"Just Roll with It"

 

Suddenly Milford remembered that fat hand-rolled cigarette he had shared with Addison not so long ago, and this on top of the supposedly sacred mushrooms of the American Indians he had eaten earlier in the evening, and also the other reefers, and the hashish, and the wine and bourbon and beer, he must have been insane, or at the very least lacking in all self-control, to thus make himself more insane than he already was stone cold sober, and maybe this was why he heard a familiar voice in his head.

"Hey, buddy, just roll with it."

It was the voice of his alter ego, what was his name again?

"Yeah, it's me. Stoney."

Stoney, yes, the confident fellow inside the pathetic corporeal host Milford had been trapped in all his life.

"Just roll with it, man."

"Roll with it?" said Milford, silently.

"Yes, my man, just go with the flow. It's like the Buddha said–"

"The Buddha?"

"Yeah. You remember that D.T. Suzuki book you read?"

"Yes. And I concluded it was utter nonsense."

"Well, you're an idiot, as you well know, so your opinion of Suzuki and Buddhism is therefore of no consequence whatever."

"Maybe so, but since you are my own internal alter ego, doesn't that mean that you also are an idiot?"

"Your logic is so flawed as to be laughable. So, as I was saying about what the Buddha said, he said –"

"Milford, old man," said a voice.

He turned to his left, and it was Addison speaking.

"Yes?" said Milford.

"The good fellow wants to know what you're drinking."

Milford realized he was sitting at a table, a round small table. Once again he had missed out on a portion of his life, lost moments of existence never to be regained.

"Give him a Rob Roy," said that bald bearded little fat man, who was sitting at the table across from him.

"So that's four Rob Roys," said another voice, which belonged to another small man, but a thin man, who was standing there with a pad of paper and a pencil, with a tray under his arm, which had a white towel folded over it.

"And bring us some menus, too, Pedro," said the other little fat guy, sitting to Milford's right, the one with a toupée made of ferret's fur. "Are you hungry, Mr. Stafford?"

"Who, me?" said Milford.

"Yes," said the man. 

"My name isn't Stafford."

"Then why did you say it was?"

"I didn't."

"There's no need to speak falsely, Mr. Stanford. You're among friends here."

"My name is Milford," said Milford.

"Oh, so it's Milburn now. Very well, Milthorne, again I ask, are you hungry?"

"I don't know."

"Look, Pedro," said the bald fat man to the little thin man, "just bring some menus, and maybe Mr. Milfoyle can decide then if he's hungry or not."

"Four Rob Roys, and menus," said the small guy, writing something on his pad. "Comin' right up, chiefs."

He went away somewhere, carried by his little legs, into the smoke and the dimness and through other tables filled with men who all looked boring, in the direction of a crowded bar.

"So," said the bald bearded fat man, "now that we have all that settled, we ask both of you gentlemen to raise your right hands."

"What?" said Milford.

"Raise your right hand," said the other little fat guy, the one to Milford's right.

"Why?"

"So that we may formally induct you into the ranks of the Prancing Fool," said the bearded man.

Milford looked at Addison, sitting there to his left. Addison had lighted a cigarette, and he transferred the cigarette from his right hand to his left, and raised his right hand.

The bearded man was puffing on his pipe, and he took it out of his mouth.

"Right hand," he said to Milford. 

The other fat man had just finished lighting up an enormous cigar, and he tossed a match into an ashtray in front of him. Milford realized that there was an ashtray in front of each man at the table, including himself, and he instinctually reached into his peacoat pocket looking for cigarettes.

"Look, kid," said the fat man with the cigar, "just raise your right hand and we'll get this dog-and-pony show on the road."

"Can I at least light a cigarette first?" said Milford.

"My dear boy," said the fat man with the pipe, "you're not about to face a firing squad here. We're just gonna swear you in, that's all."

Milford had found his pack of Husky Boys, which still seemed to have a couple of cigarettes in it. 

"But can't I just light up a cigarette first?" Milford repeated, annoying even himself.

"Those things will kill you," said the fat man with the cigar.

"I don't care," said Milford, and he managed to get a cigarette out of the package.

"Give him a light, Bogman," said the fat man with the pipe.

"Certainly, Bormanshire," said the one with the cigar. There was a box of Ohio Blue Tip matches on the table in front of him, he picked it up, opened it, took out a match and struck it as Milford put his cigarette into his thin lips, the only kind of lips he had.

Milford accepted the cigar man's light, and sucked the smoke into his lungs.

"There ya go, pal," said the inner voice, the voice of "Stoney", his interior confident confidant. "That's all you needed. A nice smoke solves all the world's problems."

