"John the Conqueroo"

"Ha ha," said Mr. Whitman, as the music of the combo crashed all around them, and the dancers on the dance floor thrashed and stomped, "charming, yes, well, then, I suppose I will have a great brimming tankard of Ballantine Ale then, thank you."

"Fabulous," said the lady. She wrote something on her pad with a pencil, and then looked at Miss Blackbourne. "How about you, missy?"

"I'll take a shot of bourbon, any kind, and a beer, any kind," said Miss Blackbourne.

"How's about an Early Times and a Rheingold?"

"Bring it on," said Miss Blackbourne, "and keep them coming."

"I like the way your brain works," said the lady, writing something on her pad. "What's your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"Margaret Blackbourne," said Miss Blackbourne.

"You look like one of them lost poet ladies," said the lady.

"Guilty as charged," said Miss Blackbourne.

"Ain't nothing wrong with it," said the lady.

"It's a living," said Miss Blackbourne. "Or should I say a dying. Your name is Polly Ann?"

"Yes, ma'am," said the lady.

"I think we could and should be friends," said Miss Blackbourne. "May I address you as Polly Ann?"

"Sure," said Polly Ann. "It's a hell of a lot better than Hey You."

"And please call me Margaret."

"You got it, Miss Margaret."

"And, dear Polly Ann, if we are to be friends, I humbly ask you to omit the Miss, and just call me Margaret."

"Sure, Margaret. I ain't never been friends with a white lady before."

"It's not that big a deal, believe me."

"I believe you," said Polly Ann. She turned to Jelly Roll. "Corn, Jelly?"

"You know me all too well, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll, who was rolling a cigarette, and she wrote something on her pad. 

"Y'all want to hear tonight's food specials now, or you want me to bring the drinks first?"

"Drinks first, please, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll.

"Be right back," said Polly Ann.

"Um," said Milford.

"You talking to me, cracker?"

"Yes," said Milford, "excuse me, miss, but –"

"Call me Polly Ann."

"Polly Ann, then, I would like to order some sarsaparilla if you have it."

She stared down at him.

"You're Mr. Milford, right?"

"Yes, but please, just call me Milford."

"Swell, well, here's the thing, Milford, we don't got sarsaparilla."

"Well, do you have anything non-alcoholic?"

"We got sweet tea."

"Fine, I should like a sweet tea then."

"Here's the other thing though," said Polly Ann. "John Henry told me to bring you a complimentary jar of corn."

"A jar of corn?" 

"Yes."

"Is this like boiled corn?"

"No, white boy, it's corn liquor, and we serve it in eight-ounce or pint jars, and John Henry told me to bring you a pint jar."

"And this corn liquor, is it an alcoholic beverage?"

"Yeah, but we cut it with branch water, so it ain't more than a hunnert proof."

"Oh, my God, I can't drink that."

"Why not?"

"I am an alcoholic, and if I drink a pint of that I'll be falling down drunk, and I'll wind up passed out in an alleyway, and it's snowing out. I could die."

"You could die just walking across the street, run over by a coal wagon drove by a coal man drunk on corn liquor."

"I realize that, but still –"

"You're gonna hurt John Henry's feelings you turn it down," said Polly Ann.

"Melfrydd," said Mr. Whitman, "I don't think you want to hurt John Henry's feelings. We are guests here, after all, and you don't want these good people to think you're racially prejudiced."

"No, but, really," said Milford, "I've already had several drinks tonight, more than several actually, when I shouldn't even have had one, not to mention the marijuana, and the mushrooms, and the, that stuff in your pipe –"

Mr. Whitman was smoking his pipe again.

"It's a mixture of fine Kentucky burley and Lebanese hashish," said Mr. Whitman, "would you like some more?"

"No!" said Milford. 

"Here, Milford," said Jelly Roll, and he proffered the fat cigarette he had just lighted up with a Zippo lighter. "Smoke this, it'll mellow you out."

Without thinking Milford took the cigarette, and took a drag from it.

"Oh, no," he said, "I forgot."

"Wudja forget, sonny?" said Polly Ann.

"I forgot that these cigarettes of Jelly Roll's contain drugs."

"Well, at least they don't contain alcohol, right?"

"Yes," said Milford, "there's that at least," and again without thinking, no doubt because of all the alcohol and drugs he had already consumed over the present long evening's journey into oblivion, he took a second drag on the cigarette.

"Tell you what, honey boy," said Polly Ann, "I'll bring you a nice big jar of sweet tea, okay?"

"Oh!" said Milford, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "Sweet tea, yes, that would be nice, thank you very much, miss."

"Polly Ann."

"Thank you, Polly Ann," said Milford.

"And just a small jar of corn liquor on the side," she said.

"Oh," said Milford. "Uh, thank you."

"You're welcome, Milford," said Polly Ann, and she turned and walked away.

"Hey, Mel," said Mr. Whitman. "Don't worry. If you don't want your corn liquor, I'll drink it."

"Thank you," said Milford, so maybe he would survive this night after all, and he took another drag of the fat cigarette, and became intensely aware of the music the combo was playing, and the stomping and swirling of the dancers on the dance floor.

People were shouting through the music and the smoke and the stomping of the dancers, "Go, daddy, go!"

Other people shouted, "Shake that thang!"

Someone else shouted, "Shake it, mama, don't break it!"

A man sang into a microphone, "I got a wang dang doodle, I got a John the Conqueroo, look out pretty mama, I'm gonna rock with you…"

What did it matter? thought Milford. What did any of it matter? This was life, after all, it must be life, and was not life meant to be lived?

Someone or something tapped his shoulder, and Milford turned his head.

"Hello, you."

It took him only a second to realize who it was, which was Louisa May Alcott, or at least the woman who said she was Louisa May Alcott, and who was he to say any different?

"Oh," he said, coughing great jagged clouds of hot thick smoke, "hello."

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