Dan Leo

"The Secret Door"

2026-10-15T12:35:29.744-04:00

{We continue with our fortnightly serial epic of the early years of the Beaten Generation. Please enjoy responsibly if at all…}

They came to the end of the hall and to a door on which was painted in cursive gilt letters:

W.C.

Livingston pushed open the door and gestured for Harry to go first, and Harry did, entering a spacious lavatory of marble and granite, porcelain and dark wood, and at the head of a row of sinks to the left a tiny old Negro man in a white jacket sat on a stool reading a paperback book.

"Ah, Mr. Lovechild," said the little man, putting a bookmark into the book and rising.

"How's it hanging, Pompey?"

"By a thread, sir, but who am I to complain, at my advanced age. It is a privilege of sorts still to be alive."

"It is indeed, Pompey. By the way, this is my friend, Mr. Harry Beachcroft, the renowned author."

"Extraordinary," said the little man. "As I just happened to be reading one of the gentleman's novels."

He held up the book, which was Harry's Dames Spell Trouble, a novel he only vaguely recalled writing about five years previously.

"How is it?" said Livingston. "I can't say I've read that one."

"Pretty good," said the man.

"May I borrow it when you're finished?"

"Sure, Mr. Lovechild."

"Anyway, we're just gonna take a quick leak."

"Leak away, sir."

"This way, Harry," said Livingston, and he led him over to a row of urinals, cracked and yellowed with age.

"Livingston," said Harry. "This is awkward for me to say, but would you mind if we do not use adjoining urinals?"

"I assure you I don't have cooties, old man."

"It's not that," said Harry. "It's just that I feel uncomfortable urinating next to another man."

"Oh, so it's nothing personal," said Livingston.

"No, not at all."

"It's actually a very common condition," interposed the tiny old man.

"Really?" said Livingston.

"Yes, sir. Some gentleman turn around and leave if even one other gentleman is standing at the urinals."

"Oh, okay," said Livingston. "So I shouldn't be offended."

"Not at all, sir," said the old man. "You know what they say?"

"No."

"It takes all kinds, Mr. Lovechild. And some gentlemen just can't bear to make water in the presence of another gentleman. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"No, I suppose not."

"Whereas other gentlemen take seemingly great relish in relieving themselves in the close company of other gentlemen."

"Yes, I've noticed that," said Livingston. "I must say it's a matter of indifference to me. As long as chaps don't try to grab my johnson in mid-pee."

"Ha ha, you are a jester, sir."

"I feel we must jest, Pompey, if we are to make this life at all bearable."

"A little jesting never hurt nobody, sir."

"Livingston," said Harry.

"Yes, Harry."

"I really have to go, so if you don't mind –"

"Sure, go right ahead, chum," said Livingston. "You take whichever end you prefer, and I'll take the other one."

Harry quickly went over to the urinal on the far right. Why hadn't he asked to use the bathroom before leaving Livingston's house? He knew why. It was because he had been too foolishly shy to ask where the bathroom was. He was a fool, he always had been a fool, he would doubtless remain a fool, and he would die a fool.

He unbuttoned his fly and tried to put the fact that there were two other men in this restroom out of his mind. But the problem with this was that the one way to insure that something stayed in the forefront of his mind was to try to put it out of his mind.

He sensed that Livingston had taken a stand down at the other end of the line of five or six urinals, and then he heard Livingston's voice, singing, to a nameless tune:

Oh, I am a bold young mountebank,
some call me Fred, some call me Frank,
and I wander around from town to town
and ne'er will you see me wear a frown.

I knew a young lass from Boston, Mass.,
she was full of fun and also sass;
she would brook no nonsense nor no crap,
and she gave me a dose of crabs and clap.

So sing ye high and sing ye low
as down, down, and down we go,
sing a happy song and a roundelay,
sing a song and then go away…

As Livingston sang, at last Harry felt his bladder let loose and a great stream of urine came out of him and splashed against the stained porcelain.

Three minutes later he was finished, and Livingston seemingly was also, as he stopped his song in the middle of a line and flushed.

Harry re-buttoned and joined Livingston at the sinks.

"Hope you didn't mind my singing," said Livingston, turning a tap handle. "But I love to sing while peeing. I don't know why. But do I know why I do anything? Not really."

"I didn't mind," said Harry, punching some liquid soap from a bulbous dispenser on the wall in front of him.

He looked at his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. Yes, he was no longer young, and to be quite honest he looked at the very least five years older than he was. In another ten years he would look twenty years older than he was. But would he even live another ten years? People dropped like flies these days, possibly due to excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages and tobacco, not to mention lack of physical exercise and poor diet. Perhaps he should stop drinking and smoking, and begin each day with a brisk and bracing mile's walk? The odd push-up wouldn't hurt either. But what would he do with himself if he couldn't enjoy two packs of cigarettes a day, and spend at least three hours every night drinking bock? Was such a straitened and abstinent life even worth living?

"To dry your hands, sir."

This was the little man, standing next to him and offering a white towel.

"Oh, thank you," said Harry, and he took the towel.

"You're quite welcome, sir."

Livingston was already drying his hands with a towel.

"Say, Pompey, maybe you can help us out. We want to sneak out quietly without running into some of the old boys out there."

"An Irish goodbye, sir."

"Yes, exactly. Do you think it would be okay if we sneaked out the servants' entrance into the back alley?"

"Normally I would say yes, but, alas, the back entrance and the alleyway are completely choked with snow. Even I had to come in for my shift today through the front door. However, there is another way."

"There is?"

"Yes. In the basement there is a secret door leading to a tunnel, its provenance unknown."

"And where does this tunnel lead to?"

"It runs westward all the way under MacDougal Street to another secret door, opening into yet another basement, and from there you can simply go up the stairs and you will be free to go where you will."

"Splendid," said Livingston. "And can you tell us how to get to this secret door in the basement?"

"Of course, sir. I would take you there myself, but, alas –"

"You can't leave your post."

"Exactly, sir."

"I quite understand."

"So, how do we find this secret door?"

The little man rattled off detailed directions, and when he had finished he said, "The door should be unlocked. If it sticks, just give it a good pull, but close it behind you, as no one is supposed to know about it. The tunnel will be dark, so be prepared to illuminate your way with cigarette lighters or matches, or both. It should take you only a matter of minutes to reach the end of the tunnel and the other secret door at its end."

"Sounds good," said Livingston, "and, Pompey, thank you for everything."

Livingston had his wallet out, and he removed a five-dollar bill and offered it to the little man.

"This is entirely too much," said the man.

"Not at all," said Livingston. "You're a lifesaver, Pompey. Otherwise we would have had to go back out there and get trapped by those old bore-asses for another hour or two. Now please, take it."

"Very well, sir. And thank you."

The little man took the five and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

"I wish you godspeed, gentlemen," he said, "and only the best of luck."

"Thanks, Pompey." Livingston turned to Harry. "You ready, buddy?"

"Yes," said Harry. He held up the towel. "What should I do with this?"

"Just leave it on the side of the sink, sir," said the little man. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," said Harry.

"All right, Harry," said Livingston. "Let's go find this secret door, shall we?"

"Okay," said Harry.

They said goodnight to the little man, who said goodnight back to them, and they left the W.C. and went out again into the dim hallway hung with faded portraits.

"He said to bear to the left, didn't he?" said Livingston.

"I'm not quite sure," said Harry, who had not been paying close attention, and who had never in his life been able to follow directions anyway.

"I think he said left," said Livingston. "So let's go."

They came to the end of the hallway, and Livingston turned right, and Harry almost said something, but didn't, and went along with him, down another dim corridor, which seemed to end in darkness.

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

"Set Sail for Surabaya"

2026-10-01T09:33:59.361-04:00

They headed toward the crowded bar, but someone called out.

"Livingston, old man."

This was a fat older man sitting at a booth to the left, and he was with another older man who was thin.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Boosterman," said Livingston.

"Get over here, boy," said the fat man.

Livingston and Harry went over to the table. Both of the older men were smoking cigars, and they had highball glasses in front of them. The one who had called was bald and his pink face seemed about to burst from inside like a balloon. The thin one's face was the color of a damp fog on a winter morning. They were aged perhaps somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five.

"Who's your pal, Livingston?" said the fat man.

"This is my friend the noted author Harry Beachcroft," said Livingston. "Harry, this is Mr. Boosterman and Mr. Pickles."

"Hello," said Harry.

"Did you say Harry Beachcroft?" said Mr. Boosterman.

"Yes," said Livingston.

"Jesus Christ," said Mr. Boosterman. "Did you hear that, Pickles?"

"I did indeed," said the thin man.

"Not the author of Dead Man on a Merry-Go-Round?" said Mr. Boosterman.

"Yes," said Harry.

"And Dead Dames Don't Blather?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"Set Sail for Surabaya?"

"Yes, that was me," said Harry.

"Good God, sir, it is an honor to meet you," said the fat man. "I would rise to shake your hand, but unfortunately my girth would make it awkward, stuffed into this booth as I am."

"That's quite all right, sir," said Harry.

"You and Livingston must join us for a libation."

"Well, uh," said Harry.

"Why not?" said Livingston. He squeezed down into the booth next to Mr. Boosterman, and Harry slipped in on the side of Mr. Pickles.

"The Far Side of Hades," said Mr. Boosterman, "now there was a good novel!"

"Thanks," said Harry.

"Three Cheers for the Damned," continued Mr. Boosterman, "that was a rousing epic."

"Thanks again," said Harry.

"But you seem so young," said Mr. Boosterman. "I should have imagined you to be in your fifties at least."

"At heart I am in my fifties," said Harry.

"Ha ha," said Mr. Pickles. "I myself felt quite ancient even in the first grade."

"Who was it said age is just a number?" said Mr. Boosterman.

"A very wise fellow," said Livingston.

Another old man appeared at the table, carrying a tray and with a napkin over his arm.

"Drinks, gentlemen?"

"Yes, Claude," said Mr. Boosterman, "two more of the same for me and Mr. Pickles, and whatever our guests are having."

"My usual Cutty and soda with no ice, please," said Livingston. "What are you having, Harry?"

"I guess I'll have what you're having," said Harry. He might as well get drunk, or drunker. What was the point of sobriety at this juncture?

They sat and Mr. Boosterman named more of Harry's novels, even ones Harry had forgotten he'd written, which, he reflected, is easy to do when you've churned out one every two or three months over the course of a dozen years. The drinks came, and they drank, and the conversation shifted away from Harry's books, and after a while Harry thought, so, this is the way the upper crust live, or at least the way some of them do. They sit in their clubs and drink and talk superficially and state opinions on various subjects. The only real difference between these men and the clientèle of his own local tavern Bob's Bowery Bar was money. This seemed almost a profound insight, and he made a mental note to put it in his work in progress (working title: A Cloudy Day in Newport), a novel of anomie and despair among the moneyed élite, which thus far he had based only on Hollywood movies and the novels of Henry James, Edith Wharton, and John P. Marquand, from the Cholly Knickerbocker column in the Journal-American, and from New Yorker stories he would read or skim in the public library. He didn't consider this lack of first-hand knowledge of his subject cheating; after all, what did Shakespeare know about the royal court of medieval Denmark, or of the great families of Italy, or of ancient Rome, and no one ever called Shakespeare a phony or a poseur. It occurred to Harry that perhaps he should pay closer attention to the conversation at the table, and maybe he would pick up some good material, but the problem with that idea was that the conversation was boring, so much so that he forgot each drawling sentence or sentence fragment as soon as it was spoken, and then he realized further that he had in fact never been so bored in his entire life, not forgetting his wretchedly unheroic wartime service typing up requisitions in triplicate at Fort Dix, New Jersey.

"What do you think, Mr. Beachcroft?" said Mr. Pickles.

"Um, well, that's hard to say," said Harry, having not the slightest idea of the topic in question.

"But you are an author," said Mr. Pickles. "An intellectual."

"Well, I'm not so sure about the intellectual part," said Harry.

"You are far too modest," said Mr. Boosterman. "No one could write a searing novel like Sideshow Sally and Jimmy the Geek and not be an intellectual."

"Or Two Tickets to Tehatchapee," said Livingston. "You want searing? That book seared like a hot poker."

"It did indeed," said Mr. Boosterman. "So, please, Mr. Beachcroft, we implore you, in the words of the Bawdy Bard, to 'unmuzzle your wisdom'."

"Well, I would," said Harry, "but."

"But what?"

Should he just admit that he had been paying only the vaguest attention to a word that had been said since he and Livingston had seated themselves here fifteen minutes or a half hour ago? But such an admission might cause ill feeling.

Fortunately, Harry's dilemma was solved by his bladder, as he suddenly realized that he actually did need to go to the lavatory.

"Gentlemen, I will give you my thoughts on this subject, but first I am afraid that I must answer a call to nature. So if you could perhaps direct me to the men's room?"

"I'll show you, buddy," said Livingston.

"If you could just give me directions," said Harry, who had always felt awkward going to the men's room with other men.

"No, I have to go also," said Livingston.

"Oh, okay."

"Right, come with me," said Livingston. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse us."

"Hope it all comes out okay," said Mr. Boosterman.

"Don't forget to give it that one extra wag," said Mr. Pickles.

"Ha ha, come on, Harry, let me be your guide," said Livingston. He shoved himself out of the booth, and Harry did as well.

"Hurry back, Mr. Beachcroft," said Mr. Boosterman. "I really want to hear your opinion on this matter."

"Um, uh," said Harry.

"Let's go," said Livingston. "I really gotta go."

They set off once again through the barroom, and Livingston put his mouth close to Harry's ear.

"I tend to forget how soul-crushingly deadly those guys are, but then I talk to them again, and it all comes rushing back to me. Come, we must make our escape."

"Okay, but I really do have to pee."

"So also I, but then we should bolt this popsicle stand posthaste."

"Where to?" said Harry.

"Does it matter?" said Livingston. "As a man once said, I think it might have been me, but I'll say it again: anywhere but here. This place is okay in small doses, but there's too many of these drudges here. Follow me, we'll go take a slash, and then high adventure awaits."

Adventure? Harry had written about adventure in dozens of novels and stories and serialized novellas, but he could not say he had even once experienced what might reasonably be called adventure. Would he experience it this night? And if he did indeed experience it, would he live to transform it into salable fiction, perhaps even into art?

He followed Livingston through the smoke-clouded room, full of babbling bores and the reekings of tobacco and liquor and leathery colognes.

"Oh, by the way, Livingston."

"Yes, Harry."

"What was it those guys were asking me about, anyway?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. And you know what? It doesn't matter. Okay, down this hallway for the pisser. Come on."

Harry followed Livingston down another dim hallway, hung with faded and dingy portraits of tedious tosspots of the past.

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

"Putting Down the Moro"

2026-09-18T08:25:33.395-04:00

One of the big double doors opened and a little old man in an old-fashioned black suit was there.

"Oh," he said. "Mr. Lovechild. Out in this inclement weather."

"Well, you know me, Stokes," said Livingston. "It'll take a lot more than a raging blizzard to stay me from my appointed rounds."

"Ha ha, yes, sir, and I see you have brought a friend."

"I have indeed," said Livingston. "Stokes, I would like you to meet Mr. Beachcroft."

"I am very pleased to meet you, sir," said the old man to Harry.

"I, um, am pleased to meet you, Mr., uh, Stokes," said Harry.

"Just Stokes, sir," said the little old man. "It is not my place to be addressed by the honorific 'mister'."

"Okay, uh, 'Stokes'," said Harry.

"But do come in, gentlemen," said the old man called Stokes, stepping to one side. "You must be perishing from the cold."

"Thanks, Stokes," said Livingston, and he waved Harry on to go first.

Stokes closed the door behind them, and they were standing in a gloomy marble foyer, with a cracked vase full of umbrellas, and hooks on the walls with coats and hats.

"May I take your outer garments and headgear, gentlemen?" said Stokes.

"Don't bother, Stokes," said Livingston, removing his mittens. "We're just going to have a quick one at the bar and then we'll be on our way."

"Enjoy yourselves, gentlemen," said Stokes.

"Oh, I'm sure we shall, Stokes," said Livingston, and with his mittens he brushed some snow off the sleeves of his mackinaw. "Come on, Harry, stick with me."

They left the old man behind, and Livingston led Harry out of the foyer, down a short dim hallway decorated with paintings gloomy with age and into a great room thick with tobacco smoke and warmth and the smells of whiskey and gin and burning wood from a roaring fireplace. The room was furnished with comfortable looking plush chairs and sofas and in them sat old men who looked up to see who had come in and then looked away again.

"This is the lounge," said Livingston, "but let's just head right on into the bar."

"Okay," said Harry.

They forged through the large room filled with old men and smoke, Livingston nodding and saying hello to some of these senior citizens.

One of the old men said, or croaked, "Young Lovechild, how is your old man? Haven't seen him lately."

"Dead, I'm afraid, General Poormouth {at least that's what it sounded like to Harry}, for, lo, these past dozen years or so."

"Dead you say?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so, General."

"I hope he died peacefully."

"Keeled over from a massive cardiac infarction while hunting grouse out on the island," said Livingston. "I doubt he even knew what hit him, and both hammers of his beloved old Purdey gun were still cocked when they found him."

"Then he went the way he should have preferred, I daresay," said the old man called General something.

"Very much so," said Livingston.

"And who is your companion?"

"This is Mr. Harry Beachcroft," said Livingston. "The famous author."

"Harold Peachcough?" said the general.

"Beachcroft," said Livingston. "Harry Beachcroft, sir."

"Excuse me for not rising, Mr. Peachcraft" said the general. "It's my artharitis. Exacerbated by a spear wound in the groin from my time in the Philippines, putting down the Moro."

"That's quite all right, sir," said Harry. "Please don't get up."

"What books have you written? Anything I might have heard of?"

"Well, uh," said Harry.

"Did you ever read The Black Dwarf, by Sir Walter Scott?"

"Well, I've been meaning to get to that one," said Harry.

"What about some of these more recent books, like Daniel Deronda I think it is, by George Eliot?"

"That one is definitely on my reading list," said Harry.

"But you know who's a good author?" said the general.

"Who?" said Harry.

"Arthur Conan Doyle."

"Him I've read," said Harry.

"That man wrote like a motherfucker," said the general. "Pardon my barracks-room language but it's true. You should read his Sherlock Holmes stories."

"I, um," said Harry.

"Always a pleasure, General," said Livingston, "but, uh –"

"Name me a book you've written," said the general to Harry.

"Um, I've written quite a few, actually," said Harry.

"What's a good one to start with?"

"Well, I have a soft spot for a novel called Gin Mill Molly. It's about this girl –"

"Named Molly who works in a gin mill?"

"Uh, yes –"

"I'll ask for it next time I visit Brentano's."

"So, if you will excuse us, general," said Livingston.

"Yes, say hello to your father for me," said the general.

"I will do that, General," said Livingston.

"He's a good man."

"That he is, sir."

"I knew your grandfather, too. Joe Lovechild. There was a man. Built his factory from scratch after his old man old Pete Lovechild had blown the family fortune on the nags and faro. But so it goes. You live a while, stomp the earth doing whatever you do, and then you die in the end. May I give you young pups some advice."

"Please do, General," said Livingston.

"Fuck a lot. Drink a lot. Eat a lot. Stay up all night gambling. If you see an ass, kick it. If any man insults you, slap his face. Grab life by the balls, before it grabs yours. And get all the sleep you can."

"We will try to do all that, General," said Livingston.

"Someday, if you don't croak first, you will wind up like me, sitting in a chair in this club, left only with your memories. So make sure you've got some good ones."

"We will, General," said Livingston.