"What an absurd statement," said Milford, silently, but as he exhaled a great cloud of smoke he did have the feeling that all the world's problems and his own had been exhaled with the smoke, to merge into the smoke hovering and wavering over and around the table. 

"So," said the bearded man, "now that we got that out of the way, I say again, raise your right hand, please."

Milford glanced again at Addison, who still held his own right hand up, and Addison shrugged.

"Go ahead," said the inner voice, Stoney. "What difference does it make?"

Milford raised his right hand.

"Kindly repeat after me," said the bald bearded fat man, "'I' – and here state your names."

"I," said Addison, "but wait a minute, should I say my real name or the name that everyone calls me?"

"I assure you that is a matter of complete indifference not only to me but to the universe," said the fat bearded man, what was his name, Bormanshire?

"Okay," said Addison, "I guess I'll go with Addison then."

"Better start over, Aniston," said the other fat guy, Bogman was it?

"Right," said Addison. "I, Addison –"

"Now you, Merford," said Mr. Bormanshire, the bearded bald fat man. 

"Now me what," said Milford.

"Say I, and then your name."

"Oh. All right, I, Marion Milford –"

"Wait, your Christian name is Marion?"

"I don't know how Christian it is, but, yes, Marion is my given first name, which is why I prefer to be called by my surname."

"Can't say I blame you," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, what a curse to saddle a kid with," said Mr. Bogman, the fat man with the toupée and big cigar. "Your childhood must have been a nightmare."

"Okay, look," said Milford, "can we just move on?"

"Testy," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Can you blame him?" said Mr. Bogman.

"All right," said Mr. Bormanshire, "both of you gentlemen, please, start from the beginning. 'I' and then your names."

"I, Marion Milford –" said Milford.

The two fat men and Milford all looked at Addison, who seemed no longer to be paying attention.

"Mr. Haldeman," said Mr. Bormanshire to Addison. "Please say 'I' and then your name, whatever name you choose to be known by."

"Oh, sorry," said Addison, "went off into the ether there for a mo. Anyway, yes, I, 'Addison' –"

"Do solemnly accept," said Mr. Bormanshire, "membership in the Society of the Prancing Fool, with all the privileges and duties such membership entails –"

Both Addison and Milford repeated the words, speaking not quite in unison.

"– from this moment forward," said Mr. Bormanshire, "until my last in this plane of existence, and even beyond, if there is a life beyond life."

Again Addison and Milford managed to repeat the stated words.

"Okay, great," said Mr. Bormanshire. "You can put your hands down now. You're both all sworn in."

"Congratulations, fellas," said Mr. Bogman. "You're one of us now. Ah, the Rob Roys!"

The little man was there, with his tray with four stemmed cocktail glasses on it, each filled with liquid of shimmering deep gold, and he circled the table, laying a small paper napkin in front of each man, and a glass on each napkin. Each drink had a thin twist of lemon peel floating in it.

"Wait a second," said Milford. "I don't drink."

"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"I'm pretty sure I told you, I'm an alcoholic."

"Yes, you did, but you did not say you don't drink."

"Well, I shouldn't drink, because I'm an alcoholic."

"Look, Moleborg," said Mr. Bogman, "we told you, the first round is on the house, so drink up. Look at your buddy there, he's already almost finished his."

"Heh heh," said Addison guiltily, setting down his glass with no more than a finger left in it.

"Can I just have a ginger ale?" said Milford.

"Sure you can," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"I'm willing to pay, for it," said Milford. 

"Don't worry about it," said Mr. Bormanshire. "If a ginger ale is what you want, by all means order a ginger ale."

"It's not so much that I want a ginger ale," said Milford, trying not to whine, "it's just that if I drink a Rob Roy I might wind up dead in an alleyway, frozen stiff and covered with snow."

"Isn't that a chance we all take?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Um," said Milford.

"Look, sonny," said Mr. Bogman, "if you want a ginger ale, then go ahead and ask Pedro to bring you one. I'm sure he's got other tables to wait on."

The little man who had brought them the drinks was still standing there, and Milford addressed him. 

"May I have a ginger ale, please?"

"Yeah," said the little man. "Sure. Oh, and here's your menus."

He had some large glossy menus under his arm, and he now laid them down, going around the table. As he came behind Milford and put the menu down at his place, Milford thought he heard him say something, and he turned and looked at the man.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I didn't say nothing, sir."

"Oh, I thought you did."

"It weren't me. I'll go get your ginger ale now."

"Thank you," said Milford.

The little man turned away, muttering again the single word:

"Poofter."

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