."

"I like it."

"My mother insisted on buying me an expensive Horween billfold from Brooks Brothers, but I have a sentimental attachment for this one."

"May I feel the leather?"

"Okay."

Mr. Whitman took the wallet from Milford's hand and stroked its scuffed and worn surface.

"What's this strange symbol burnt into the side? Is it a rune, or some sort of Chinese character?"

"No, it's supposed to be my monogram. I was trying to use Spencerian capitals, but I was using this hot iron, and I've never been very dexterous, so –"

"So, it's like, what, MM?"

"Yes."

"I see it now," said Mr. Whitman. "MM, for 'Marion Milstein' – see I remember your name. Oh, wow, look at those Negroes dancing up there."

Milford turned and looked. Up ahead beyond some tables there was a crowded dance floor, with people dancing to the music of a small but loud combo.

"Such a gay and happy race," said Mr. Whitman. "Here, I see you got one five left."

Milford turned back and Mr. Whitman was holding a five-dollar bill up in the air.

"Appreciate it, Mel," he said, and he handed the wallet back.

Milford looked into his wallet. All he had left in it was two tens. He could have sworn there had been three tens there, but he let it go, closed up the wallet and put the wallet back in his jeans.

"Hey, let's catch up to the others, buddy," said Mr. Whitman, folding up the five-dollar bill, and he took Milford's arm and pulled him along.

They found Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne already sitting at a round table with four chairs at the edge of the dance floor, and John Henry was standing there talking to them.

"Hi, everybody," said Mr. Whitman.

John Henry turned.

"You get lost?"

"Oh, no, John Henry, we were just taking our time, heh heh. Oh, hey, what a nice table, right by the dancing. This is swell."

John Henry turned back to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne.

"Polly Ann'll be right over to get your orders. If you're hungry the possum stew is to die for tonight, and I can always recommend the fatback and beans, with cornbread."

"Oh, wow, I love fatback and beans," said Mr. Whitman.

"That's great," said John Henry, "then you should order it."

He turned back to Jelly Roll.

"Looking forward to hearing you get up and jam, my man."

"Oh, I definitely will, John Henry," said Jelly Roll.

"Cool, I'll catch you all later."

"Oh, by the way, John Henry," said Mr. Whitman.

"What?"

"Just want to shake your hand, sir."

"Oh. Okay."

John Henry extended his massive hand and Mr. Whitman inserted his own large but much less huge hand into it.

John Henry disengaged his hand and opened it, knuckles downward. There was a greenback folded in eighths in the center of the pale callused palm.

"What's this shit?" he said.

"Just a little token," said Mr. Whitman. 

"What's that, five bucks?"

"Yes, I hope it's enough –"

"I don't want your five dollars, man."

"Oh."

"Take it back."

"Um."

"I said take it."

Quickly Mr. Whitman reached over and took the folded bill out of John Henry's palm.

"Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to, uh –"

John Henry gave him a look, and Mr. Whitman said nothing. Then the big man turned again to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne. 

"See you later, Jelly Roll. A pleasure, Miss Margaret."

"All mine, I assure you, John Henry," said Miss Blackbourne, who was smoking one of her ebony cigarettes with the silver tip.

John Henry seemed to notice Milford, standing a little behind Mr. Whitman.

"You okay, Milford?"

"Yes," said Milford, "thank you."

"You don't look okay."

"That's okay," said Milford. "I always look this way."

"Sit down and get a drink, maybe you'll feel better with a little corn liquor in you."

"Maybe."

John Henry glanced at Mr. Whitman again, still holding his folded-up five dollar bill, and then he turned and strode away, his enormous legs covering a yard with each pace.

"Sit the fuck down, Walt," said Jelly Roll. "You too, Milford."

Mr. Whitman took the chair to Jelly Roll's left, and Milford sat down to Miss Blackbourne's right.

"Fuck sakes, Walt," said Jelly Roll to Mr. Whitman, "I distinctly recall asking you to attempt to be cool."

"I just wanted to, uh, show my appreciation," said Mr. Whitman.

"Just put that fucking five-spot back into your pocket."

"Look, how about if I get the first round with it?"

"We're gonna run a tab, dipshit, now put that five away and stop trying to showboat."

"Well, okay," said Mr. Whitman, and he leaned to one side and stuck the five into his trousers pocket.

Milford considered asking for the five back, but he let it go, as he let so many things go, as he always had and would no doubt continue to do.

A pretty Negro woman with a black apron appeared, with a tray under her arm and a pad in her hand. 

"Hey, Jelly Roll," she said. "Whatta ya hear, whatta ya say?"

"Nothing much, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll. "Just fixing to get my drunk on and get up and bang them eighty-eights, darling."

"Cool," said the lady. "What are you and your ofay friends drinking?"

"I wonder, miss," said Mr. Whitman, "do you have a nice hot grog?"

"No," said the lady.

"Perhaps a fine strong ale then, brewed in great oaken casks that are piled onto drays by sweaty men muscular and hearty, and then pulled by teams of stout horses through the wet cobblestone streets in the rose-dappled dawn?"

"We got Ballantine ale," said the lady, "if that's what you're talking about, you silly ass motherfucker." 

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A FLOPHOUSE IS NOT A HOME, illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq…}