"And you, Mr. Peachums," said the general to Harry. "You are a writer. So write well, as if your very life depended on it. Don't write arrant shit. Try to write as well as Arthur Conan Doyle if you can manage it."

"I will try, sir," said Harry.

"Won't you gentlemen sit and have a drink with me? On my tab, of course."

"We would, General," said Livingston, "but we're supposed to meet some people at the bar."

"Oh, of course. Fellow young scamps like yourselves I'll warrant. And, when you're sufficiently oiled, probably heading off en masse to some merry bawdy house."

"One never knows," said Livingston.

"Best times of my life were spent in bawdy houses. Now Havana, there's a town had some good bawdy houses. And Manila, my word. Vera Cruz, too. Also, believe it or not, Gallup, New Mexico. Lovely place there they used to call Salt Chunk Mary's, I visited there often when I was on the border with Pershing chasing Pancho Villa over hill and dale. To no avail."

"Well, nice chatting with you, General," said Livingston.

"If it weren't for this artharitis I'd be right there with you. Of course I can't remember the last time I've had an erection, but it might be fun just to caress an alabaster thigh, and to breathe a tart's Woolworth's perfume."

"Till we meet again," said Livingston.

"Go, go," said the General. "And when you get to that bawdy house tonight I want you to do just one thing for me, Livingston."

"What's that, sir?"

"Shove it in once for me, lad. Just once."

"I will, sir," said Livingston.

"Only once. Just say, 'This one's for the old general.'"

"Right, okay," said Livingston.

"Nice meeting you, Mr. Peachbaum," said the general to Harry.

"Nice meeting you, too, sir," said Harry.

"All right," said the general. "Run along now, boys, but remember what I told you."

"We will, sir," said Livingston. "Good night now."

"You only get one life. Waste it at your peril."

"We will bear that in mind, General."

"God I wish I could go with you, but, you know."

"Your arthritis," said Livingston.

"Yes, and that spear wound. The little bastards would smear the spear heads with shit. They knew what they were doing."

"We'll see you on our way out," said Livingston.

"I'll be here," said the general. "Unless I'm in the latrine."

"Shall we go?" said Livingston, to Harry, touching his elbow.

"Yes, okay," said Harry.

Livingston pulled on Harry's arm, and they headed off.

"Livingston!" came the general's croaking thin voice, and Livingston and Harry stopped and turned. "Just once!" cried the general. "Just one stout goodly thrust. For me."

Livingston paused, then nodded.

"At least one, General!" he called.

He pulled on Harry's arm again, and they continued across the smoky room, redolent of smoke, of whiskey and gin, and half-remembered memories of bygone wars, of bawdy houses and moist alabaster thighs.

"Old guys," said Livingston. "They never miss a chance to impart a bit of hard-earned wisdom, do they? Ah, the bar, at last."

They passed into another room, dimmer and even smokier than the one they had left, with a long bar filled with men and the babble of voices and the tinkling of glassware, and the glinting of bottles ranged on shelves and beckoning.

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

"Tosspots"

2026-09-03T10:17:52.605-04:00

"Do be careful, Livingston," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"I shall try," said Livingston.

She adjusted his muffler around his neck.

"No fights," she said.

"Again, I'll try," said Livingston.

She turned to Harry.

"Please keep an eye on Livingston, Mr. Peachnut," she said.

"I, um," said Harry.

"It's Beachcroft, Mother, not Peachnut," said Livingston.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Peachcraft," said Mrs. Livingston. "Do those Wellingtons fit you?"

"Yes," said Harry. His old Thom McAn brogans were still drying on the hearth, and he had been supplied with these sturdy rubber boots.

"My late husband used to wear them, trolling the marshes hunting duck and pheasant with his beloved Purdey shotgun. He was a real man."

"Let's go, Harry," said Livingston.

"It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Poshworth," said Gwendolyn to Harry.

"You too, Miss Lovechild," said Harry.

"Please do come and visit us again."

"I would like that," said Harry.

"Here, old man," said Ralston to Harry, and he handed him a heavy implement covered in black leather and shaped like an elongated teardrop, with a looped thong at the narrow end.

"What's this?" said Harry.

"It's a cosh, a sap, a blackjack if you will, with a tensile stainless steel handle and a head of molded lead, the whole encased in the finest Moroccan leather. Use it if you have to."

"I really don't think," said Harry.

"Take it," said Ralston. "If you're going out on the town with Livingston, just take it. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it."

"Go ahead, chum," said Livingston, "take it. Me, I have my trusty old brass knuckles," he patted a side pocket of his mackinaw, "just in case."

"I really don't," said Harry.

"Look," said Ralston, "just put it in your pocket."

"Yes," said Gwendolyn, "put it in your pocket, Mr. Peachfast. You never know."

"Well," said Harry.

"It's just a precaution, Mr. Beachbum," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Well, all right," said Harry, and he slipped the blackjack into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr., uh, Lovechild," he said to Ralston.

"Just give it back to Livingston when you bring him home," said Ralston. "If you bring him home."

"I, uh," said Harry.

"All right, let's bust a move," said Livingston. "'Night all, and don't wait up for us."

"Oh, we shan't," said Ralston.

Livingston opened the door, letting in a powerful gust of snow and freezing wind.

"Goodbye!" said Gwendolyn.

"Um," said Harry.

"And good luck," said Ralston.

"Uh," said Harry.

"It was delightful meeting you, Mr. Peachfrost," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Uh, um," said Harry.

"Let's shake a leg, Harry," said Livingston. "We're letting the blizzard in. You first."

Harry stepped through the doorway and Livingston followed him, closing the door behind them. Even up here in the entranceway the snow was drifted almost to the tops of Harry's boots, and the hillock of snow sloped smoothly down to the sidewalk.

"The steps are somewhere under this nonsense, so mind how you go," shouted Livingston over the howling wind. "Grab hold of the railing and slow and easy does it."

They managed to get down to the sidewalk without falling, and now the snow was above Harry's knees.

"Livingston," he shouted, "if you don't mind my saying so, on second thought, I think it's insane to go out in this blizzard. I think I'll just try to make my way home. It's not really that far."

"Balderdash," said Livingston. "Don't crap out on me now, Harry. We have not even started to have fun."

"Well –"

"Let's go, first stop is just right up the street."

"First stop?"

"Yes, only the first. But, God willing, it won't be the last."

Livingston put his arm in Harry's and pulled, and Harry allowed himself to be pulled, holding his hat down on his head with his free hand. Fortunately the woolen mittens he had borrowed were thick and warm, almost like small boxing gloves.

They trudged on, slowly and awkwardly, arm in arm through the drifted snow, through the thick snow falling and blowing all around them.

What am I doing? thought Harry. Where is my willpower? Am I not a grown man? A professional author? Why do I let myself be led about by this madman? All I want is to be back on my barstool at Bob's, drinking my bock until it is time to stagger out and go around the corner to my tiny apartment and to bed. Why is this asking too much?

"What are you thinking about, old man?" Livingston shouted into Harry's ear.

"Oh," said Harry, shouting back over the howling blizzard, "I was just thinking how, uh, bracing it is to walk in the snow."

"Yes, I suppose it is," yelled Livingston, "but, you know, a little of it goes a long way. Fortunately, we have reached our first rest stop and refueling station."

"Really?"

"Yes, right here," said Livingston, and he pointed to a plaque under a stone lion next to the front steps of a large old brick house.

The plaque was crusted with snow, but its engraved legend was still somewhat visible.

The Noble Society
of
Convivial Tosspots

est. 1832

"That's the official name," said Livingston, "but everybody just calls it the Tosspot Club. Members only of course, but don't worry, you're with me. Come on, pal, you're gonna dig this joint the most."

What could Harry do? But then it occurred to him that all of this evening could be written off as research, for stories and novels not yet written. What did he have to lose? Except for possibly his life?

"All right," said Harry. "Let's do it."

The stoop of the house had apparently been shoveled sometime this day, and so the snow was only about a foot deep on the steps. Harry and Livingston ascended to the entrance area successfully. There were two tall and elaborately carved double doors, on one of them a brass knocker shaped like a man's grotesque grinning rictus, and Livingston took hold of it and knocked, stoutly, five times.

"Now we wait," he said. "But ne t'en fais pas, it'll be worth it."

Harry hoped it wouldn't be too long of a wait.

He shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets, and in the right pocket he felt the hard heavy sturdiness of Ralston's cosh.

Would he need it?

And if he needed it, would he have the courage to use it?

Or would he instead turn and run?

Either way, mutatis mutandis, it could be good material for a story.

If he lived to write it.

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

"Blood Red"

2026-08-20T11:51:38.345-04:00

Harry had come to the end of the page, and he turned it over.

"So?" said Livingston.

"Yes?" said Harry.

"You've now read two pages," said Livingston. "What's the verdict?"

"My verdict?"

"Yes."

"Um."

"Your considered opinion."

Harry found himself taking another deep drag on the marijuana cigarette.

"Take your time," said Livingston.

Harry exhaled the thick smoke, a smoke full of dreams.

"I think," he said.

"Yes?" said Livingston.

"I think –"

"Yes. You think?"

"I think this is unlike anything I've ever read," said Harry.

"Well, that's good, I suppose," said Livingston, "but, more to the point, is it rubbish?"

Harry took pause again.

"Take another toke," said Livingston.

"Toke?" said Harry.

"That's hepcat talk for a drag of tea. Go ahead, take another hit."

"Hit?"

"Boy, you really are a square, ain't you, Harry?"

"A square?"

"I mean you're not hep to the jive."

"Um, no, no, I suppose I'm not," said Harry.

"We need to take you out to some 'happening' jazz joints."

"Maybe," said Harry.

"No two ways about it, man. Now take another good toke."

Harry took another good toke.

"Now hold it in," said Livingston.

Harry held it in. He looked out the window on the other side of the desk. The snow continued to fall and swirl in the light of a street lamp, and the world outside rumbled and whooshed. What was the meaning of it all? He had no idea, and if he had ever thought he knew the meaning, he had been wrong, horribly wrong, there was no meaning…

"Okay, you can let it out now," said Livingston.

And Harry let the smoke escape from his lungs, up through his throat and out of his mouth.

"So?" said Livingston.

"Yes?" said Harry.

"Is it rubbish?" said Livingston. "My book. Or would you say garbage. Or, if you will, complete and utter shite?"

Harry turned to look at the little fellow sitting next to him, with his thick horn-rimmed glasses and his carefully trimmed moustache on his red, somewhat bloated face. It only dawned on Harry now that Livingston no longer wore the billed mackinaw cap with the buttoned-up earflaps, and he saw that the man's hair was curly and slick with some sort of pomade. The magnified eyes behind the lenses of his glasses were blue and bloodshot and somehow pathetic and pleading, but in them also was the undeniable spark of sentient life.

"I think," said Harry, speaking slowly, as if the words had to be squeezed from his brain, and trying to be truthful, or at least not to, to – to tergiversate? "I think that what I've read thus far is, in its own unique way, excellent."

"Oh wow," said Livingston. "Really?"

"Yes," said Harry. There was more that he could say, much more, the words swirling in his brain like the snow outside the window, but he left them all unsaid.

"You know what you have just done, Harry?" said Livingston, after a brief but intense pause.

"What's that?" said Harry.

"You have justified my existence."

"Well," said Harry, not knowing what else to say.

"One moment I was just another, what, a clown," said Livingston. "An unemployed drunkard, wasting both his days and nights, but now, now I am a – dare I say – a writer?"

"Yes," said Harry, glancing again at the enormous stack of pages before him. "No one can say you are not a writer, Livingston."

"Do you want to read another page?"

"Um –" said Harry.

"Just one more page, just to make sure."

"All right."

"Take another toke first."

"Okay," said Harry, and he took another toke, then picked up the page at the top of the pile and read.

Which brings me to my major habit in life, to wit: boozing.

In my days of boyhood I looked on the world with bewilderment. What was it all in aid of, all these people coming and going, doing things? I think I was about thirteen when it occurred to me that people did things so that they could eat, and have a roof over their heads. But what if you didn't need to do anything in order to eat and have a roof? What was the purpose of life then? It had no purpose that I could see. But then at Yale I discovered booze, glorious booze, in all its varieties. Now everything was different, because after a few drinks it all began to make sense. The purpose of life was to be drunk.

To have a drink, and then another. To have the unprepossessing fellow sitting next to you at the bar gradually become interesting, or at least not crashingly boring. To have one's own thoughts become steeped in significance, even if that significance disappeared or transmuted utterly by the time the next drink was drunk. To tumble out of the bar and down the street to another bar, and to the next stranger sitting on the neighboring stool, with his own unique wisdom and insights. And so on, ad infinitum.

Let's see, what other habits?

Oh, yes, my club. Because so often I just don't have the energy to go wandering the island in search of alcoholic adventure, no, so much easier just to go up the block to the club and spend the afternoon and sometimes the evening there, sitting in the lounge with the movers and shakers, the men who rule the world, these men who somehow accepted me even though I neither toiled nor spun, but simply because I was my father's son and my grandfather's grandson and my great-grandfather's great-grandson, the progeny of these hardworking industrialists who had built and maintained the fortune I now enjoyed. It wasn't fair, none of it was, but even a fool like myself had learned at an early age (I think I was six or seven) that nothing about life was fair.

Did these men at the club think me, at bottom, nothing more than a wastrel? I'm sure they did, and do. But what did I care what they thought? Did I tell them how to run their law and brokerage firms, how to run their factories, how to lead their regiments into battle? Of course not. They did what they felt they should do, and I did what I did. Which was nothing. Except to drink, and to talk nonsense. Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it. Being a lazy idle drunken loafer is not a bad way to live, and it is the life I've chosen. When I lie on my deathbed I shall have no regrets, except perhaps the single regret of having lived at all.

Harry had come to the end of yet another page, and he turned it over.

"Well?" said Livingston.

"Yes?" said Harry.

"Has it gotten boring yet?"

"No," said Harry.

"There's only about fourteen hundred more pages to go."

"I see."

"But you don't have to read them all now."

"Yes, uh –"

"Maybe we've read enough for one night," said Livingston.

"Maybe," said Harry.

"Because, you know, reading is fine, but it's no substitute for real life."

"Maybe," said Harry.

"I think so," said Livingston. "And even now I feel that call. The call to life. I suggest that we set forth once again. Out there." He pointed with his chubby little finger to the window and to the blizzard raging implacably outside it. "The night is yet young, and we, if not quite young, are yet not quite old. Let us go and find the madness."

"I should really go home," said Harry, knowing of course he had no intention of going home.

"Nonsense," said Livingston. "We have the rest of our lives to go 'home'." He gave Harry a light slap on the shoulder. "Get up, old buddy. We are going to paint this town red. Blood red."

"Um," said Harry.

"We might regret it, tomorrow," said Livingston. "But tomorrow is tomorrow, and now is now."

"Uh," said Harry.

"And tomorrow may never come. Someday, indeed, it won't come. Now let us go."

"Okay," said Harry.

It was too late to turn back now. The only way to go was forward, forward with this madman. Harry took one last drag on the reefer, now burnt down to its last quarter-inch, and he let it drop into the ashtray before him, the ashtray full of the butts of a dozen or so other reefers, the ashtray emblazoned on its rim in chipped golden paint with the legend

The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell

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

"Memoirs of a Moron"

2026-08-06T11:29:13.985-04:00

My name (and don't we all have one?) is Livingston P. Lovechild. I ask you, dear reader, if you exist, what was I to do with my life, cursed with such an appellation? Let's face it, you hear a name like Livingston P. Lovechild, and the first thing you think is, "He must be a cunt." And pardon my language, but I am only trying to be truthful here. No one with a name like Livingston P. Lovechild could be anything less or more than a cunt. His parents have already damned him to cunthood for all eternity. And I know what you're thinking, "If it bothers you that much, why not just change your name?" And I admit that this maneuver has occurred to me. Oh the gloriously resonant names I considered: Jack Jackson. Nick Harper. Joe McCool. I even considered some Jewish names: Barry Rothenberg. Jake Cohen. Barry "Buck" Blitztein. Nor did I ignore the Italians: Lou Santone. "Big Mike" Dallesandro. Al "the Pal" Dellarossa. For a while there I wanted to go French: Jean-Claude Chagrin. Louis St. Louis. Marc Le Parc. Yes, so many names I considered, but in the end I kept the name I had been anointed with at baptism. Because, in the end, who would be kidding whom? No matter what I tried to call myself, the truth was bound to come out, that I was Livingston P. Lovechild and no one else, and that I was an obvious cunt.

Harry had come to the end of the page, and he turned the sheet over.

"Well, what do you think, buddy?" said Livingston.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Livingston had pulled an armchair over and had sat himself to Harry's right. Harry's keen novelist's eye perceived that Livingston was now also apparently smoking one of the marijuana cigarettes from the wooden box.

"It's uh," said Harry. "Um."

"Yes, but does it breathe?" said Livingston. "Does it have the touch of life to it?"

"Yes," said Harry. "It does, but."

"Oh. I know. It sucks, right? Enormous donkey dick. You can level with me, Harry. I can take it."

"No," said Harry. "In fact I think it's rather good so far."

"Oh, wow, thank you, pal, that's all I wanted to hear. And from you, my favorite writer. Even more than James Branch Cabell. Even more than Edgar Rice Burroughs or Earl Derr Biggers."

"Thanks, Livingston," said Harry, "but."

"But? But what?" said Livingston.

"You can't write the word cunt."

"What do you mean?"

"No publisher will publish anything with the word cunt in it. Especially five or six times on the very first page."

"Hey, there's a lot more cunts coming in the next fifteen hundred pages or so, believe you me, Harry."

"But you can't write that word," said Harry.

"Why not? It's a perfectly good word."

"That well may be," said Harry. "But no publisher will publish a book with that word in it."

"Well, fuck them then," said Livingston.

"Fuck them?"

"Yeah," said Livingston. "And the horses they rode in on. Who needs them?"

"But, but, um, but," said Harry.

"Know what I'll do?" said Livingston. "I'll start my own publishing company. I'll publish this book myself if I want to, and peddle it from door to door. All I need to know from you, Harry, is, 'Is it good?' And don't worry about a few cunts here and there. Is it good, that's all I want to know."

"Well, I've only read the first page."

"And you sort of liked that, right?"

"I actually did, yes," said Harry. And he took another puff on his marijuana cigarette, which he now noticed was almost halfway smoked down.

"How do you like the reefer, by the way?" said Livingston.

"The reefer?"

"What you're smoking there," said Livingston. "The reefer. The muggles, the doobie, daddy-o."

"I –" Harry paused. "I think I like it."

"It's good stuff," said Livingston. "And you know what the best part is? No hangover. Smoke as much as you want, and, unlike with the lush, no ill effects the next day."

"Really?"

"Yeah, like, you take tomorrow, if there is a tomorrow, if the Russians don't drop an A-bomb on us, or if I don't kick off from a stroke in my sleep, but tomorrow what I'll probably do is just lie in bed and smoke weed and drink tea and munch wholegrain rusks and oatmeal cookies all day. Nothing better for the health of the old corporeal host, not to mention one's mental and spiritual salubrity. I call these days my recovery days. Take a day or two off from the bars, maybe even three, possibly four, and then I'm ready to hit the streets and make it real all over again. The call of the wild, y'know?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Harry, taking another deep draw on the reefer.

"The sacred primeval call," said Livingston. "The call of so many bars, bars and saloons and taprooms and cocktail lounges, all of them beckoning, saying, 'Come, my son, heaven awaits you here. Come. You are welcome.'"

"You should put that in your book," said Harry.

"Oh, I'm sure I have," said Livingston. "Do you want to read some more?"

"Okay," said Harry, and he picked up the fresh page and read.

