"Chicken à la King"

 

Not surprisingly, Livingston P. Lovechild proved to be a crashing bore. Not to mention a fool, a madman, or some combination of the two. But on the other hand he insisted on buying every round, so who was Harry Beachcroft to be critical? Every nickel Harry saved on bock this present snowy evening was another bock he could drink at some future time, and bock was Harry's spiritual reward for his daily ten pages of writing, and his gift to himself for surviving yet another day in this vale of tears that men laughably called "life"…

"So you agree about the Rosicrucians then?" said Livingston P. Lovechild.

"I'm sorry, what?" said Harry.

"You agree about the Rosicrucians?"

"Oh, sure, um, uh –"

Harry suddenly blanked on the man's name in its entirety, first, middle initial, and last name.

"Livingston," said the man. "Livingston P. Lovechild, but again I implore you to address me by my Christian name."

"Okay," said Harry.

"If Livingston can in fact be called a Christian name."

"Um," said Harry.

"But, Harry – if I may indeed call you Harry –"

"Sure," said Harry.

"You do agree with me about the Rosicrucians."

"Um, yeah, sure –"

"But here's my quandary," said Livingston P. Lovechild, Harry thought he must really try to remember the name, "if it's true about the Rosicrucians, then what, I ask you, in all good faith, what about the Protocols of the Elders of Zion?"

"What?" said Harry.

"How do we reconcile the hegemony of the Rosicrucians with the Protocols of the Elders of Zion?"

"Well," said Harry, as if he were about to say something more, but then he said nothing, having nothing to say, or at least nothing to say out loud without the possibility of shutting off the flow of free bock beer.

"Stumps you, right?" said Livingston. "And it stumped me as well, until I realized that the Elders of Zion are actually in league with the Rosicrucians. It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," said Harry.

"But here's what I still haven't worked out yet."

Harry said nothing.

"I said, 'Here's what I haven't worked out yet,'" said Livingston.

"Um, oh?"

"What I haven't worked out yet," he said, "is how the Illuminati fit into all this."

"The Illuminati," said Harry.

"Yes, the Illuminati," said Livingston. "I'm still puzzled as to how they fit into the big picture." He made an expansive gesture with both hands. "You wouldn't happen to know, would you?"

"Um, no," said Harry, "I mean not off the top of my head –"

"And don't get me started on the Catholic Church," said Livingston.

"Okay," said Harry.

"Unless you really want me to," said Livingston. He paused and took a gulp of his bock, then said suddenly, "Do you?"

"What?" said Harry. "I'm sorry –"

"Do you want me to get me started on the Catholic Church," said Livingston. "Because I will if you really want me to."

"Well, uh," said Harry.

"Are you hungry?"

"Pardon me?"

"Are you hungry. I'm feeling rather peckish myself. What were your plans for dinner?"

"Oh, not much," said Harry. "Maybe get a hot dog or two here. They're only a dime apiece."

"Are they good?"

"Yeah, they're pretty good."

"Would you care to dine with me, en famille."

"What?"

"Have dinner at my digs. It's Monday and cook always makes Chicken à la King on Mondays. It's ever so good, and there's always extra."

"Well, gee," said Harry.

"I should be delighted to have you," said Livingston. "I don't live far, and we can walk there in a trice."

"Well, that sounds swell, Liv-, uh, Liv-"

"Livingston. Livingston P. Lovechild, but call me Livingston."

"The thing is, Livingston," said Harry, "the thing is, it's snowing really hard out there –"

"What's a little snow?" said Livingston. "A cracking bold walk through the falling snow, do us both a world of good."

"Well –"

"Think of Washington's men at Valley Forge."

"Um."

"Think of the brave chaps of Scott's South Polar expedition."

"Didn't they all die?"

"To a man. But they weren't deterred by a bit of snow. Far from it. And as I say, I don't live far." 

"How far exactly?"

"A mere a handful of blocks just right along Bleecker. A pleasant bagatelle of a stroll."

"I'm really not much of a walker."

"Perhaps we'll see a cab."

"Well, you see, it's just that –"

"I should mention that my late father left us a marvelous cellar."

"A cellar."

"Wine cellar. Also brandy. Do you like wine, and brandy?"

"Um, yeah, sure –"

Livingston removed a pocket watch on a chain from an inner pocket inside his mackinaw. He clicked the watch open.

"Half seven, and cook always serves dinner promptly at eight. I suggest we strike out now, and despite the blizzard we should just make it in time. With luck. But we should really leave at once." He clicked the watch shut and put it away. "Now finish that bock and we'll split this popsicle stand."

"How far is it again?"

"Only six blocks or so. Maybe seven. Eight at the outmost."

"But in all this snow?"

"That's why we should leave posthaste."

"But," said Harry.

"What were the words of the bawdy Bard? 'If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly?' In other words, let us bust a move."

"Well, really, Livingston –" there, he remembered the name, "I appreciate the offer, I do, but, but –"

"Let me ask you a question, Harry, and I want you to answer me honestly. Have you ever had a really good Napoleon brandy?"

"No," said Harry quite truthfully, never having had even a mediocre Napoleon brandy.

"Well, you're going to have some tonight, my friend. I can't wait to introduce you to the family."

"The family."

"Yes, the family. And to think, they always say I have no friends. Well, wait till they get a load of the famous Harry Beachcroft," said Livingston P. Lovechild. "My friend. My only friend. Now quickly, old chum, swallow down the rest of that bock, and let us sally forth."

"Gee, Livingston –"

"Napoleon brandy. The bottle caked with ancient basement dust. Quite impossible to find anywhere, at any price, and tasting like heaven on earth. Now polish off that bock like a good fellow."

Harry felt sure that the last thing he should do was to go off into a raging blizzard with this jackass, even with the prospect of Chicken à la King and Napoleon brandy. But, he thought, was he not a novelist, a teller of tales? Was it not incumbent upon him to try to experience life in all its rich variety, so that he could transform the raw matter of this experience into the gold of his art?

Harry finished off his bock, put the glass down, and said, "Okay, uh, Livingston. Let's go."

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