Perhaps I am wrong to title these pages the Follies of a Flâneur. Would it not be better, more truthful, to call them Confessions of a Cunt? Or, perhaps, The Memoirs of a Moron? Oh, well, no need to decide now.

Let's go back to the beginning, to where I choose to begin, my return to the old house on Bleecker Street after getting kicked so unceremoniously out of Yale. This was a dark time for the world at large. War, as they say, was looming on the horizon. But what did I care? Men had always fought wars, and they would continue to do so. But my father had died the previous year, leaving the family quite well off, and with a steady stream of revenue from "our" electric toaster factory. The point is, I didn't "need" to work. I had never set foot in the factory, and never would, and yet its existence provided me with an income more than suitable for my humble habits. And what were these habits? I shall enumerate them:

Sleeping late, every day. What luxury to lie abed, comfortably, while the world churns obliviously outside my window?

My "strolls". Days when I feel properly rested and full of the jumping beans of life and insanity, after a good lunch to set forth down the steps to Bleecker Street, and to turn right, or left, as the mood strikes me, and to walk on, turning left or right at random, until I see a sign: Joe's Bar. Sam's Bar. Chuck's Bar. Whatever, a bar, and to go into that cave of twinkling dimness and climb a stool, and the barman comes over and says, "Yes, sir?"

And I look behind him at all the glittering bottles, and I gaze down the bar at the gleaming polished tap handles, and I say, "Ah, yes, where to begin?"

A cunty sort of thing to say to a bartender who only wants to know what you want to drink, but, hey, that's me, I told you I was a cunt, and this is just the sort of thing I tend to say.

I can't help it if I'm a cunt. That's just what I am.

"Look, mister," the bartender might say, and has said, "I just want to know what you want to fucking drink…"

"I'll take a beer," I say.

"Great," says the bartender. "What kind?"

"The cold kind," I say, and the bartender, after a brief pause, turns away to get the beer, presumably a cold one, and I can't help but hear him mutter, under his breath, the single word:

"Cunt."

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

"Follies of a Flâneur"

2026-07-23T08:19:03.759-04:00

"Shall we retire to the living room?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Unless of course you would like another piece of cake, Mr. Plumbtree?"
Harry had already had two slices of the chocolate cake, and he could easily have devoured a third, but, despite his gluttony, he said no thank you.

Ralston was looking at a pocket watch on a chain.

"Good, we can still catch the beginning of The Waldo McGee & Mickey Pumpernickel Show."

The Negro maid Matilda had appeared, and with her another old woman who was addressed as "Cookie".

"Matilda," said Mrs. Lovechild, "you and Cookie can clear the table now. We're going to go in and watch the television."

"Would you like some popcorn, Mrs. Lovechild?" said the woman called Cookie.

"That would be lovely, Cookie, thank you," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"And don't stint on the butter, Cookie," said Ralston.

"Oh, Mr. Ralston, sure you'll die of a massive fatal heart attack if you don't watch all that butter you consume night and day."

"And if I do die of a heart attack, Cookie," said Ralston, "I shall die as I have lived, stomping the earth like a man and not trembling and skittering in fear like a mouse."

"Are you fond of television, Mr. Plumbly?" said Gwendolyn, addressing Harry.

"Well, I haven't watched much of it," said Harry. "I'm afraid I don't own a set."

"We finally got one last year," she said, "and now we are profoundly addicted. Wait till you see Mickey Pumpernickel. He's only a wooden dummy, but he's ever so clever, and you can barely see Waldo McGee's lips move. It's like Mickey Pumpernickel is a real person."

"Oh, um," said Harry.

Livingston pushed his chair back and stood up, patting Harry on the shoulder.

"Come up to my room, Harry. Want to show you something."

"Oh, but you'll miss Waldo McGee and Mickey Pumpernickel," said Gwendolyn.

"That puppet gives me the creeps," said Livingston. "Come on, Harry."

Harry thanked Mrs. Lovechild for the delicious meal, glanced awkwardly at Gwendolyn and shyly at Ralston, and then got up and followed Livingston out of the dining room, through a living room draped in shadows and flickering with light from the crackling fireplace and into a hallway with a staircase.

"Thanks for being so nice to the family," said Livingston. "I know they're a little eccentric, but they mean well."

"I think they're very nice," said Harry.

"My mother is quite insane," said Livingston. "Lives in her own world. As does Gwendolyn. And of course Ralston. Come to think of it, as do I. But don't we all? Aren't we all merely prisoners for life in the solitary confinements of our corporeal hosts? Anyhoo, I'm just on the second floor, follow me, old chap."

What could Harry do? In his borrowed woolen slippers he followed Livingston and his stockinged feet up the stairs to the second floor and then down a hall towards the front of the house where there was a tall window looking out onto the blizzard rumbling and churning outside. Livingston opened a door to the right.

"Here it is," he said. "My sanctum sanctorum. Welcome."

He waved with his hand, and Harry went in. Livingston came in behind him, flicked on an overhead light, and closed the door.

"Sorry about the mess," he said.

The room had a large brass bed with a canopy of faded embroidered drapery, and bookcases lined the walls, with stacks of books and magazines on the floor and on tables on either side of the bed. There was a roll-top desk in front of the one tall window, and in front of it was a swivel chair. A big black typewriter sat on the desk, with stacks of paper on either side of it.

"There it is," said Livingston. "That is where the magic happens."

He went over and switched on a gooseneck lamp on the desk.

"Come here, buddy, I'd like to show you something."

Again, what could Harry do? He came over to the desk.

"Sit down, Harry. Get comfortable."

Harry sat down in the swivel chair, but he didn't feel comfortable. What had he gotten himself into? Was a free meal of Chicken à la King worth it, even with some several glasses of fine red wine? Not to mention the chocolate cake and fresh strong coffee.

"Let me give you a little room here," said Livingston, and he pushed the typewriter, an old Royal, inward. Then with both hands he picked up a great stack of typescript to the right of where the typewriter had been, turned the stack over, and laid it down in front of Harry.

"And here," he said, "is my little magnum opus. Still in progress of course, but I wonder if you would be so kind as to read a page or two. Tell me what you think. You being a professional author and all. Not to mention my favorite living author."

This was every writer's worst nightmare, to be asked to read someone else's work.

"I mean, if you don't mind," said Livingston.

"No, of course not," lied Harry, baldfaced, looking at the stack of paper, two reams at least, maybe even three.

He picked up the top sheet, on which was typed:

Follies of a Flâneur

by

Livingston P. Lovechild

He turned the cover page over and picked up the next sheet and read.

These are the confessions of a failure. But perhaps these confessions will in themselves prove to be his ultimate triumph.

"What do you think so far?" said Livingston.

"Well, I've only read the first two sentences," said Harry.

"Only about two million sentences left to go," said Livingston. "Don't worry, it picks up."

Harry read on.

From my earliest age I noticed one thing that all human beings had in common, to wit, they were annoying. Some more so, some less. And experience proved that even the less annoying people became more annoying the more you were in their company. Not that I was exempt, as I annoyed myself as well.

Harry laid the sheet down.

"Oh, no," said Livingston. "Is it that bad?"

"No, not at all," said Harry. "But I wonder if I could have a cigarette."

"Oh, sure," said Livingston. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em. In fact–"

He opened a little drawer in the desk and brought out a small engraved wooden box and opened it. In it were a dozen or so hand-rolled cigarettes.

"Have one of these," he said.

"Oh, but I have my own," said Harry. "Husky Boys."

"An excellent smoke," said Livingston, "but try one of these bad boys instead."

"What are they?"

"Marijuana. Ever try it?"

"No."

"Oh, you simply must, old boy."

"I don't know. Won't I get addicted?"

"Not at all. Go ahead, take one."

What did Harry have to lose? He picked one out, and Livingston gave him a light with an Ohio Blue Tip match from a box on the desk.

"You gotta breathe it in deep and hold it in for as long as you can," said Livingston.

Harry breathed in the smoke and held it in.

"Okay," said Livingston. "Now start reading again. The more you smoke the better the writing is."

Harry picked up the page, still holding in the smoke, and began to read again:

I shall pass over in silence my early years. It was tedious enough having to live through them, let alone having to relive them in memory. No, let us begin these confessions shortly after I was sent down in disgrace from Yale and returned to the familial manse on Bleecker Street, for that was when my life began in earnest, when I finally embraced my true calling as a committed idler, a master of the fine art of doing as little as possible.

Harry exhaled the rich sweet smoke. And then he read on.

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

"The Benighted Hearth"

2026-07-09T12:54:29.400-04:00

"Are you enjoying your Chicken à la King, Mr. Peachman?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

Harry's mouth was full, and so he chewed as quickly as he could.

"I should think he is," said Ralston.

"I love to see a man eat with gusto," said Gwendolyn.

Harry swallowed, trying not to choke, and then he dabbed his lips with the damask napkin he had been supplied with.

"Yes, Mrs. Lovechild, very much so," he finally managed to say.

"Would you care for seconds?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"I think you mean thirds, Mother," said Ralston.

"Ralston, don't be such a cunt," said Gwendolyn.

"Gwendolyn, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Language."

"Here, Mr. Peachum," said Gwendolyn, rising up from her seat, "let me help you with that last bit of chicken and noodles."

"Waste not want not," said Ralston, putting a cigarette into his black holder.

"Oh, thank you," said Harry, "but, really, I couldn't –"

"Of course you could," said Gwendolyn, "now here," and she lifted the serving dish with one hand and with the other she spooned the last of the chicken and noodles and cream sauce onto Harry's plate, spilling only a small amount onto the table cloth. "There you are, old chap, now eat up."

To tell the truth, Harry still had an appetite.

"Thank you," he said. "If you insist."

"You must be simply famished after dragging Livingston home through this frightful blizzard," said Gwendolyn, putting down the dish and sitting back down.

"Well, we took a cab part of the way," said Harry, forking some more of the delicious food into his mouth.

"Be that as it may," said Gwendolyn. "We owe Livingston's life to you. I'm sure he should never have made it home alive otherwise."

"Peachman," said Ralston, exhaling a great cloud of smoke, the sort of cloud Harry would have described as "thoughtful" in one of his detective stories. "Where have I heard that name."

"Mm," said Harry, if one could be said to "say" the sound "mm".

"What's that?" said Ralston.

"He's got his mouth full," said Gwendolyn. "Let him finish chewing, brother."

"Mea culpa," said Ralston. "Chew away, old man."

"Yes," said Mrs. Lovechild, "let Mr. Peachings swallow his food before answering. You know I hate the way you bolt your food, Ralston."

"Yes, Mother," said Ralston, "as you have told me at the very least one million times."

"Then why do you persist in doing it," said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Because it's the way I like to eat," said Ralston. "Dive right in, that's my motto. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes."

"Language, Ralston," said Mrs. Lovechild. "We have a guest at table."

Harry dabbed his lips again with the napkin, and said, "Actually my name is Beachcroft."

"What was that?" said Ralston.

"Beachcroft," said Harry. "My name is actually Beachcroft, Harry Beachcroft."

"Harry Beachcroft?" said Ralston.

"Beachcroft?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Harry?" said Gwendolyn.

"Yes," said Harry.

"And here I've been calling you Mr. Peachams," said Gwendolyn.

"You must forgive us," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Mister – what was it? Peachcroft?"

"Beachcroft," said Harry. "With a B, not a P."

"Please forgive us, Mr. Peachcroft, I mean – what was it again?"

"Beachcroft," said Harry.

"Yes, that," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Please forgive us."

"I feel I've seen that name somewhere," said Ralston.

"Me too, I think," said Gwendolyn. "Harry Peachcroft. Are you by any chance on the stage, Mr. Peachcrab?"

"No, I'm afraid not," said Harry.

"You remind me of a fellow I saw in a play," she said. "What was it. The Benighted Heart? The Abandoned Hearth? Anyway, it had Hyacinth Wilde in it, and it was about how Hyacinth's dead fiancé came back from the war, because he wasn't dead, only a prisoner, and he'd lost his memory, and you played her older brother. His name was Terence, I remember it now, except he had a moustache."

"I'm afraid it wasn't me," said Harry.

"You're quite sure."

"Yes," said Harry.

"Harry Peachcraft, you say," said Ralston.

"Not Peachcraft," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Peachcroft." She was also smoking a cigarette now, but without a holder.

"Well, Beachcroft," said Harry.

"What?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"It's Beachcroft," he said. "With an initial B. I mean, it doesn't really matter, but –"

"Of course it matters," said Mrs. Lovechild, "Mister, uh –"

"Beachcroft," said Harry.

"Now I've got it," said Ralston. "Harry Beachcroft. I've seen that name on these paperback novels Livingston's always reading, lying on the divan where even now he reclines, snoring contentedly. Are we to understand that your are that Harry Beachcroft?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Harry.

"There you are," said Ralston. "We have a celebrated author in our midst."

"Well –" said Harry, in vague modesty.

"You write books?" said Gwendolyn.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Harry.

"I adore books," said Mrs. Lovechild. "What books have you written?"

"Oh, uh," said Harry.

"I want to read your books," said Gwendolyn.

"Livingston's got loads of them in his room," said Ralston. "Stacks of them."

"I, uh," said Harry.

"What should I read first?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"Well, um," said Harry.

"Do you write mysteries?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"I have written mysteries, yes," said Harry.

"What about romances?" said Gwendolyn.

"Well, yes, I've written some of those," said Harry, "but mostly under the pen name of Lucille de la Strange."

"I want to read them," said Gwendolyn.

"You know what I like to read," said Ralston, "I like books about small-town girls who come to Hollywood to make it in pictures. But they keep meeting rotters who take advantage of their good nature. Got anything in that line?"

"He does in fact," said a familiar voice, and Harry turned to see that Livingston had entered the room. He was in his stockinged feet, and wore a plaid flannel shirt of the kind that lumberjacks presumably wore. "Harry has written a delightful novel called The Girl on the Greyhound Bus, and it is about a lass who comes to Hollywood to make it big in pictures, but gets caught up in a web of passion and betrayal, and, yes, murder."

"The sleeper awakes," said Ralston.

"Just needed to rest my eyes for a minute," said Livingston. "Is there any Chicken à la King left?"

Harry stared guiltily at his empty plate.

"I'm afraid it's all gone, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Sit down and you may join us for coffee and dessert."

There was a little tarnished brass bell on the table, and she picked it up by its wooden handle and rang it.

"Oh, well," said Livingston, pulling out the empty chair to Harry's left and seating himself. "You know what they say."

"What do they say, dear?" said Mrs. Lovechild.

"When you snooze you lose," said Livingston. He reached over the table and picked up one of the three wine bottles there. "Chambertin," he said, looking at the faded label. "Excellent."

There was an empty wine glass at his place, and he filled it with ruby red dark wine.

He turned to Harry.

"Top you off, Harry?"

"I really shouldn't," said Harry, for no honest reason.

"Nonsense," said Livingston, and he refilled Harry's glass.

Putting down the bottle he raised his glass.

"Up the long ladder," he said, "and down the short rope. To hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope."

And he drank, and so did Harry.

What did it matter?

How would he get home tonight?

Would he even get home tonight?

Did it matter if he got home tonight?

Outside the tall front windows the snow continued to fall heavily over Bleecker Street, illuminated by a street lamp, pattering against the glass panes, the wind deeply whistling, but inside this house all was warm and smelling of the burning wood in the fireplace and of wine and women's perfume.

Gwendolyn looked at him through her large blue eyes over her wine glass.

Perhaps Harry would never leave here.

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

"The Ancestral Manse"

2026-06-25T12:29:19.303-04:00

Again Harry yanked on Livingston's arm.

"Come on, Livingston, let's go."

And again Livingston's small eyes opened.

"Where are we going?"

"Home," said Harry. "We're at your house."

"Oh," said Livingston. He sat up straight, blinking. "Splendid. What do we owe you, my good man?" he said, addressing the driver.

"Nothing," said the driver. "Your buddy already paid me."

"Oh, thank you, Harry," said Livingston.

"It was your money," said Harry. "I took the liberty of taking it from your wallet."

"Splendid, splendid," said Livingston.

"I put the wallet back in your trousers," said Harry.

"Yes, of course you did," said Livingston. "Shall we disembark then?"

"Yes," said Harry.

Livingston was sitting on the street side of the back seat, and he turned, depressed the door handle, opened the door, and fell out into the street.

Exactly one minute later Harry was pulling Livingston to his feet as the cab pulled away into the blizzard, belching exhaust into the falling snow and groaning like a dying elephant.

"Home at last," said Livingston, looking up at the snow-shrouded house before them, with a tall leafless snow-whitened tree in front it, its branches reaching up into the blizzard. "The ancestral manse."

"Yes," said Harry. "Are you all right to walk?"

"Right as rain," said Livingston. "I can't wait to introduce you to la famille."

"There's no need for that," said Harry.

"What do you mean?" said Livingston.

"I mean I'm going to get you up the steps and into your house, and then I'm going home."

"But you can't mean that!"

Actually Harry didn't mean it, because what he really wanted to do was to make his way back to Bob's Bowery Bar and get a quiet peaceful load on, vowing all the while never to go on such a fool's expedition again. Nevertheless, "Yes," he lied. "I think I just want to go home."

"I won't hear of it," said Livingston. "You must stay for dinner."

"Look, Livingston, let's just get you up there, okay?"

"Yes, of course. We can't just stand out here in this blizzard, can we?"

"No," said Harry.

He took Livingston's arm and guided him out of the street and onto the sidewalk to the snow-covered stoop of the tall house that loomed above them.

"Mind the steps now," said Livingston. "They're under this snow, somewhere.

Keeping his left arm on Livingston's right, and his right hand on the snow-caked iron railing, Harry pulled and yanked and slogged them both up the five or six steps to the landing and into the front doorway, which was flanked by fluted weatherworn columns. A stained-glass fanlight above the door glowed with various colors.

"Do you have your key, Livingston?"

"My key, yes," said Livingston, and it only took him three minutes to remove his thick wool mittens, shove them into the pockets of his mackinaw, and then, after patting and probing various pockets, to produce a large old tarnished skeleton key attached to a ratty rabbit's foot, and then it took him another full minute to insert the key into the keyhole in the door. "Now here comes the tricky part," he said. "You have to turn the key while you simultaneously turn the door knob, jiggling both key and knob in unison."

"Okay," said Harry.

"Like this," said Livingston, turning the key and knob and jiggling. "Voilà!" He pushed against the doorknob, but nothing happened. "Oh, dear," he said. "That usually works."

Another minute of turning and jiggling and pushing passed, and then Harry said, "Look, let me try."

"Yes," said Livingston, "you try, Harry."

Harry had never been good with keys and door locks, but he did his best, and he failed, and failed again, and again.

"You have to jiggle it, old chap," said Livingston. "Simultaneous with sort of pushing."

"That's what I'm doing," said Harry.

"Let me try again," said Livingston.

"Can't we just ring the door bell?"

"Oh, my dear fellow, that door bell has been en panne since as long as I can remember."

"Okay, fine, then what about the door knocker."

There was indeed a heavy engraved bronze knocker on the door.

"Yes," said Livingston, "I suppose we could do that. Here, give me the key and let me try it just once more."

"All right," said Harry, thinking, Never again. He pulled the key from the lock and handed it to Livingston, who stared at it, and then put it in a pocket of his mackinaw.

"Well, then," said Livingston. "Shall we go?"

"What?" said Harry.

"Shall we hie us hence, old man? Where are we going anyway? Shall we start at the San Remo? It's only just up the corner, and we can be there in a trice. I don't know if you've ever been there, but it's a delightful establishment, and quite popular among the bohemian set."

"Livingston," said Harry, "we're not going anywhere. We're trying to get you into your house."

"Oh, bother my house," said Livingston. "I've spent my whole life in that dump. Come, the great pulsing city awaits! Women, wine, and, yes, perhaps even a song or two!" He turned to face the street, and then turned his head to look at Harry. "It's a veritable winter wonderland, old boy!"

He took a step forward and then fell to his knees. He quickly got up and then fell forward again, tumbling down the snow-covered steps. And then he lay there facedown in the thick snow, perhaps alive, perhaps not.

Harry turned and put his cold bare hand on the cold bronze heavy knocker, and knocked. He continued to do so for for perhaps two minutes and then finally the door opened.

An old Negro woman in a black and white housemaid's uniform and cap stood there.

"What's this commotion?" she said.

"My name is Harry Beachcroft," said Harry, "and I have brought Livingston home."

"Mr. Livingston?" said the old woman. "Where is he?"

"He's down there at the bottom of the steps," said Harry.

The old woman stepped forward and raised her chin to look down at the sidewalk.

"Is he alive?"

"I don't know, to be quite honest," said Harry.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to get him up here. Won't you wait a moment, and I'll go get Mr. Ralston to help."

"Who's Mr. Ralston?"

"He is Mr. Livingston's younger brother. He's not very strong I'm afraid, but he's the only man in the house, so he'll have to do. Wait here, please."

"All right," said Harry.

The old woman went away, leaving the inner door of the foyer open behind her. Beyond the door were shadows and in the shadows was a carpeted staircase leading up to somewhere. Harry waited. What else could he do? He could just leave, but what if this Mr. Ralston was too weak to get Livingston up the steps by himself? Surely that frail old woman wouldn't be much help.

Harry stood there in the foyer, which was dimly lit from an overhead multicolored fixture. The walls were tiled, old and faded and stained, and the tiles seemed to illustrate fawns and naked nymphs in a sylvan paradise. There was a hat rack on the right wall, with hats on it, and a coat rack on the left wall, with coats on it. To the right was a great cracked vase in a floral motif, with several old umbrellas and walking sticks in it. A dozen or so pairs of boots and galoshes were ranged along the wainscoting of both walls, and there was an ancient rubber runner on the floor. There was also an old wooden stool, as well as a small table with a yellowed tattered lace cover over it, with a pile of gloves and mittens, a chipped ceramic dish with a collection of keys and coins and envelopes, and a glass ashtray with some cigarette butts in it, emblazoned on its side with the slogan The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell.

Harry stepped back into the falling snow and looked down the steps. Livingston was still there, and he was either dead or alive. If he was dead, Harry hoped there wouldn't be an inquest.

"Hello, there," said a slightly masculine voice.

Harry turned, and the old Negro woman was there, with a young pale man wearing an embroidered garnet and gold smoking jacket, and holding a cigarette in a black holder.

"Hello," said Harry.

"My name is Ralston Lovechild," said the young man. "At your service. And you are?"

"Harry Beachcroft," said Harry. "I've brought your brother home."

"So Matilda tells me," said the young man. He stepped forward and looked down the steps. "Oh, dear. Not again. All right, just give me a mo to get my rubbers on, and we'll get him inside."

Harry waited while the young man sat on the stool and pulled a pair of galoshes on over his house slippers, then got up and put a great Russian fur hat on his head, and finally the old woman helped him on with a a fur coat of some sort.

Another old woman appeared, this one was a white woman, and with her was a younger woman, who looked like a younger version of the older woman, but with dark hair that looked natural, whereas the older woman's hair looked dyed. They were both smoking cigarettes.

"Ralston, you're letting all the hot air out," said the older woman.

"I know, Mother," said Ralston, taking his cigarette from its holder, and stubbing it out in the ashtray, "but this gentleman and I must bring Livingston up into the house."

"Where is he?"

"Passed out on the pavement," said Ralston.

"Hi, there," said the young woman, to Harry. "What's your name?"

"Harry Beachcroft," said Harry.

Oddly enough, she was not unattractive, at least not by Harry's modest standards.

"A friend of Livingston's?" she said.

"Not really," said Harry. "I just met him a couple of hours ago."

"Livingston could use a friend," said the young woman. "My name is Gwendolyn, by the way. I am Livingston's sibling."

"Please to meet you, miss," said Harry.

"And this is our mother," said the young woman, indicating the older woman. "You may address her as Mrs. Lovechild."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lovechild," said Harry.

"And you as well," said Mrs. Lovechild. "I suppose we should thank you for bringing Livingston home."

"It was the least I could do," said Harry.

"Well, are we going to spend all evening gabbing here in the chill, or shall we bring the prodigal inside?" said Ralston. He had pulled on a pair of sturdy-looking leather gloves.

"I hope he's not dead," said Gwendolyn, who had stepped forward to peer down at the sidewalk.

"Well, if he is dead," said Ralston, "he will have gone out the way he would have wanted. Drunk as a skunk. Shall we, Mr. Peachcraft?"

"Yes," said Harry. "I'm ready."

"And then afterwards," said Gwendolyn, "whether Livingston is alive or dead, you must dine with us, Mr. Peachtree. Are you fond of Chicken à la King?"

Harry had only ever had the kind of Chicken à la King that you got in automats or diners, and it had never seemed as good as it was touted up to be, but he didn't want to appear rude, so he said yes, he was actually very fond of Chicken à la King.

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

"Eight Billion Stories in the Naked City"

2026-06-11T12:17:07.538-04:00

Slowly the cab forged through the blizzard. There were no pedestrians to be seen on the sidewalks. Who but madmen and cabdrivers would be out in this frozen chaos?
At a red light the driver slid open the glass partition.

"You all right back there?"

"Yes," said Harry. "Thank you."

"Your buddy still breathing?"

"Yes, sleeping peacefully."

"You think this is bad?"

"What?" said Harry.

"This," said the driver. "This snowstorm."

"Oh," said Harry. "Yes, I suppose it's pretty bad."

"This ain't bad," said the driver.

"It isn't?"

"No," said the driver. "It ain't."

"Oh?" said Harry.

This was a good thing about being too impoverished to take cabs anywhere (even though Harry rarely wanted to go anywhere anyway). If you never took cabs you didn't have to listen to cabdrivers talk. Now if he could only find a way not to have to listen to barbers. Perhaps he should start shaving his skull?

The light changed, the driver yanked the gear shift, the cab shuddered and groaned and began to move again.

"You know what was bad?" said the cab driver.

"What?" said Harry.

"You know what was bad?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," said Harry.

The driver turned around in his seat, still driving. He took the cigar out of his mouth and gestured expansively with it.

"I'm talking about this," he said. "This goddamn blizzard. That's what I'm talking about. What the hell did you think I was talking about?"

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "I didn't know."

"Then pay attention," said the driver. "This is the problem with people. Nobody pays attention to nobody."

"I'm very sorry," said Harry, "but –"

"But what?"

"Do you think you could watch the road while you're driving?"

Probably despite himself the driver took a brief glance ahead at the snowy street, and then turned back to Harry.

"Don't tell me how to drive this cab," said the man. "I can drive this cab with my eyes closed."

"Okay," said Harry. "Sorry. It's just I would feel safer if you would keep your eyes on the road."

"You just leave the driving to me, pal. I know what I'm doing."

Suddenly the car jolted with a dull loud thump and Harry's face was thrust into the leather of the seat-back in front of him.

"Ow," he said.

"Now look what the fuck you made me do," said the driver.

"What happened?" said Harry, touching his nose with his cold fingers.

"You made me bump into a parked car, that's what happened."

"Okay," said Harry, "look, just let us out here, okay?"

"Bullshit," said the driver. "I said I'd take you to Sullivan Street, and I'm taking you to Sullivan Street."

The car's internal mechanisms whined and growled as the driver shifted gears again, reversing and then once again plowing forward.

"Just please keep your eyes on the road," said Harry.

"I told you before," said the taxi driver, and he turned around to look at Harry again, "don't tell me how to drive this hack."

"Okay, fine," said Harry.

"Good," said the driver, but at least he turned once more to face the road. "That is all I ask."

He drove in silence for a minute, and then he said, again, "Yeah, this ain't bad."

Harry said nothing. The drive would be over soon. Maybe they wouldn't crash, and after all, even if they did crash, they were driving very slowly.

"You know what was bad?" said the driver.

"What?" said Harry.

"You know what was really bad?"

"I know many things that were bad," said Harry.

"Don't crack wise with me, pal," said the driver. "You crack wise with me I'll kick you right out of this cab, and keep the sawbuck you give me. Now you want to know what was really bad?"

"Okay," said Harry. "What was really bad?"

"Napoleon's retreat from Moscow," said the driver. "That was bad. A hunnert thousand Frenchmen started out that cold winter. You know how many made it back to France?"

"Not off hand," said Harry.

"Not too many, pal," said the driver. "Not too many at all. How many? I don't know. A thousand? Couple o' thousand? Three thousand, tops. Not too many, buddy. And the ones that did make it back? They was never the same. Scarred for life. And not just physically, but mentally. Psychologically. Shattered. Mere husks of men, crippled in body, mind and soul. Standing on street corners shaking tin cups. 'Cept for old Napoleon of course. What did he care? Just another walk in the park for old Napoleon, he didn't give a shit. What do you do?"

"Pardon me?"

"What do you do for a living?"

"Oh, I'm a writer."

"A writer?" said the driver, and he adjusted his rearview mirror, so he could see Harry's face. "Like a journalist?Newspaper guy? Sportswriter?"

"No, I write stories, novels."

"What kind of stories?"

"All sorts."

"You know what kinda stories and novels I like?"

"No," said Harry.

"I like stories about guys who get like caught in a web of deceit and violence, and betrayal. You write them kind of stories?"

"Sometimes," said Harry.

"You ever need any story ideas, you come to me."

"Okay," said Harry.

"I got a million of them."

Harry said nothing. Everyone had a million stories.

"A million of them," the driver said again.

They were stopped at another light. The cab's motor hummed and coughed, and outside the cold wind and snow roared and whined as snowflakes drummed on the roof of the cab like frozen plagues of locusts.

The light changed, the driver shifted the gear and the cab lurched forward.

"They say there's eight million stories in the naked city," he said. "That's a lie. There's eight billion stories in the naked city. And every one of them stories ends the same. You know how they end?"

"What?" said Harry.

"I said you know how every one of them eight billion stories in the naked city ends?"

"With somebody dying?"

The driver turned around and looked at Harry.

"How'd you know that?"

"Just guessed, I guess," said Harry.

The driver continued to stare at Harry.

Harry knew he should tell the man to watch the road, but he had been down that conversational cul-de-sac before, so he held his tongue. Finally, after half a minute, the driver turned to face the road again, of his own volition.

"You ain't so dumb," he said. "Not so dumb as you look, anyway."

He drove on, and after another minute, he stopped the car.

"Sullivan Street," he said. "You want me to cross the street or stop here."

"I think it's 175 Sullivan."

"That's acrost the street, on the right."

"Okay," said Harry, "across the street then."

The driver took them across the snowy street and stopped. Through the snow-shrouded window Harry could see only more snow, and beyond it what must have been a house, with dim yellow rectangles that must have been windows.

The driver turned around again.

"Give me a fin, and I help you get your buddy into the house."

"No thanks," said Harry.

"Two bucks," said the driver.

"I think I can manage," said Harry.

"Suit yourself, pal," said the driver. "You probably think I'm only in this for the money. And you know what? You're right. But I got bills to pay. Expenses. They say life is cheap, but you know something? Life ain't cheap. Life is expensive. Very expensive. Give me a buck and I'll help you get your friend up to the house."

"Thank you," said Harry, "but I think I can handle it."

"That's what Napoleon said," said the driver. "And you know what happened to him."

"Yes," said Harry.

"So you know what happened to Napoleon?"

"I think so," said Harry.

"What happened to him?"

"He met his Waterloo?"

The driver paused.

"That's right. He met his Waterloo. Maybe you and your chum are gonna meet your Waterloo tonight."

"That's quite possible," said Harry. He shook Livingston's shoulder. "Livingston, wake up. You're home."

Livingston opened his little eyes.

"Um?"

"Yes," said Harry. "You're home."

"Um," said Livingston, again, and he closed his eyes.

"You woulda thought Napoleon woulda learnt his lesson after that retreat from Moscow," said the cab driver. "But oh, no, not Napoleon. He weren't happy. Just like you guys. Just like everybody."

Harry shook Livingston's arm again.

"Livingston," he said. "Wake up."

"Yeah," said the cab driver. "Wake up, Livingston. Meet your fucking Waterloo."

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

"Satori"

2026-05-28T14:00:11.896-04:00

The cab ground to a halt, its motor humming through the falling snow. Its roof and hood were white with snow, and Harry could see the shadowed form of a driver behind the wheel.

"Can you help me, sir?" he yelled. "My friend has fallen!"

The driver didn't budge, so Harry trudged through the snow around the front of the car to the driver's window and knocked on the crusted glass with his cold bare knuckles.

The man inside rolled down the window a few inches. He had an ear-flapped leather cap on his head and a cigar in his mouth.

"You want a cab, or don'tcha?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, "I would like a cab, but you see, my friend has collapsed into that snowbank over there, and I wonder if you could help me get him up?"

"What do I look like, a good Samaritan?"

"Please, sir, if you could just help me get him into your cab, we'll leave you a nice tip."

"How far you going?"

"Just straight up Bleecker, to Sullivan."

"Sullivan," said the man. "I make that like eight blocks."

"Whatever you say, sir."

"That's what I say," said the cab driver. "Ain't nobody knows this town like I do."

"I'm sure that's so," said Harry. "Now would you please help me get my friend into the cab?"

"What's he doing lying in that snowbank?"

"He, uh, he fell," said Harry.

"He fell down, in a snowbank."

"Yes," said Harry.

"And may I ask why he fell down?"

"He, um, uh –"

"He's drunk, ain't he?"

"Well, it's true he's had a few bocks, but –"

"What if he tosses his cookies in my back seat?"

"I'm sure he won't."

"And what makes you so sure exactly?"

"Well, I can't be entirely sure."

"He throws up in my back seat who's gonna clean it up? You?"

"Look, sir, I believe my friend is fairly well off. If you agree to take us just as far as Sullivan Street, I'm sure he'll make it worth your while."

"What's on Sullivan Street anyway?"

"His house, he lives in a house at the corner of Bleecker and Sullivan."

"One of them big houses?"

"Yes, I think so."

"You think so?"

"I've never been there. I only met him a couple of hours ago."

"Sounds a little fishy to me."

"Please, sir, he could freeze to death out here."

"Ten bucks."

"What?"

"Ten bucks, flat fee."

"Ten dollars to go eight blocks?"

"Take it or leave it, pal. I ain't got all night."

"Yes, but –"

"Ten bucks, up front. Fork it over and I'll even help you get your pal in the cab."

"I don't have ten dollars."

"How much you got?"

"I don't know, a couple dollars maybe, some change."

"You say your buddy's well off, lives in one of them big houses."

"Yes."

"So get a sawbuck offa him, then I'll give yez a ride. Also you don't even got to tip me."

"Wow, thanks."

"Don't be sourcastic with me, mac. You talk like that to me, I leave you here, you and your swell buddy."

"I'm sorry," said Harry. "Look, please, help me get him into the cab, and I'm sure he'll gladly give you ten dollars."

"He'll give it to me all right," said the driver. "I don't know how glad he'll be about it."

"Please, sir."

"Awright, awright," said the driver. "Jesus H. Crackers. Now get away from the door so's I can open it."

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, and he backed away from the door.

The cab driver opened the door and disembarked. He was short and squat, wearing a leather jacket with a fur collar. He still had the cigar in his mouth.

"Awright," he said, "let's get this so-called friend of yours." He shut the door, and then he looked up at Harry and pointed his leather-encased stubby finger at him. "But know this. Your buddy throws up on my back seat the price goes up."

"Okay," said Harry. "Fine."

"Double sawbuck."

"What?" said Harry.

"You hard of hearing? I said double sawbuck. Twenty simoleons, U.S. currency."

"Great," said Harry. "Now please, sir."

"Let's go," said the driver.

He turned and slogged through the snow around the front of the cab, and Harry followed him to the corner.

Livingston still lay face down in the snowbank, and his small but fat body had already been covered almost completely with snow, with just a few patches of his red-and-black checked mackinaw and matching cap visible in the dim light of a streetlamp.

"If he's dead the deal is off," said the driver. "I drive a hack, not a hearse."

"I doubt he's dead," said Harry.

"Make sure," said the driver. "Turn him over."

"Can you help me?"

"I ain't touching him if he's dead. You turn him over."

Harry squatted down, put his cold hands on Livingston's upper arm and shoulder, and after only forty-five seconds and several heaves and pushes, managed to turn him over onto his back.

Livingston's face was wet and mottled with crystals of snow, but his eyes opened.

"Oh, hello, Harry," he said.

"Livingston," said Harry. "Get up. I've got us a cab."

"A cab?"

"Yes, see? There's the driver."

Harry gestured with his thumb at the driver who stood behind him.

"Splendid," said Livingston.

"But you have to get up," said Harry.

"I'm actually very comfortable here," said Livingston. "It's so soft, and I love the snowflakes falling down into my face and my eyes. I feel as if I could lie here forever, one with God and all the universe. I feel as if I have achieved what the orientals call satori."

"This guy is nuts," said the driver.

"You take the cab, Harry, my friend," said Livingston. "I shall just lie here, and let myself be covered up and be subsumed by the falling snowflakes. I have no regrets. No, none worth speaking of."

"Look," said Harry, "let's get you on your feet."

"Really, old man, no need," said Livingston. "You take the cab. Take it straight up Bleecker to the San Remo Café. An establishment in which I have passed untold happy hours. Go inside and stride manfully up to the bar, and, yes, order not one bock but two. One for you, and one for me. And drink both of them. In my memory."

Livingston half-closed his eyes against the falling snow, a slight smile on his face, and Harry turned to look up at the cabby.

"Look, sir, you get one arm, and I'll get the other, and we'll pull him up."

"I'm quite happy here," said Livingston.

"He says he's happy here," said the driver.

"Yes, but we can't leave him here," said Harry. "He'll freeze to death."

"Sounds to me like he don't mind freezing to death."

"Look," said Harry, "if we leave him here to freeze you won't get your ten dollars."

"You got a point," said the driver, and he plodded through the drift to the other side of Livingston. "Okay, here's what we do, I take one arm, and you take t'other, and we pull him up."

"Yes, good idea," said Harry, but his sarcasm apparently was lost on the man.

Not more than five minutes later, they managed to get Livingston into the back of the cab, where he immediately slumped over on his side and fell asleep.

The driver went around the cab, opened the door and got in behind the wheel. He turned around, taking his cigar out of his mouth, and slid open the wired-glass divider window.

"Ten bucks," he said.

"Oh, yes, sorry," said Harry.

Livingston was out cold, so there was nothing for Harry to do but to go through his friend's pockets until he found his wallet, and when he found it – a handsome brown leather wallet embossed with the cursive initials LPL – it was filled with cash, well over two hundred dollars in twenties, tens, fives, and singles. In fact it was more money than Harry had ever seen at one time in his life. He extricated a ten, and, although he was tempted, that was all he took.

"Here you are, sir," he said, handing the bill through the opening in the glass.

"Remember," said the driver, "he throws up, that's another ten."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, "I remember."

The driver closed the partition window, and Harry took one last look at the contents of the wallet, then replaced it into Livingston's back pocket.

The cab moaned heavily and then jolted as the driver pulled the gear shift, and off they went, the taxi's motor grumbling and the chains on its tires crunching slowly through the snow, the wipers on the windshield moving grudgingly up and down, smearing the glass with the snowflakes that dropped heavily out of the black sky above, and all that Harry could see through the thick smoke of the driver's cigar and beyond the headlights of the cab were the vague dark shapes of buildings and the pale glowing blotches of windows, behind which, presumably, human beings lived in warmth and safety.

Where the hell was he going, and what was he doing? Why had he not remained in the warm smoky confines of Bob's Bowery Bar?

He turned and looked at Livingston, slumped in the shadows against the door and sleeping, snoring gently, like a large fat baby, oblivious, and perhaps even happy.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"All the World Is a Vast Museum"

2026-05-14T10:37:15.699-04:00

Livingston P. Lovechild opened the door and beckoned, waving with a slight bow.

"After you, good sir!"

Despite the thick icy gusts of snow swirling through the doorway, Harry stepped through, and Livingston followed him, pulling the door closed behind him.

Outside the bar darkness had fallen, and the snow had apparently never stopped falling, now lying at least a foot and a half deep on the sidewalk and banked up in great drifts against the walls of the buildings and the iron pillars of the elevated train, completely covering the humped parked cars along the Bowery.

The neon sign heralding BOB'S BOWERY BAR cast its reddish orange glow through the falling snow and onto the snow on the ground, the pale light of a street lamp glowed faintly through the blizzard, and the pink face of Livingston P. Lovechild smiled broadly at Harry's appalled face.

"Isn't it glorious, Harry?" shouted Livingston. He was actually serious, or at least so he seemed. "I am reminded of the snowscapes of the Ashcan School. Are you familiar with the work of Robert Henri?"

"Who?" shouted back Harry.

"Robert Henri, the painter! Ashcan School!"

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

"Robert, H-E-N-R-I."

"You mean Robert Henri?" said Harry, pronouncing the last name in the French manner.

"Ah, but you see he pronounced his surname 'Hen-rye', in a proud American way. Hen-rye!"

"Oh," said Harry, already beginning to feel uncomfortably cold. "I didn't know that."

"Regardless," said Livingston, "isn't it just marvelous out? I often wonder why people waste their time in museums and galleries when all the world is a vast museum, don't you agree, Harry?"

"I, uh –"

"But come, we're wasting time here, let's mush!"

He grabbed Harry's arm. Harry hadn't noticed before but Livingston had put on thick woolen mittens. Harry for his part wore no gloves, and in fact he didn't own a pair.

"Wait, Liv-, Love-"

"Livingston is my name, Harry, and don't wear it out, ha ha."

"Livingston, don't you think that maybe it really is a little too snowy out for walking?"

"Harry," said Livingston. "My dear Harry." The lenses of his horn-rims had already become crusted over with frost, and he removed the glasses awkwardly with his mittened hands, and shoved them into a pocket of his mackinaw. "Y'know, I thought we had settled all this too snowy nonsense." His eyes without spectacles seemed much smaller, and they blinked against the falling snowflakes. "You're not going to back out on me now, are you?"

"Um," said Harry.

"On me, your biggest fan?"

"Well, I do appreciate your saying that," said Harry. "But –"

He looked up and around at the falling snow and at the snow on the ground reaching halfway up his calves.

"Then come!" said Livingston, beaming, and he pulled Harry onward, through the falling snow.

Oh well, thought Harry, what's the worst that could happen?

Perhaps it wasn't the worst that could have happened but it wasn't good when, having turned the corner from the Bowery onto Bleecker and proceeded slogging past the tenement where Harry lived and slowly onward to Elizabeth Street, and then progressively more slowly to Mott and to Mulberry, all the while seeing not another soul nor even a passing car, with Livingston babbling continuously about Harry knew not what, as they reached the corner of Lafayette Street, Livingston suddenly sat down in a snowbank at the curb.

"I am just going to rest a bit, Harry," said Livingston, weakly panting. "Carry on without me and I'll be along presently after I catch my breath."

Harry for his part was breathing quite heavily himself, and a thick bodily fluid dribbled ceaselessly from his nostrils.

"Livingsworth, listen," he said.

"Livingston, actually," said Livingston.

"Livingston, sorry," said Harry, "listen, I'm not going to just leave you here."

"Oh but you must. Go on ahead. I just need to muster my forces. Perhaps close my eyes for a minute."

"Livingston, if you close your eyes you'll freeze to death."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes. Now get up."

"Perhaps you can send a party back for me. Perhaps I will still be alive when they get here."

"What do you mean a party?"

"A search party."

"And where would I find a search party?"

"When you get to my house, ask my mother to use the telephone, and call the police, or perhaps the fire department."

"Livingston, I don't even know where your house is."

"175 Bleecker, right at the corner of Sullivan. Big gabled house, with towers, you can't miss it. Just tell Mother you're my friend, and that unfortunately I couldn't crack on. She'll understand and she'll let you use the telephone."

"Look, Livingston, I'm not going on without you."

"But no one will blame you, old man. I only ask you this. Tell my mother – tell her I love her, despite, despite – well, just tell her I love her. I've never been able to tell her that when I was alive, but more's the pity. Also, my sister, Gwendolyn, tell her that –"

"Damn it, Livingston," said Harry.

"I beg your pardon."

Harry took his freezing ungloved hands out of his topcoat pockets and reached down and grabbed Livingston's arm, and pulled.

Harry was not a strong man, having avoided exercise and physical labor his entire life, and Livingston was a fat man, but a small fat man, and so after not more than a minute Harry got Livingston up on his feet, which he now noticed were encased in knee-length rubber boots, unlike his own, which were shod in worn old Thom McAn brogans.

"Good, you're standing," said Harry. "Now let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"To your house, remember?"

"Oh, yes, my house."

"To have dinner."

"Dinner, quite," said Livingston.

"Yes," said Harry. "Now let's go."

"Yes, we must stand not upon the order of our going, but go at once."

"Okay, then, let's go."

"Why are we standing here, anyway?"

"Because you sat down in that snow drift and refused to get up."

"Oh, yes," said Livingston. "But I am standing now, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are. Now come on."

"Where are we going again?"

"To your house. To have dinner."

"Yes. We must hurry."

"Okay, then, let's go," said Harry.

"Just one moment," said Livingston, and turning to look at the drift of snow, he collapsed into it again, face first.

Harry was not a praying man, but he looked up into the dark night through which the heavy snowflakes fell relentlessly.

Dear God, he prayed, just let me get this idiot to his house, and I promise I will never go off into a blizzard with some random drunk again.

Through the thick falling snow Harry heard the low mechanical hum of a motor.

He turned, and it was a taxicab, a dark green and grey cab with its roof light on, chains on its tires, approaching slowly up the middle of Bleecker Street.

Harry raised his hand.

Thank you, God, he thought. Thank you. I owe you one, sir.

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

"Chicken à la King"

2026-04-30T12:02:04.807-04:00

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…}

"The Damned of the Damned"

2026-04-17T13:27:00.001-04:00

{Welcome to our new fortnightly serial epic, eventually to be merged with our immediately previous serial epic…}

"You were wrong, Thad," said Martha. "You were wrong in Grosse Pointe and you were wrong in Gstaad."

"But, dear –"

"You were wrong in Palm Beach and you were wrong in Palm Springs, too."

"I beg your pardon, I admit I may have been wrong in Palm Beach, but in Palm Springs –"

"You were wrong."

"But –"

"Don't 'but' me, you swine. You were wrong."

"But –"

"Terribly wrong."

"But."

"Wrong."

"May I say one thing in my defense," he said.

"Go ahead," she said. "Lie. Lie again."

"The one thing I have to say," said Thad, "is that I love you."

"Ha."

"I have always loved you."

"Tell it to the marines."

"You really know how to hurt a guy, Martha."

"Swine."

"Gee, Martha."

"Oh, don't 'gee, Martha' me, you weak, alcoholic, mewling, son-of-

Harry Beachcroft pulled the page out of his battered old second-hand Royal portable and laid it on the stack of paper to the right of the machine. He took a fresh sheet of paper from the stack on the left and rolled it into the typewriter, and then he sighed. Harry's daily quota was ten pages, and once he finished that tenth page, he knocked off for the day, even if, as today, he was in the middle of a sentence.

And now was that very special time of the day: time for a bock at Harry's "local", Bob's Bowery Bar…

It was a snowy late afternoon, one might even say a blizzardy one, but, no matter, it wasn't as if Harry had far to go, just out the door of his tenement building on Bleecker, left past Mr. Morgenstern's cobbler shop, and around the corner to the entrance of Bob's.

A train passed on the elevated tracks up above, heading down to the Houston stop, filled with huddled masses on their way home from their mundane jobs, and Harry opened the door to the only home he had.

Inside the bar was the usual crowd of drunks, the place was thick with smoke and the warm rich smells of beer and booze, of unwashed human bodies and damp woolens, and a sad song played on the jukebox. It was a Monday, but every day was a Friday at Bob's Bowery Bar.

Harry found a seat down at the right, in between a small chubby man and Gilbey the deranged mystic.

"How are you today, Gilbey?"

"I ain't seen God lately, Harry, but I ain't given up yet."

"Maybe someday, Gilbey."

"Yeah, maybe someday," said Gilbey. "Meantime I'll be waiting."

Bob was down at the other end of the bar, so Harry took out his Philip Morrises. This is what cigarettes were for. The waiting times. He shook one out and put it in his lips, then patted his pockets for matches.

"May I ignite your cigarette, sir?"

This was the little fellow to Harry's left, who was extracting a match from a box of Ohio Blue Tips.

"Thank you," said Harry, and he accepted a light.

The man could have been a prematurely decayed twenty-five or an alcohol-preserved forty on the verge of a heart attack, it was hard to say, and he was smoking a pipe. He wore a red-and-black checked mackinaw coat and a matching billed cap with buttoned-up earflaps. He looked at Harry through thick horn-rimmed glasses, and he had a moustache trimmed top and bottom like an actor in 1930s movies. He definitely looked like a lush, but not the usual sort of lush you saw in Bob's.

"Do you come here often?" said the man.

"Only every day," said Harry.

"First time for me," said the man. "A delightful establishment, I must say."

"I like it," said Harry.

"I usually like to drink at my club, but sometimes one feels the need to wander, to explore the city in all its richness and variety. You know how it is."

"Um," said Harry, who had no idea how it was.

"Do you know there are at least thirty-seven bars and cafés just within three blocks of my familial manse?"

"I, uh –"

Harry was on the verge of saying how could he possibly know how many bars and cafés were within three blocks of the fellow's familial manse, but he restrained himself.

"Normally," continued the man, "I never go beyond the three-block limit, I call it 'easy stumbling distance'. Get it? Three blocks, and even if you don't find a cab you can usually find your way home without waking up dead in an alleyway. Usually."

"Um, yes, that sounds reasonable," said Harry.

"But today I felt the need to go farther, despite the snowstorm, who knows, perhaps because of the snowstorm. Call it the call of the wild. Or was it something else. Do you remember the words of the gallant Captain Oates of the ill-fated Scott south polar expedition? He knew he couldn't go on, and so he hobbled out of their tent into a roaring blizzard to his certain death, with the parting words, "I am just going outside and may be some time."

"Um," said Harry.

"My name," said the man, "is Livingston P. Lovechild."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lovechild."

Bob was there, and about time.

"Oh, hello, Bob," said the man to Bob. "I shall have another one of your delicious house bocks, and I would like to buy my new friend here whatever he's drinking."

"Thanks," said Harry, who had never turned down a drink in his life, and he wasn't about to start now. "Bock for me, too, Bob."

Bob went away, and the man looked at Harry through his thick horn rims.

"I wonder may I possibly know your name, sir?"

"Beachcroft," said Harry. "Harry Beachcroft."

The man took the stem of his pipe out of his mouth.

"Harry Beachcroft you say?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"Are you perhaps by any wild chance a writer?"

"In fact I am."

"Harry Beachcroft the novelist?"

"Yes, my name is Harry Beachcroft, and I have written novels."

"Not the author of Last Train from Poughkeepsie?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

"And The Damned of the Damned?"

"Yes, that was me," said Harry.

"Good God, may I shake your hand, sir?"

"Of course," said Harry.

Harry took the man's hand. It was small and plump, the hand of a man who had never done physical labor in his life, but then neither had Harry. The hand was also sticky, presumably with Bob's basement-brewed house bock. The fellow held onto Harry's hand even after a rather prolonged shake, and it seemed that he was holding onto it as if he did not want to let go, ever. Not wanting to appear rude, Harry allowed the man to grip his own for half a minute as the fellow beamed, revealing smoke-stained teeth or dentures.

Bob was there with two glasses of bock, and he laid them down.

The man quickly disengaged his hand from Harry's with a faint sucking sound and tapped a pile of bills and change in front of him.

"Take it from here, Bob," he said, "and do keep them coming."

Bob took a dime and went away.

The man turned again to Harry, his eyes alight behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

"You don't know what an honor this is for me, Mr. Beachcroft. I have read all your books. At least all the books I could find."

"Really?"

"Yes," said the man."Riders of the Savage Moon. Give My Love to Caroline. Steamer Bound for Bombay. A Gal, a Pal, and a Dog
Named Al. Three Lads on a Quest. Dead End Street in a Two-Bit Burg. Chums From the Slums. I've read them all."

"Well, I'm very impressed," said Harry. "I myself barely remember some of those books."

"How many books have you written?"

"I'm not sure," said Harry. "Thirty-five? Forty? Some I've written under other names."

"Why?"

"Well, publishers don't want to flood the market with a particular author, so sometimes it's deemed best to use a pen name."

"Such as?"

"Well, let's see, I've written a series of gothic romances under the name of Gwendolyn St. Jacques, and then there were a few science fiction titles I put out as Jack Henry Hildenburg, and then I wrote a couple of the 'Congo Mike' novels under the house name of Herbert Penn Blake, and –"

"You must write all these titles down for me, Mr. Beachcroft, because I want to read them all!"

"Oh, okay," said Harry.

"I mean, not this very second, but later."

"Okay, sure, if I can remember them."

"I'm sure you'll be able to remember them if you set your mind to it."

"Um," said Harry, who was not at all sure, having written some of these novels in a couple of weeks and then never thought about them again.

"I want to read all of them," said the man, what was his name? "I want to read every word you've published."

"Gee," said Harry, "you might have trouble finding everything, especially stories I've written that only appeared in magazines."

"I'll find it all," said the man. "I'm your biggest fan. Yes, I will find those books and magazines, every one of them, just as I have now found you, their esteemed author."

"Gee," said Harry, not knowing what else to say, never having met anyone who had read his work before, outside of Sid Scheinberg, the publisher of A-One Publications, the firm that had published most of his work, both books and stories.

"Do you know what I think you are, Mr. Beachcroft?" said the little man.

"Um, no," said Harry.

"I think you are the finest American writer of fiction since Robert W. Chambers!"

Harry had barely even heard of Robert W. Chambers, but he was discreet, and so he said, "Well, that's pretty high praise, Mister, uh –"

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

"Okay, Livingston."

"And may I call you Harry?"

"Of course," said Harry.

And thus began a friendship – if that was the word, and it probably wasn't – which was to change the course of Harry Beachcroft's bleak and drudging existence, and plunge him into a world stranger than any he had created in his forty-odd novels and dozens of stories written under both his real name and various noms de plume.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "Adult Comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated (and with additional dialogue) by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Heroes"

2026-04-02T08:45:00.001-04:00

"Well, thank you, Jim," said Addison.

"Yes, thank you," said Milford.

"Oh, it was nothing," said Diamond Jim. "Just another pack of hyenas in the night, but stand up to them and they turn tail every time. Or nearly every time. And if they do try to gang up on you, that's when a good stout stick like this one comes in handy."

He raised his cane and gave it a twirl.

"Well, we appreciate it," said Addison.

"Take my advice," said Diamond Jim. "I know walking sticks are out of fashion, but get yourself a good sturdy leather sap, the kind with good tensile steel encased in it, or high-quality ball-bearings. And a set of brass knuckles fits nicely in a gentleman's pocket."

"Um," said Addison, knowing he would never spend money on a sap or brass knuckles that could have been spent on whiskey or beer.

"Uh," said Milford, wondering where one even went to buy a sap or a set of brass knuckles.

Diamond Jim's cigarette in its shiny black holder had gone out, and he extricated the stub and flicked it away. Once again he produced his gem-studded cigarette case and clicked it open, and Addison and Milford tossed away their own dwindled butts and accepted fresh Husky Boys from the big man, as well as lights from his Ohio Blue Tip wooden match.

"You'll note that I tempt fate by lighting three on a match," said Diamond Jim, igniting his own cigarette. "Superstitions are for fools." He blew out the match with a thick cloud of Husky Boy smoke, and then flicked it away. "Or do you chaps disagree? Appleton?" he said, addressing Addison.

"Oh, no," said Addison. "I think life is quite confusing enough without bringing superstition into it."

"And you, Gilbey?" said Jim, to Milford.

"Yes, I agree," said Milford. "But I myself am a fool, and so my opinion matters little."

Diamond Jim smiled.

"I like you, Gilroy," he said to Milford. "And you too, Thatcherton," he said to Addison. "Some people might look at you fellas and think, oh, a couple of boring nonentities, but I look at you both and see, yes, I'll tell you what I see. Heroes. Heroes, God damn it."

"Gee," said Addison.

"Heroes," said Diamond Jim. He cast his gaze on Milford. "You remain silent, my lad. Do you think me wrong in my assessment?"

"I wouldn't presume to say," said Milford.

"I beg you, presume. We are all friends here. Do you or do you not agree with me that you and Bartleson here are heroes?"

"I agree that we are both the heroes of our own sad little lives," said Milford. "As are all human beings."

"So," said Diamond Jim after a brief pause, "you are not only a hero, but, yea, a philosopher."

Milford said nothing to this. Who was he to argue with a man who had just saved them from a gang of douchebags, and a man who, furthermore, was supplying them with cigarettes?

"Shall we now continue our journey?" said Diamond Jim.

"Yes," said Addison.

"Muggins?" said Diamond Jim to Milford.

"Yes?" said Milford.

"I say, shall we continue?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Milford.

"To the Hideaway then!" boomed Diamond Jim. "Come, lads, and do try to keep up with me."

And off he went again, down the dim corridor, and Addison and Milford did their best to try to keep up.

Amazingly, not five minutes later, perhaps ten, they came to the familiar door, on which hung the hand-painted sign reading:

"THE HIDEAWAY"

Leave your cares behind
and your bullshit too.

Ring the bell and wait.

"See, boys?" said Diamond Jim. "I told you I knew the way."

"Indeed you did, Jim," said Addison.

They could hear music from behind the door, and singing, and the sound of laughing and shouting voices

"Are you excited, Heatherington?" asked Jim.

"Yes, I must say I am," said Addison.

"Bugford?" said Diamond Jim to Milford. "You up for a good time?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"You don't seem entirely sure."

"I'm not entirely sure of anything," said Milford.

"Ha ha, you slay me, Bumfort," said Diamond Jim, and he pressed his great forefinger, the only kind of forefinger he had, against the door button.

While they waited for someone to answer the door, Diamond Jim turned to Milford and Addison.

"By the way, have you boys tried the food here?"

"I haven't actually," said Addison. "Is it good?"

"To die for," said Diamond Jim. "What about you, Dilbert?"

"Yes?" said Milford.

"Have you sampled the chow in this joint?"

"Uh, no."

"You have to try the possum stew."

"Um," said Milford.

"Get it with some hush puppies on the side, for dipping."

"Uh," said Milford.

"The squirrel stew is good too, don't get me wrong, but the possum stew, you gotta try it."

"Um," said Milford, who preferred Bond white bread toasted and lightly spread with oleomargarine over all other foods, but he didn't want to seem rude or ungrateful.

The door opened, our friends turned, and there stood the enormous Negro, John Henry, in his railroad man's overalls and cap, and with an enormous cigar in one hand. Behind him the music and shouting and laughter surged and pulsed like the promise of happiness on earth.

"Well, look who the fuck it is," he said, smiling broadly. "Diamond Jim his own bad self. And these two sad-ass motherfuckers."

"How's it hanging, John Henry?" said Diamond Jim.

"Not bad, big man, not bad. How you doing?"

"Never better, John Henry," said Diamond Jim, and he extended his enormous hand, which was taken by John Henry's own enormous hand.

Both Milford and Addison felt very small witnessing this meeting of two giants, each so full of life, and they glanced at each other, seeing the same thing in each other's eyes, the knowledge that the best they could do was to bear witness, and to try not to be trampled underfoot.

Milford looked past the two titans trading friendly witticisms, into the crowded noisy and smoky barroom, and there with a flutter in his heart he saw sitting at their table laughing among themselves Mistress Bradstreet, Miss Harriet, Miss Emily, and, yes, Miss Louisa. Beyond them he glimpsed Miss Blackbourne and Mr. Whitman dancing vigorously on the small crowded dance floor as Jellyroll pounded the piano and sang these words:

Dance the Black Bottom, mama,
dance it like there ain't no tomorrow.
Dance that Black Bottom, little mama,
and make me forget my grief and sorrow…

Diamond Jim turned from John Henry and looked at Addison and Milford.

"Well, lads," he said, "are you ready to live a little?"

"Yes," said Addison. "I think it's time."

Milford too was ready, as ready as he was ever likely to be.

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

"That's How You Do That"

2026-03-19T14:40:00.004-04:00

Neither Addison or Milford were used to not walking slowly, Addison because he was constitutionally languid and lazy, and Milford because as much as he never liked being where he was, he was never in a hurry to go someplace else. And yet, taking quick puffs from their cigarettes and coughing as they went, they did their best to keep up with Diamond Jim, who stomped forth holding his cane upright as if it were a sword and he was storming into battle, all the while still smoking his cigarette in its holder and trailing a stream of smoke behind him.

After a couple of minutes the big man stopped and turned, about thirty paces ahead of them.

"Am I going too fast for you, lads?"

"Well, just a little perhaps," panted Addison.

Milford said nothing, merely gasping and coughing in response.

"Well, come on then and catch up," said Diamond Jim, and he waited, smoking, until the two friends staggered abreast of him.

He looked at them, smiling, and shaking his head.

"My goodness, as old as I am, and as stout as I am, I daresay I could still beat the pair of you in a walking race!"

"I have no doubt," said Addison, squeezing the words out between labored breaths.

"When I was young like you fellows I thought nothing of tramping from the Battery to Harlem and back again of an evening, not forgetting to stop into various and sundry taverns and saloons along the way for a refreshing pitcher of steam beer and a sampling of the spécialités des maisons, be it a hot roast beef sandwich or two with lashings of gravy and a side basket of crispy fried potatoes, or perhaps a few frankfurters liberally blanketed with sauerkraut, or, say, a brace of croque-monsieurs, oozing with fragrant melted Gruyère and béchamel – but fear not, if my calculations are correct, we should reach the Hideaway any minute now."

"Oh, thank God," said Addison.

"And what about you, young Gilbert," said Diamond Jim to Milford. "Do you not thank God that your wanderings are almost at an end."

"If I believed in God," said Milford, breathing laboriously, "I would thank him, possibly."

"Only possibly?" said Diamond Jim, with a straight face.

"Yes," said Milford, "because after all it was he who put me in this state of existence in the first place, when I never asked for it."

Diamond Jim smiled again.

"I like you, Philbert," he said. "And you too, Pattison," he said, addressing Addison. You chaps may not be – how shall I put it – you may not be the most vibrant fellows, and yet, in your own particular ways, you are your own men. A rare quality, and I think we shall be good friends. And, now that we've rested a bit, do you think you are ready to resume our perambulations?"

"Yes, I think so," said Addison.

"Milforth?" said Jim to Milford.

"Yes, I'm ready," said Milford.

"Onward then," said Diamond Jim. "And I shall attempt to keep to a moderate stride."

"Thank you, Jim," said Addison.

"Yes, thank you, Jim," also said Milford, who, despite his distaste for life, still harbored a deep-seated fear of suffering a massive or even minor heart attack.

"Hey, it's them!" echoed a voice ahead of them down the dim corridor.

And there perhaps a fifty yards away, turning a corner, surged a group of a dozen or so men.

"Now we've got them!" yelled another voice.

"They got Diamond Jim with them!" yelled yet another voice.

"Fuck them and fuck Diamond Jim too!" yelled a fourth voice.

"Now what the hell do we have here?" said Diamond Jim.

"Jim," said Milford, "we have to run."

"Yes," said Addison. "I think we should beat a hasty retreat."

"Nonsense," said Diamond Jim. "I have never retreated in my life, and I'm not about to start now."

"But there's too many of them," whined Milford.

"I'll be the judge of that," said Diamond Jim, as the gang of men approached, carrying baseball bats, nightsticks and blackjacks, and even bicycle chains. "What's their beef, anyway?"

"They're from this place called the D.B. Club," said Addison.

"The douchebag bar?" said Jim.

"Yes," said Addison. "We went in there just to ask directions, but they wanted us to join their club, and then when we said we didn't want to join they wouldn't let us leave."

"So how'd you get out of there?"

"Addison threw his cigarette in the head douchebag's eye," said Milford, "and in the ensuing confusion I grabbed the door key and unlocked the door and we escaped."

"And they've been after you ever since, hey?"

"Yes," said Milford. "So we'd really better run."

"The hell with that," said Diamond Jim, and he raised his cane and brandished it at the approaching men.

"You there!" he shouted. "You douchebags! Stop right there!"

Amazingly, the gang stopped, maybe twenty yards away. At their center was the big corpulent man with the cigar, the one called Big Daddy, carrying what looked like a shillelagh, and to his right was the corpselike man named Cerberus, the one with a face the color of an old potato sack, and who wielded a large monkey wrench.

"This ain't your concern, Diamond Jim," bellowed Big Daddy, whose right eye was swollen shut. "Now step aside!"

"Yeah, step aside, Diamond Jim," said Cerberus. "We got no grudge with you."

"Fuck you don't," said Diamond Jim.

"What do you mean?" yelled Big Daddy.

"You heard me, Big Daddy," said Diamond Jim. "Fuck you don't, and I'll say it again, fuck you don't and fuck you and your douchebag pursuivants."

"Now, Jim," said Big Daddy, "you ain't got to be like that."

"Yeah," said Cerberus. "You ain't got to be like that, Diamond Jim."

"Look what they done to my eye," said Big Daddy, pointing to his swollen eye with a fat finger, the only kind of finger he had.

"If I know you, Big Daddy," said Diamond Jim, "you were asking for that swole-up eye, and more."

"Hey, wait a minute," said Cerberus, "Big Daddy didn't ask for the swole-up eye, no sir!"

"That's right," said Big Daddy, "I most certainly did not!"

Diamond Jim pointed the engraved steel ferrule of his cane at Big Daddy.

"Did you or did you not refuse to let my friends leave your establishment?"

"Well, technically, yes," said Big Daddy, "but you see, Diamond Jim, they are obviously douchebags, just like us, but they was acting like they was too good to be members of the Douchebag Club!"

"And they ain't too good!" said Cerberus. "They's douchebags just like us, maybe even worst than us!"

"Douchebags, my dear Cerberus," said Diamond Jim, "they well may be, and God love them. However, douchebags or not, they are my friends. So fuck off, you walking cadaver, and you too, Big Daddy, you blustering tub of lard, or I shall set to thrashing you and your toadies with this very sturdy blackthorn stick," he raised his cane in a menacing manner, "both one and all and severally, but first you, Big Daddy, then you, Cerberus, and finally all your other cowering epigones."

"Once again, Diamond Jim, sir," said Big Daddy, "our fight is not with you. And anyways we promise just to rough those two d-bags up a little."

"Yeah, just rough 'em up a little," said Cerberus.

"You will do no such thing," said Diamond Jim. "And you'll have to get past me to even try to do it. Now who wants to try it first? Take a step forward if you dare."

None of the gang took a step forward.

"Come on, you pack of jackals," said Diamond Jim, raising his cane higher, and stepping forward himself. "Step forward I say!"

"Look, Diamond Jim –" said Big Daddy.

"You look, you fat fuck," said Diamond Jim, "you and your little mob got approximately one second to turn around and go back to that stinking hole you crawled out of, or you'll see what's coming to you, and it's gonna be a hell of a lot worse than a swole-up eye."

"Ah, the hell with this," said Big Daddy, after less than one second's pause. "It ain't worth it. We was just having a little fun. Or trying to. Come on, boys, let's go back to the club. I'm thirsty."

"Yeah, let's go back to the club," said Cerberus. "I'm thirsty, too."

"Yeah, we're all thirsty," said another guy,

"I'm thirsty as hell," said a fourth guy.

And as one the gang turned around the way they had come, quickly, and silently, tumbled past the far corner, and then they were gone.

"And that," said Diamond Jim, lowering his cane, "is how you deal with douchebags like that."

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

"Diamond Jim"

2026-03-05T09:11:00.004-05:00

"Excuse me, gentlemen!"

Addison and Milford turned as one to see an enormous portly man emerging from a dark adjoining corridor. The man wore a fur overcoat, and carried a cane, and on his head was a smart derby hat. In his mouth was a cigarette in a jet black holder, and he smiled in what seemed a friendly fashion.

"I see you are having difficulties in igniting your cigarette," said the man.

"Why, yes, sir," said Addison. "It seems my friend's lighter is en panne, as the French say."

"Which is why I always carry good old fashioned Ohio Blue Tip matches," said the big man, approaching, and taking a large box of the aforementioned matches from his coat. "Made of good sturdy American aspen wood. Here, allow me."

Hooking the crook of his cane on his thick forearm, he opened the matchbox, took out a match with his fat fingers, struck it, and gave Addison a light.

"Thank you, sir," said Addison.

"Here," said the fat man, tossing away the match and proffering the matchbox, "keep it, pal. I always carry a back-up box or two."

"Gee, thanks," said Addison, and he took the box.

The man turned to Milford.

"Not smoking, chum?"

"That was my last cigarette," said Milford.

"You gave away your last cigarette?"

"Um," said Milford.

The fat man turned back to Addison.

"That's quite a friend you've got there, fella."

"Yes, indeed," said Addison.

"Some people say a dog is a man's best friend," said the man. "But try to get a cigarette from a dog."

He turned to Milford again, bringing out a golden cigarette case studded with sparkling stones, and he clicked it open.

"Take one, buddy, I hope you like Husky Boys King Size."

"Thanks," said Milford, and he picked out a cigarette.

"Brady's the name," said the man clicking the case smartly shut, and shoving it into a pocket, "known popularly as 'Diamond Jim', but my friends all call me Jim, plain and simple. Call me Jim, because I consider every man my friend until he has proven himself otherwise."

"Pleased to meet you, Jim," said Addison, and he struck a match from his newly-gifted box of Blue Tips and lighted Milford's cigarette.

"And might I presume to know your own names?" said the man whose friends allegedly called him Jim.

"Well," said Addison, flicking away the match, "my friends all seem to call me Addison, or should I say my acquaintances, because, to be quite honest I have only one real friend, at least of the male gender –"

"And that is this young fellow?" said Jim.

"Yes," said Addison. "And, Jim, meet my friend Milford."

"Pleased to meet you, Wilfred," said Jim, and he extended his great hand, on the middle finger of which was a large bejeweled signet ring.

"Um, hi, Jim," said Milford, and he allowed his small hand to be enveloped in the big man's hand.

"Don't worry, fella, I won't crush your hand. Even though my strength is as legendary as my appetites, I got no time for these guys always gotta advertise their masculinity by trying to crush another fella's paw."

"I appreciate it, sir," said Milford, withdrawing his hand after only a mildly painful squeeze and a shake that shook his whole slender body.

"And may I press my flesh to yours, Mathewson?" said the man to Addison.

"By all means," said Addison, and he in turn allowed his own weakling's hand to be swallowed up by the big fat man's huge hand.

"Two young bucks out on the town," said the man called Jim, releasing Addison's hand without unbearable harm. "From the looks of you both I judge you to be members of the bohemian demimonde. You, Mr. Harrelman," he said, addressing Addison, who was wagging his right hand to get the blood flowing again, "you, sir, taking into account your worn old topcoat and that faded brown department-store suit, you I make to be a novelist, unpublished at present, but yet you still have time, before you fatally succumb to that predilection common to all great American writers, in other words, booze, you still have time I say to finish your sprawling epic of the old American west."

"That is very preceptive of you, Jim," said Addison.

"Whereas you, Milfrey," said Jim to Milford, "considering your peacoat, your fisherman's sweater and workman's dungarees, and of course your newsboy's cap as well as your thick round spectacles and facial pallor, you of course must be a poet, yes, a lyric poet if I am not too far terribly wrong."

"Well, attempted lyric poet," said Milford.

"I myself am a man of business," said the huge man called Jim, "but I have always had a great fondness for the arts and especially for those who create art. In another life perhaps I would have trod the boards, specializing in embodying Shakespeare's immortal Falstaff. However, in a sense I am an artist, but my art is my life, the living of my life to the full. But I look at you two young scamps and I confess I feel just a tinge of envy. Ah, to be young again, just like the pair of you, wandering from saloon to pool hall to dance hall to bawdy house and then back again, I'll warrant, on an endless rollicking merry-go-round of debauchery. I do hope you're not on your way home yet."

"Well, no, not actually," said Addison. "You see, we were just looking for –"

"Splendid!" said Diamond Jim. "I insist that you accompany me, as my guests, of course, to the nearest likely tavern or bistro where we will eat, drink and make merry, because life is short and we must make the stuff of memories even if we get too plastered to remember them!"

"Well, that sounds great, Jim," said Addison, "but as I meant to say, we're trying to find a certain bar in particular –"

"What's it called?" said Jim.

"It's called the Hideaway I believe," said Addison.

"The Negro saloon?"

"Yes, precisely," said Addison. "Do you know it?"

"I know it very well," said the big man. "Have you been there before?"

"Yes, we just left there not so long ago, and now we would like to go back, but we've been having trouble finding it."

"I could take you there," said the big stout man.

"You could, you would?" said Addison.

"I should be glad to," said the man known as Diamond Jim. "But why if I may I ask did you ever leave such a delightful caravansary in the first place?"

"Well," said Addison, "that's a little difficult to explain. You see, Milford here had momentarily gotten a little under the weather so to speak."

"A drop too much taken, my boy?" said Jim, winking and smiling at Milford.

"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, "especially because I am an alcoholic and shouldn't drink at all, but also, besides drinking wine and beer and whiskey and grog, and for reasons not quite clear to me, I had earlier smoked hashish and marijuana, and eaten the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians, and most recently smoked a couple of special hand-rolled cigarettes comprised apparently of Bull Durham tobacco mixed with Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum."

"What a jackanapes, you are, young sir!" said Jim.

"Yes, well, anyway," said Milford, "it all got a bit much for me, and so I decided to go home, or try to go home. And Addison here was nice enough to offer to see me home."

"But now you have changed your mind."

"Yes," said Milford.

"And, again, not to seem intrusively inquisitive, may I ask why?"

"Well, uh," said Milford.

"You see, Jim," helped out Addison, "we left some ladies at the Hideaway."

"Ah, ladies!" said Jim.

"Yes, ladies," said Addison.

The man looked at Milford.

"So you came to your senses," said the big fellow.

"I'm not so sure about that," said Milford, "but at any rate, I, and Addison, we decided to go back."

"Because of the ladies."

"Yes," said Milford. "Because of the ladies. Because, because –"

"Never mind, my boy, you have said enough," said Jim. "Why did Odysseus wend his long and winding and peril-fraught way back to Ithaca?"

"Because of a lady?"

"Precisely. But precious time is wasting. Therefore, let us stand not upon the order of our going, but as the bawdy Bard put it, go at once."

"And you know really know how to get to the Hideaway?" asked Addison.

"My good fellow, there's not a bar on this happy island I don't know how to get to," said Diamond Jim. "Now let's bust a move. By the way, I do hope your lady friends have other lady friends."

"They do, actually," said Addison.

"Then what are we dallying for? Come with me."

The big man turned and lumbered off, with surprising speed for his size, like a great thirsty hippopotamus trampling the savannah towards a water hole, and Addison and Milford stepped quickly to catch up with him as the dithering thumping of his great booted feet reverberated through the air and along the trembling boards of the flooring.

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

"The Last Husky Boy"

2026-02-19T11:12:00.001-05:00

"Addison," said Milford, after a good ten minutes of wandering in alternating near to total but now only partial darkness, "I'm getting tired of this."

"I confess so also I," said Addison, "even I who hardly ever gets tired of anything."

"What?" said Milford.

He stopped while he dug out his pack of Husky Boys, and Addison did the same.

"I said so also am I getting tired, just a trifle mind you."

"Yes, but you said you hardly ever get tired of anything?"

"Hardly ever, old chap, truth be told."

"But how is that possible?"

"I don't know really," said Addison, noticing that his crumpled Chesterfield pack held only one cigarette

Milford looked into his own cigarette pack. Only two left.

"I wake up in the morning tired," he said, and put his second-to-last cigarette in his lips.

"You poor fellow," said Addison, putting his last Chesterfield in his mouth and tossing the empty pack to the floor. "Do you not sleep well?"

"I sleep on an average of ten hours a night," said Milford, putting away his pack with one last Husky Boy in it, and taking out his Ronson.

"So your problem is not lack of sleep," said Addison, bringing out his book of Bob's Bowery matches.

"No," said Milford, clicking his lighter repeatedly, "my problem is that I can't sleep twenty-four hours a day."

"Ha ha," said Addison, tearing off a match, the last one, "I should think you'd need to get up now and then to eat and drink, and to perform your urinary and fecal evacuations."

"Regrettably, yes, and regretfully," said Milford, still clicking his Ronson.

Addison lighted his last cigarette with his last match, and then, exuding Chesterfield smoke gently from his narrow nostrils, with cupped hands he offered the light to Milford, who was still clicking his lighter in vain.

"Thank you," said Milford, accepting the light, and after coughing up a small tattered cloud of Husky Boy smoke he said, "I don't know what's the matter with this lighter."

"Perhaps it needs fuel," said Addison.

"I fill it every morning," said Milford.

"It's been a long time since morning," said Addison, letting his match and empty matchbook fall to the floor. "How many cigarettes did you smoke today?"

"Almost three packs," said Milford. "Do you think that's too much?"

"Not if you can afford it, old man."

"I can afford it, but they say that cigarettes can give you cancer."

"Who cares?" said Addison, exhaling a great cloud of rich Chesterfield smoke. "Cancer is something that happens to old people."

"I envy you," said Milford, coughing out a bit more hot Husky Boy smoke, "your insouciant attitude towards life."

"Oh, as long as my aunts and great-aunts continue to send me the odd banknote for five or ten dollars," said Addison, "and on my birthday and Christmas maybe even a twenty, who am I to complain?"

"But what will you do when your aunts and great-aunts die?"

"Well, my dear fellow, I only hope that they will remember to remember me in their last wills and testaments, but no matter, because soon enough I hope to be a best-selling novelist, with a handsome brownstone on the Upper East Side and a summer cottage in Cape May."

"You really think someone will publish your novel?"

"Why not? I truly think that an epic of the old west, but treated in a deeply philosophical, and, yes, poetic manner, just might be what the public needs in these parlous times."

Milford said nothing. Who was he to disabuse his only friend of that friend's laughable delusions? No, better to say nothing if the only thing he had to say was the truth, which was that Addison was the last person on earth who would or could conceivably write a best-selling epic of the old west.

"Hey," he said, abruptly, and glad to change the subject, "I think I see a faint glimmer of light up ahead."

"I do believe you're right," said Addison.

"Could it be what's its name, the bar?"

"The Hideaway I believe it's called."

"Yes, could it be the Hideaway."

"It might be," said Addison.

Saying not a word more, they set off again down the corridor.

Alas when after a few more minutes they reached the source of the light it was only a dirty electric light bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling.

"I don't understand it," said Milford, halting under the lightbulb. "What is this weird building we're in, with these endless dark or dim corridors?"

"You know," said Addison, "I was just starting to wonder that myself."

"And what kind of building has all these different bars in it, placed at random in these endless dim corridors?" said Milford.

"I confess it's the first of its kind I've encountered," said Addison.

"I just don't understand it," said Milford.

"But, my dear chap," said Addison, "isn't all of existence quite incomprehensible?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, "but this place seems, I don't know –"

"What?" said Addison.

"I'm afraid that I've lost my mind," said Milford. "I feel as if I've entered the realm of madness."

"Well, my dear Milford," said Addison, "if you've entered the realm of madness, then so too have I."

"Oh, well," said Milford, after a pause. "I suppose we should keep walking."

"Might as well," said Addison.

And they shuffled along, at a much slower pace now, smoking their cigarettes in silence. There was nothing more to say, not that having nothing to say had invariably kept either fellow silent before.

In due time their cigarettes had been smoked down to the final half-inch, and Addison took one last drag and tossed his butt away to the littered floor.

"Well, that's my last cigarette," he said.

"Really?" said Milford. He let his own butt drop to the floor and stubbed it out with his stout workman's brogan. "I only have one left after this myself."

"We'll find the bar," said Addison. "And we can buy fresh packs there."

"But what if we never find it?"

"We're sure to find some other bar then. They'll have a machine."

"I'm scared, Addison. I think I'm starting to panic."

"Well, at least you have one Husky Boy left, to calm your nerves."

"This is true," said Milford. "I should light it up. But what will you do?"

"I'll manage, somehow."

"I would share the Husky Boy with you, but I can't bear the thought of sharing a cigarette with another man, and potentially mingling his saliva with mine."

"Quite all right old chap, and in fact I should think your squeamishness is only proof that you are at the very least a latent heterosexual."

"Do you really think so?"

"I do."

"Then why do people keep accusing me of being homosexual."

"I haven't the slightest, and I know I myself get accused of being shall we say light in the loafers all the time, and I likewise cannot for the life of me see why."

Actually, Milford could see why people thought Addison homosexual, but he didn't say so. Now that he finally did have a friend, he didn't want to offend him needlessly.

"Look," said Milford, "you can have my cigarette, Addison."

He dug into the pocket of his peacoat and brought out his crumpled Husky Boy pack, with one last cigarette in it, and offered the pack to Addison.

"But it's your last one, dear chap," said Addison,

"I know," said Milford, "but you can have it."

Addison looked away, drew a breath, held it in for a moment and then slowly exhaled, still looking away.

"What's the matter?" said Milford. "Please don't tell me you're having a heart attack."

"No," said Addison, after a brief pause, and in a softer voice than usual.

"Then what is it?"

Addison turned to look at Milford, as if shyly.

"It's just," he said, "hang it all, man, I very rarely become overcome with emotion, in fact if anything I tend to be undercome with emotion, to coin a phrase."

"But what are you overcome with emotion about?" said Milford.

Addison paused again before speaking.

"You offered me your last cigarette," he said.

"So what?" said Milford.

"I've never had anyone offer me their last cigarette."

"Oh," said Milford. "Anyway, here."

He proffered the pack.

"Go on, take it."

"I can't," said Addison. "I can't take your last cigarette, old man."

"Go ahead," said Milford. "We'll find a bar, and they'll have a machine and we can buy fresh cigarettes."

"But what will you do in the meantime if I smoke your last cigarette?"

"I suppose I'll suffer, but most likely not unbearably."

"You would volunteer to suffer," said Addison, "whilst I enjoyed your last Husky Boy?"

"It's better than the alternative, which would be to smoke it myself, being aware all the time that you were suffering."

"Good lord, man, you know what you're evincing, don't you?"

"I think it's called neurosis," said Milford.

"No, my dear fellow," said Addison, "it is what men call empathy."

"Oh. Well, maybe not. I think it's just that I'd be too aware of your suffering to enjoy the cigarette myself."

"Empathy, precisely."

"I still think that's a stretch," said Milford. "My mother says I never think about anyone but myself."

"Well, I think you've proven her wrong," said Addison.

"Anyway, take the cigarette," said Milford.

Addison looked at the proffered pack, and involuntarily licked his lips.

"How are those Husky Boys, anyway?" he asked.

"They're all right," said Milford.

"I've always wanted to try one."

"Why didn't you?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Addison, "I suppose I was afraid I wouldn't like them as much as Chesterfields, and then I'd be stuck having to smoke a whole pack of them."

"Take the cigarette, Addison."

"You're quite serious?"

"There's no point in us both suffering."

Addison paused, partly raised his right hand, then abruptly lowered it.

No," he said, "I can't."

"If you don't take it I'm just going to throw it away."

"Dear God, man, don't do that."

"Then take it."

"But –"

"Please, just take it. I want you to take it."

"Um –"

"Go on, Addison," said Milford. "My arm is getting tired."

"Well, only if you really insist," said Addison, raising his hand again.

"I insist."

"All right, then," said Addison.

Milford gave the pack a shake and the head of a Husky Boy protruded through the opening.

"Like a weary soldier poking his head from a foxhole, wondering if the enemy has really and truly retreated from the field," said Addison.

Milford said nothing, but continued to proffer the pack.

"All right," said Addison, and quickly he picked out the cigarette between thumb and finger. He looked at Milford. "I don't care what people say about you, Milford, you're all right in my book."

He put the cigarette in his mouth and patted his pockets.

"Oh, dear, I just remembered I used up my last match. I wonder if I might have a light from your Ronson?"

"Sure," said Milford. He dropped the empty pack to the littered and dirty floor, and then he patted his own pockets, found the one his lighter was in and brought it out. He then put its business end below the end of the Husky Boy in Milford's lips, and clicked the little button. No flame appeared, but then it never did on first click, and so he clicked it again, and again, and, sighing for at least the twelve thousandth and forty-second time in his current long day's journey into a seemingly endless night, he clicked it a dozen more times, to no avail.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why it won't work."

Addison removed the cigarette from his lips.

"And so now," he said, "we both suffer."

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

"Tears of the Damned"

2026-02-06T12:00:00.006-05:00

"I'm sorry," said Addison, "what?"

"Did I mumble?" said Punch.

"Well, it sounded like you said you wanted our immortal souls."

"So I wasn't mumbling," said the little man.

"Oh," said Addison.

"Okay," said Milford, "you know what? The hell with this madman. Let's go, Addison."

"Where are you going?" said Punch.

"Anywhere but here," said Milford.

"You'll never find the Hideaway on your own," said Punch.

"That's our problem."

"I assumed you wanted to lose your virginities," said the man.

"No one said anything about us losing our virginities," said Milford.

"No one had to," said Punch. "Just look at the pair of you. If ever there was a pair of unfucked fuckwads it was you two."

"Okay. Goodbye," said Milford. "Come on, Addison."

"That's right, go ahead," said the little man, "go ahead and wander around lost all night, and for the rest of your pathetic lives for all I care, it's no skin off my nose."

Milford gave a pat to Addison's arm.

"Come on."

"All right," said Addison.

"Go ahead, go," said Punch. "But which way?"

Milford paused.

"Um," he said.

"See?" said Punch. "You don't even know which way to go, do you?"

Milford turned and looked one way along the hall, and then the other way in the opposite direction. Then he pointed the first way, with his right hand.

"That way," he said.

"Got news for you," said Punch. "That's the wrong way."

"Fine," said Milford. "So we'll go the other way."

"Fat lot of good that will do you," said Punch, "because I can tell you right now that there are some several more turnings in that direction, a few more winding dark corridors, perhaps even a staircase or two, maybe three! No, I'm sorry, my dear fellows, the odds of you two finding the Hideaway on your own are, by my reckoning, slim to none."

"We'll take our chances," said Milford.

"Yes, but why take a chance?" said Punch. He reached into his old army coat and brought out a scroll of some sort, on thick yellowed and dirty-looking paper. "Here, I have a contract all written up. All I will need are your two John Hancocks, and we're good to go and ready to roll."

"Fuck your contract," said Milford.

"No need for such vulgar language. And I am surprised to hear it from a young gentleman of such obvious good breeding as yourself."

"Fuck your contract and fuck you," said Milford.

"Look, what's the big deal?" said Punch. "It's only your souls I'm after. And in return you just might possibly get your ends wet, at long last. How about you, Mr. Hattieson? You seem a reasonable sort."

"To be quite honest," said Addison, "I'm not so sure I even believe in the concept of an immortal soul."

"Fabulous," said Punch. "In that case, why not sign?"

"But what if there is some truth to the concept?" said Addison.

"So what?" said Punch. "Bottom line, you want to get to this bar where these alleged 'ladies' are, and maybe – just maybe mind you, perhaps – get laid, and I'm the feller can take you there." He put his cigarette in his lips and reached into his coat again, and came out with a quill pen. "Now all we require is your signature and, boom, Bob's your uncle."

"Don't you need some ink for that pen?" said Addison.

"Ink?" said the man. "Ha ha, no, we don't need ink, not for this kind of contract. What we do is, I jab you in the finger and draw some blood, and you make your mark with your own blood."

"No thanks," said Addison.

"Coward," said Punch.

"I may be a coward," said Addison, "but you, sir, are insane."

"Fine, call me insane if it makes you happy, I don't give a shit, and I've been called far worse."

"I don't doubt it," said Addison.

"Spawn of the devil, minion of evil, Satan's slave, Beelzebub's butt-boy, I've heard 'em all, and the epithets roll off my back like the tears of the damned."

"So you're saying you're a demon?" said Addison.

"What did you think I was? The Good Humor Man? Now, here, let me just poke your finger with this quill. It won't hurt. Not much."

"No, thank you," said Addison.

"Oh, okay, fine, so you want to be like your little buddy here, huh? Go the rest of your life without knowing what it's like to dip your wick into a woman's sacred socket of sensuality."

"Well," said Addison, thinking of his would-be paramour Bubbles, "I suppose if push came to shove, one could always pay for the privilege."

"Yeah, sure, great," said Punch, "as if you would ever pay for it, 'cause I can tell just looking at you, you would never spend a dime for poontang that you could spend on cheap whiskey and green beer, don't make me laugh, ha, and look, please don't take this the wrong way, but all I have to say is, get used to Lady Five Fingers, pal, because she's the only lady you're ever likely to perform the act of darkness with, and that's for sure."

Was it true, thought Addison. Was he destined to die as he had lived, a lonely celibate? And was that necessarily even such a bad thing? Had not even Jesus of Nazareth been a confirmed bachelor?

He turned to Milford.

"Shall we go then, old chap?" he said.

"Yes," said Milford.

"Splendid," said Addison. "Which way?"

Milford sighed (his twelve thousandth and forty-first sigh since so reluctantly re-entering the world of consciousness the previous morning) then pointed one way, not the way he had pointed to just shortly before.

"That way," he said.

"Wrong way," said Punch.

"But you just said the other way is the wrong way," said Milford.

"I was lying," said Punch.

"Fine, we'll go the other way," said Milford.

"Also the wrong way," said Punch.

"I think you're lying again," said Milford.

"Last chance," said Punch. "Just sign the contract, and I'll have you where you want to go in a matter of minutes."

"How do we know you're not lying now?" said Milford.

"You don't. Now come on, sign the fucking scroll and we'll get this show on the road."

Milford looked at Addison, and Addison looked at Milford. They both looked one way, and then the other. Milford noticed that his Husky Boy had burnt down to a stub, and he let it drop to the littered floor, then stubbed it out with his sturdy workman's brogan. Addison took one last drag on his own Chesterfield butt, and then flicked it away, not worrying in the least about stubbing it out. And then as one the two companions turned and set off down the hall, in the direction Milford had first indicated not so long ago, although it felt like an hour ago, or a year ago.

"Go ahead!" called the man called Punch. "Fuck off, assholes, and godspeed and good luck, because you'll need it, and lots of it. I tried to help you, God knows, and the Devil too. Hey, don't let me stop you. Go on. Walk on endlessly into darkness and oblivion. Be my guests. Did I say fuck you? Well, I'm saying it now. Fuck you, the both of you. And your mothers too!"

Addison and Milford continued to walk down the dim corridor, toward the darkness.

The voice of the little man echoed behind them, shouting imprecations, warnings, and dire predictions, and, gradually, it faded away as the two friends wended their way down the dim and dingy winding hallway into the shadows.

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

"A Man Called Punch"

2026-01-22T12:34:00.000-05:00

Milford closed the door firmly behind him.
"So, once again," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields, and speaking in his best George Sanders voice, "the question is, 'Whither now?'"

Milford looked to the right and to the left, a dim and dingy hallway fading into darkness in both directions.

He sighed and took out his Husky Boys. Was this his twelve-thousandth and thirty-sixth sigh since awakening unwillingly in his comfortable bed in his cozy room that long ago morning on this selfsame day, now approaching another meaningless morning? No, there must have been a few more sighs in there somewhere. Better to round it off upward to twelve thousand and forty at least. He sighed again, for good measure, then put a cigarette into his thin lips, the only kind of lips he had.

Addison had lighted up his Chesterfield, and he offered the still burning Bob's Bowery Bar match to Milford.

"Oh, thank you," said Milford, drawing the flame into his Husky Boy.

Addison flicked the match to the floor, which Milford noticed was littered with innumerable other spent matches and butts of cigarettes and cigars, discarded crumpled cigarette packs, wads of chewing gum, the evidence of what men did in the course of their days and nights in aid of making their lives slightly less unbearable. He considered putting the sole of his workman's brogan on Addison's still-smoking match, but then thought, Why bother?

"Hi there, fellas. No offense!"

This was a voice to Milford's right, which is to say Addison's left, as they were facing each other. It was apparently the voice of a little man, yet another one, walking towards them on slightly limping but nimble short legs. He was shabby, wearing an oversized old army coat over baggy brown trousers, with a faded blue-and-grey striped scarf around his neck and a Greek fisherman's cap on his head. He had a stubble of whitish beard on his ravaged face, and a twinkle in his eye as he drew closer.

"Don't be alarmed," he said, "I mean no harm or disrespect, but I can tell at a glance that you two chaps are gentlemen, as I am myself. Oh, I know what you're thinking, I look like a tramp, but would you believe that I speak four languages fluently, and three others haltingly, and was once a champion coxswain on the Yale rowing team? I see by the way that you are both smoking cigarettes, and I wonder if either of you could spare one?"

"Sure, here you go, buddy," said Addison, taking out his cigarettes and giving the pack a shake so that one protruded from the opening.

"Ah, Chesterfields! A most delightful weed indeed," said the man. "I wonder if I may take two, one for now and one for later?"

"Certainly," said Addison.

The little man dug his grimy fingers into the pack, removed three cigarettes, and stuck them all into his coat pocket.

"And what about you, sir?" said the little man, to Milford.

"I"m sorry, what?" said Milford.

"Can you spare a smoke to a scholar fallen on hard times?"

"Oh, sorry," said Milford. He had put away his Husky Boys, but now he took them out again and offered them to the little man.

"Might I possibly take two?" said the man.

"Help yourself," said Milford, and the man took three.

Milford looked into the pack and saw he now had only two cigarettes left, then put them away.

The little man pocketed two of the newly cadged cigarettes and put one in his mouth.

"Anybody got a light?"

"Oh, sorry," said Milford. He took out his Ronson, and after only half a dozen clicks, got it to produce a flame.

The little man accepted the light, then exhaled an enormous cloud of smoke.

"My name," he said, "is Pontius Pilate Jones, but my friends call me Punch. Call me Punch."

"Hi, Punch," said Addison.

"And your appellation, sir, unless of course you are travelling incognito, or operating undercover, or simply do not care to divulge it for whatever reason, and I'm sure if you have a reason it is a sound one."

"You want to know my name?" said Addison.

"Precisely," said the little man. "If it is not too forward of me to ask."

"Well," said Addison, "my friends all call me Addison, although my real name is –"

"If your friends call you Addison then so also shall I," said the man whose friends supposedly called him Punch. "And what," he said, turning his frightful visage with raised eyebrows to Milford, "may a poor wayfaring stranger address you as, young sir?"

"Milford," said Milford.

"And, if I may ask, and if I mayn't I apologize profusely, is that your surname or your prénom as the French say?"

"It's my last name," said Milford.

"And is it by this name that you prefer to be addressed?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Should I then call you Mr. Milford?"

"No, just Milford is fine," said Milford.

"And is there a reason you prefer not to be called by your Christian name?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"And may I know the reason, if not the name?"

"My reason for preferring to be addressed by my last name is that my first name is Marion," said Milford.

"Oh, yes, ha ha, I see," said the little man, "and with a first name myself like Pontius and a middle one like Pilate, I may well empathize, which is why really I prefer Punch. By the way, I would offer to shake your hands, gentlemen, but I don't want to take liberties. Unless of course you would like to clasp appendages with me in potential good fellowship."

He raised his right hand in a tentative manner. Its fingernails were yellow and lined with grime, and the flesh was the color of ancient tissue paper lining a senior citizen's dresser drawer.

"Um," said Addison, reluctant to give voice to an outright negative response.

"Uh," said Milford, likewise.

"Very well then," said the little man called Punch, giving his dirty hand a carefree wave, "let us forget about handshakes, especially now, enmired as we are in cold and influenza season." He smiled, revealing dull yellow teeth, but to give him his due, he had teeth, or at least reasonably realistic dentures. "So, two young bucks out on the town, eh? Were you thinking of going into this place?"

He pointed to the door of The Prancing Fool.

"In fact we just left it," said Addison.

"Didn't get thrown out, did you?"

"No, we left willingly," said Addison.

"I tried to go in there once," said Punch. "They kicked me out. I told them I was a failed lyric poet, but they wouldn't believe me. Why did you leave?"

"It wasn't quite our sort of place," said Addison.

"You mean you're not bad artists or writers?"

"Well, let's just say we haven't quite accepted the inevitable status of 'bad'," said Addison.

"So you are indeed artists or writers of some sort."

"Yes," said Addison. "I am a novelist, or at least trying to be one, and my friend Milford is a poet."

"And you say you're not bad?"

"We wouldn't I think go that far," said Addison, "but let's just say we haven't yet abandoned all hope."

"I would like to write a novel some day," said Punch. "Or a poem."

"What would you like to write a novel about?" said Addison.

"I should like I think to write a novel about a chap who wants to write a novel, except the problem – and I think every good novel needs a problem – the problem is my hero has no talent."

"And what would you like to write a poem about?" asked Addison.

"I daresay I should like," said Punch, "to write a poem about wanting to write a poem, but having no talent to write a poem, except, of course, perhaps a bad poem."

"Maybe," said Addison, "you could combine your two desires, and write a novel about a man who wants to write a poem, but who has no talent for writing poetry."

"Killing two birds with one stone, if one may speak in cliché," said Punch.

"As it were," said Addison.

"That's such a brilliant idea," said the man called Punch. "Now I only need a room, and a pencil, and some paper, perhaps even a typewriter."

"Yes, I think a typewriter would be a good idea," said Addison, "as I think that the days of publishers accepting handwritten manuscripts are long gone, especially manuscripts written in pencil."

"Bad luck for me then!" said the man called Punch. "So, what are you fellas up to now?"

"Well," said Addison, "we're trying to get back to this bar where we left some lady friends."

"Lady friends?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"Actual ladies?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"Not transvestites then? And mind you, I am not being judgmental."

"No, they're not transvestites," said Addison.

"Then they must be quite elderly ladies I presume."

"No, not especially so," said Addison.

"Oh, I get it, they're lesbians! I should have known."

"Why do you say that?" spoke up Milford.

"That they're lesbians?" said Punch. "Or that I should have known they're lesbians."

"Both," said Milford.

"Well, only because two gentlemen such as yourselves – with shall we say a delicate bearing and bent – would only naturally have acquaintance with ladies of a sapphic inclination."

"Are you implying that we are homosexual?"

"My good fellow, I assure you again I am the the least judgmental of men. Who am I to tell two red-blooded lads they cannot seek solace in each other's embrace. I can assure you that such alliances were quite common in my days at Choate, not only among the students but between the students and masters. How well I remember the nocturnal cries of ecstasy resounding through the dormitories as I lay sleepless in my lonely cot."

"Look, pal," said Milford, attempting to deepen his naturally shallow and thin speaking voice, "we are not homosexual, and I don't know why people keep accusing us of being so."

"Gee, pal, I meant no disparagement."

"Well, anyway," said Milford, "enjoy your cigarettes, but, as my friend said, we have to go somewhere."

"To this bar where these aforementioned 'ladies' are?"

"Yes."

"And what bar is this?"

"It's called The Hideaway I think."

"The Negro bar?"

"Yes, do you know it?"

"Indeed I do. A delightful establishment."

"Well, that's where we're going," said Milford.

"If we can find it," said Addison.

"You mean to say you don't know where it is?" said Punch.

"Not exactly," said Addison.

"What about inexactly?"

"No, we don't know where it is, exactly or inexactly," said Milford.

"I can take you there," said Punch.

Both Addison and Milford took pause. Could they trust this bum? Quite possibly not. But what did they have to lose? The two friends exchanged glances, and each of them, after another pause, nodded slightly.

"All right," said Milford. "We would appreciate it if you could show us the way."

"Gladly," said Punch. "And I ask only one thing in return."

"What's that?" asked Milford.

"Not much," said the little man.

"Then what?" said Milford.

"Two things, actually," said the man.

"What?" said Addison.

"Your souls," said the little man called Punch. "I ask only for your immortal souls."

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

"Dante Gabriel Fucking Rossetti"

2026-01-09T11:42:00.000-05:00

But before he could put the glass to his lips Milford paused and remembered, again, that he was an alcoholic, and that he shouldn't drink, or at any rate he shouldn't drink alcoholic beverages. He put the glass back down.

"Wait a minute," he said.

"But you know who I really fucking hate?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Everybody," said Mr. Bogman.

"Yes, of course, but do you know who I really fucking hate?"

"Yourself?" said Mr. Bogman. "Ha ha."

"That, my dear chap, goes without saying," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Excuse me," said Milford.

"But I'm talking about who I really fucking hate," said Mr. Bormanshire. "With an unbridled passion."

"Please, tell us," said Mr. Bogman. "I'm sure we're all dying to know."

"Dante Gabriel fucking Rossetti," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Oh," said Mr. Bogman.

"Hate that guy," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, he sucks," said Mr. Bogman.

"Um, uh –" said Milford.

"He sucks donkey dick," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Big donkey dick," said Mr. Bogman. "Huge."

"Pardon me," said Milford.

"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire with more than a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Who, me?"

"Yes," said Milford, "or the both of you."

"Me too?" said Mr. Bogman.

"Yes," said Milford.

"Ask away," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, shoot, Mugford," said Mr. Bogman. "What's on your mind, sonny Jim?"

"This place," said Milford, "this, what, this society –"

"Society of the Prancing Fool, yes," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"So this society is comprised entirely of bad writers?"

"Not just bad writers," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We're not prejudiced."

"Right," said Mr. Bogman. "We've got bad painters, bad sculptors, bad dancers and choreographers, you name it, we even have a troupe of bad actors and other sundry artistes who put on original bad shows every Wednesday night."

"So you're all just resigned to being bad?"

"Do we have a choice?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"But what if I –"

Milford paused, and was tempted by the drink on the table before him.

"Yes, go on," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"What if I – or even Addison –"

"And who is Addison again?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"That's me," said Addison, putting down his own Rob Roy, half empty.

"I thought your name was Hutcherson," said Mr. Bogman.

"What if I and Hutcherson, I mean Addison," said Milford, "what if we are not fated inevitably always to be bad."

"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, what?" said Mr. Bogman.

"What if I write a good poem someday," said Milford.

"Ha ha, you jest, surely," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Or what if even Addison winds up writing a good novel," said Milford.

"What, the one about the cowboy in the old west?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, that one sure sounds 'good'," said Mr. Bogman.

"But what if he does," said Milford.

"Don't make us laugh," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"It's possible," said Milford.

"Yeah, sure, look at him," said Mr. Bogman. "Hey, Thatcherman," he said, addressing Addison. "You ever even been out west?"

"Um, uh," said Addison.

"And look at you, Bumford," said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford, "with your newsboy's cap and your peacoat and fisherman's sweater. What would you ever write a good poem about? I bet you live with your mother, don't you?"

"I fail to see how my living with my mother has anything to do with my poetic abilities," said Milford.

"You got bad poet written all over you, kid," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Appearances may be deceiving," said Milford, weakly.

"Bullshit," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, you're a bad poet if I ever saw one," said Mr. Bogman, "and, believe me, I seen plenty in my time."

"But I still believe that someday, against all odds, I might one day write a good poem."

"Oh, fuck off," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Pardonnez mon français."

"What about you, Badgerman?" said Mr. Bogman to Addison.

"Who, me?" said Addison.

"Unless there's somebody else called Boggerman who's sitting at this table, yeah, you."

"What is the question again?"

"I reckon you think your epic novel of the old west is gonna be some kinda classic, that is if you ever even get past chapter one of it."

"Well, in fact I do think the first chapter is shaping up rather nicely."

"Shaping up nicely to be the first chapter of a crappy novel that no publisher will ever touch with a ten-foot pole," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Don't worry," said Mr. Bogman, "five will get you ten he stalls somewhere in the second chapter and spends the rest of his life trying to make it to the third. I know the type, and I know it well. Listen, Boogerman, this joint is filled with clowns just like you, sitting at the bar droning on to anyone who will listen about the great novel they're 'working on'. You're not fooling nobody except maybe yourself. So, you know, like, no offense, but fuck you and fuck your stupid epic novel."

"Okay, you know what?" said Milford. He noticed that his cigarette was smoked down to its last half-inch, and he stubbed it out in his ashtray on the side of which he only just now noticed was inscribed, in flaked gold letters, The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell. "I'm leaving now," he said.

"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, what?" said Mr. Bogman.

"I'm leaving. Because I for one refuse to give up hope."

"Oh, get off your high horse, kiddo," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Don't you realize it doesn't matter if you give up hope or not? Either way your writing is bad and it always will be bad."

"Yeah, get used to it," said Mr. Bogman. "Just like me and Bormanshire and every other swinging dick in this hellhole has gotten used to it. Now drink your fucking drink, you'll feel better."

"I don't want this drink," said Milford.

"No one gives a shit what you want or don't want, punk," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Now drink your motherfucking Rob Roy and stop bringing the party down."

"I just said I don't want it," said Milford.

"I'll take it if you don't want it," said Addison.

"Take it if you want to," said Milford, "but I'm leaving."

He shoved his chair back and stood up, fighting a compulsion to fall to the floor, perhaps never to stand up again.

"But, old chap, we have food coming," said Addison. "And more drinks."

"Addison," said Milford, "I'm sorry, but I'm leaving."

"Let him leave," said Mr. Bormanshire. "The little dickwad."

"He'll be back," said Mr. Bogman.

"Tail between his legs," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Begging for us to let him back in," said Mr. Bogman.

"Goodbye, Addison," said Milford.

"Wait," said Addison.

"Now what?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, now what the fuck," said Mr. Bogman.

Addison put out his own stub of a cigarette, then shoved back his chair, almost knocking it over as he got to his feet, but Mr. Bormanshire grabbed the chair's back before it could fall.

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said Addison. "But I also must take my leave."

"Well, fuck you too then," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, fuck yez both," said Mr. Bogman. "The pair of yez."

"Um," said Addison.

"Uh," said Milford.

"Oh, and what about that food you two assholes ordered?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yeah, and the drinks," said Mr. Bogman. "Not to mention the round you just had. I suppose you're intending just to skip out without paying then? So typical."

"Oh," said Addison, "well, I guess we could leave you some money. Would, say, two dollars cover it?"

"Hey, no, you know what?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Fuck your two dollars."

"Yeah, we don't want your two dollars," said Mr. Bogman. "Even if two dollars would cover it, which it wouldn't, not to mention the tip."

"This isn't about money," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Not really."

"Fuck your money," said Mr. Bogman.

"This is about you two accepting your lot in life," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Your destiny," said Mr. Bogman.

"Your destiny as consummate failures," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"As losers," said Mr. Bogman.

"As proud members not merely of the legions of the damned," said Mr. Bormanshire, "but as standard-bearers of that select cohort known to men as the damned of the damned."

"The Society of the Prancing Fool!" said Mr. Bogman.

For a moment there was silence. Even the voices of all the other men in this place, sitting at their tables and at the bar, enveloped in smoke and boredom, even these voices hushed for the moment, and then Milford spoke.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?" said Addison.

"Let's go," said Milford.

Addison looked from Milford to Mr. Bogman, and then to Mr. Bormanshire and back to Milford.

"Right," he said. He picked up his glass but it was empty, and he put it down again. He looked longingly at Milford's untouched Rob Roy, but, in a rare moment of self-control, he forbore. "Let's go then," he said.

"Fuck you," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Fuck both of you."

"Yeah, and the spavined horses you rode in on," said Mr. Bogman.

"Fuck you both," said Mr. Bormanshire, "heartily."

"Yeah, the pair of yez," said Mr. Bogman. "Fuck yez, with abandon."

Addison and Milford both turned, and stumbling only slightly, they began to walk away.

All around them at the tables and from the crowded bar the dull murmuring of voices resumed.

Behind them came the voices of Messrs. Bormanshire and Bogman, cutting through the ambient babble and the thick swirling smoke.

"Go ahead, fuck off!" yelled the voice of Mr. Bormanshire.

"You'll be back!" shouted the voice of Mr. Bogman.

"On your hands and knees!" yelled Mr. Bormanshire.

"Begging us to let you back in!" yelled Mr. Bogman.

"Fuck you!" cried Mr. Bormanshire.

"Fuck yez both!" cried Mr. Bogman.

Milford and Addison made their way through the tables filled with indifferent blathering men drinking and smoking. They came to the door, which had a red-and-yellow electric exit sign above it. Milford put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. It was unlocked, and he opened the door, waving his friend to go through first, and then he followed.

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

"Pathetic Self-Deluded Idiots"

2025-12-25T11:21:00.003-05:00

"Oh, by the way, Pedro," called Mr. Bormanshire, to the thin man with the tray, who stopped and turned.

"Yeah, Mr. Bormanshire?"

"Better bring us another round of Rob Roys while you're at it."

"Four more Rob Roys?"

"Yes, please."

"Comin' right up, Mr. Bormanshire."

Milford said nothing. What was the use? Just because they were bringing him another Rob Roy didn't mean he had to drink it.

The thin small fellow disappeared into the swirling clouds of smoke and the blathering of drunken men, carried away swiftly on his little legs.

"And now," said Mr. Bormanshire, raising his glass, "I should like if I may to propose a toast."

"Hear, hear," said Mr. Bogman, also raising his glass.

"Mr. Bobbington," said Mr. Bormanshire to Addison, "if you will raise your glass, sir."

Addison obediently raised his glass, which it must be said still held perhaps a half-inch of scotch finely blended with dry vermouth.

"And Mr. Mufford," said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford, "if you too will raise your glass, young sir."

Not wanting to argue, Milford raised his glass.

"I propose a toast then," said Mr. Bormanshire, "to our two newest members of the sacred and noble Society of the Prancing Fool, the good Messrs. Babbington and Mufton. Long may they prance, and prance like the fools they are!"

"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Bogman.

"And now, my friends, drink up!" said Mr. Bormanshire.

And all four drank, Addison finishing off what little was left of his Rob Roy, and Milford against his will but instinctively taking a good gulp of his own Rob Roy.

"Ah," said Mr. Bormanshire, putting down his now half-full glass. "So, gentlemen, in a sense, but a very real sense, you are indeed home now."

"Home at last," said Mr. Bogman, who had also half-emptied his glass, and who now picked the lemon twist out of it, and dropped it into his ashtray.

"Some call us failures," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"They do indeed, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman. "That and worse. The term never-has-been comes to mind."

"Untalented oafs they call us," said Mr. Bormanshire. He had a box of matches on the table in front of him, and he slid it open.

"Pathetic self-deluded idiots they deem us," said Mr. Bogman. "Looked down upon even by the lowest uninspired hacks and so-called ham-and-eggers of the literary and artistic worlds."

"Yea, verily, they call us fools," said Mr. Bormanshire. He struck a match on the side of the box, which Milford noticed bore the legend of the Hotel St. Crispian.

"Hopeless fools," said Mr. Bogman.

"In a phrase, prancing fools," said Mr. Bormanshire, relighting his pipe.

"Yeah, you're home now, boys," said Mr. Bogman, taking a deep drag on his cigar. "You ain't got to compare yourselves to all those bigshot hotshots no more. The Algernon Blackwoods. The James Branch Cabells. The Marcel Schwobs and the John Kendrick Bangses. The Amy Lowells and the John Greenleaf Whittiers."

"Never could abide Whittier," said Mr. Bormanshire, dropping his match into his ashtray

"Yeah, he sucks," said Mr. Bogman. "But the point is, lads, you ain't got to worry about them guys –"

"And gals," interjected Mr. Bormanshire.

"Right," said Mr. Bogman, "you ain't got to worry about comparing yourselves to them high-and-mighty literary panjandrums nor them stuck-up hoity-toity bluestocking bitches no more."

"Fuck 'em," said Mr. Bormanshire, puffing on his pipe. "Fuck 'em all."

"Fuck them all," repeated Mr. Bogman. "With abandon."

"Seven ways to Tuesday," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"We don't give a flying fuck," said Mr. Bogman.

"Not a whit," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"We'll carry on proudly writing our endless bad novels," said Mr. Bogman.

"Just as some of us will continue to write and rewrite the first pages of our bad novels, never even making it to page two," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Or outlining our epic novels, outlines continually revised and abandoned and started up again," said Mr. Bogman.

"Epic poems, too," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Can't forget the epic poems."

"Epic poems never to be published, nor ever to be read," said Mr. Bogman.

"But most important," said Mr. Bormanshire, "we will continue to talk about the work."

"Endlessly," said Mr. Bogman.

"Sitting at tables like this," said Mr. Bormanshire,

"Or at the bar," said Mr. Bogman.

"Talking endlessly of the work, into the the endless night," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Every night," said Mr. Bogman.

"Until we keel over," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Dead," said Mr. Bogman, and he emptied his Rob Roy into his mouth at a gulp.

"Unknown to the greater world," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Not even forgotten, because how can someone be remembered who has never been known, save to his fellow prancing fools?"

"Here's your Rob Roys," said a voice, the voice of the thin little man named Pedro, standing there with his tray. "And the gingy ale for the young gentleman."

"Lay 'em down, dear Pedro," said Mr. Bormanshire, polishing off his own Rob Roy, "lay 'em down and thank you very much indeed."

Pedro made his way around the table, putting down the fresh Rob Roys and collecting the empties. When he came to Milford he stood there looking down at him until Milford finished off his Rob Roy. Then the little fellow took the empty glass and laid down the last fresh Rob Roy and a glass with something pale yellow in it, presumably ginger ale.

Milford preferred his ginger ale with ice, but he dared not request it. Who knew what the man would put in it besides ice?

"Youse ready to order some food," said the man.

"Go ahead, order some food, fellas," said Mr. Bormanshire.

Addison had been tasting his new drink, but now he picked up his menu.

"I must say the prices are quite reasonable," he said, "and I for one haven't eaten since breakfast."

"What'd you have for breakfast?" said Mr. Bogman.

"Two glazed doughnuts," said Addison, "and some several cups of chicory coffee."

"That's no kind of breakfast for a grown man, boy," said Mr. Bogman. "Now order some real food."

"How are the pork and beans?" asked Addison, having noticed that the dish was priced at only fifty cents.

"Excellent," said Mr. Bogman.

"Okay," said Addison, "I guess I'll take the pork and beans then."

"Sure, Ace," said Pedro, and he scribbled something on his pad. "You can get a fresh-baked hot cross bun with that, or Uneeda crackers if you prefer."

"I think I'll go with the Uneeda crackers," said Addison, suddenly suffused with childhood memories of being spoiled by his great-aunts with Uneeda crackers and Welch's grape jelly, washed down with bottles of Frank's cream soda.

"How about you, Pomford?" said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford. "Eat something, put some meat on your bones."

Milford wasn't sure if he was hungry, but then he thought maybe some food would sop up the Rob Roy he had stupidly drunk, and the fresh one sitting there before him waiting to be drunk.

"Well," he said, "what's this special of the day?"

"Today's dollar special," said Pedro, "is calf's brains scrambled with three fresh farmyard eggs, home fries and blood pudding on the side, and your choice of ketchup or A.1. Sauce."

"Get it, Bumford," said Mr. Bormanshire. "The calf's brains here are absolutely to die for."

"I don't know," said Milford. "I've never had calf's brains, or blood pudding."

"Get him the calf's brains and scrambled, Pedro," said Mr. Bogman. "With the A.1."

"But," said Milford.

"And even though Mr. Bogman and I have already dined," said Mr. Bormanshire, "I'm feeling just a mite peckish, so bring me a large plate of liver and onions, extra onions, with a double portion of mashed potatoes and the red-eye gravy. What about you, Bogman?"

"Well, like you say, Bormanshire, we've already dined, but I'll take some ham and eggs, better make it a double order, and you know the way I like 'em, Pedro, over easy, with hash browns and extra toast and butter."

"Got it," said Pedro, scribbling. "Extra toast."

"And another round of Rob Roys," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"And a pitcher of Falstaff," said Mr. Bogman.

"But," said Milford.

"Four glasses with the pitcher," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"But," said Milford.

"Anything else?" said Pedro.

"But," said Milford.

"That's all for now, Pedro, thanks," said Mr. Bogman.

"But," said Milford, again.

Pedro turned away, and this time Milford was sure he heard the fellow say just one word:

"Pissant."

As the little man wandered away once again through the clouds of smoke and into that babble of boring voices, Milford felt something falling within his narrow chest, perhaps the last wispy remnants of his self-regard.

Were his humiliations never to end in this life?

Not at the rate you're going, said Stoney, his internal alter ego. Now stop your whining and have a drink like a man.

In spite to himself, despite himself, and to spite himself, Milford raised his cocktail glass full of deep golden liquid.

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

"Just Roll with It"

2025-12-11T10:09:00.000-05:00

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…}