Dan Leo

"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…}

"The Secret of a Good Rob Roy"

2025-11-27T10:38:00.004-05:00

"Look," said Milford, "I don't want to seem unappreciative, but can't we just wait by the door here for a little while until those douchebags have passed, and then we'll just leave?"

"You want to 'leave'?" said Mr. Bogman.

"Yes," said Milford, "I mean, when it's safe, you know –"

"When it's 'safe'."

"Yes," said Milford.

"And do you, Mr. Addleton," said Mr. Bogman, addressing Addison, "do you also wish to 'leave'?"

"Well, you see," said Addison, "the fact is, we were on our way to meet up with some ladies –"

"What was that?" said Mr. Bormanshire. He had been puffing on his pipe, but now he drew it from his lips.

"I said we were on our way to meet up with some ladies."

"That's what I thought you said."

"Yes, uh," said Addison.

"Ladies."

"Yes, um –"

"As in real ladies? Not transvestites or powdered popinjays?"

"Yes, I believe they're real ladies."

"Ha," said Mr. Bogman.

"Ha indeed," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Um, uh," said Addison.

Mr. Bormanshire cast his eye upon Milford and repeated the word: "Ladies?"

"Yes," said Milford. "I realize it might be hard to believe."

"I suppose no harder to believe than that Christ arose from the dead after three days in his tomb," said Mr. Bormanshire, "and yet many people do believe in his literal revivification, and his subsequent ascension bodily into the heavens. But, nonetheless, yes, hard to believe, very, very hard to believe, if perhaps not entirely and incontrovertibly incredible. May I ask, are these purported ladies perhaps sisters of Lesbos?"

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

"Are they ladies who like ladies?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's saying are these ladies of a 'Sapphic' bent," said Mr. Bogman. "'Dykes' in the common parlance, or even what is known as 'bull dykes', I believe. Tell me, do these alleged 'ladies' by any chance wear their hair cropped in military fashion, and do they affect masculine dress, replete with regimental rep neckties with crisp four-in-hand knots and three-piece suits of serge cut to hide whatever feminine lineaments of physical form they might possess?"

"No," said Milford. "They wear dresses, just like normal women."

"Listen, my boy," said Mr. Bormanshire, "if you're trying to tell us in some circumspect fashion that you and Mr. Appleton are of the homosexual persuasion and you've got a date with some 'fag hags', you needn't beat around the bush with us. We've got quite a few gentlemen of the lavender persuasion here in the ranks of the Prancing Fool. We're not prejudiced."

"I am not homosexual," said Milford.

"Are you quite sure of that?" said Mr. Bormanshire, taking what looked to be a thoughtful puff on his pipe.

"Um," said Milford.

"And you, Mr. Applebury?" said Mr. Bogman to Addison. "No judgment on my part, but you are quite blatantly a member of the friends of Dorothy, are you not?"

"What?"

"He means you're homosexual," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Um, no," said Addison, softly.

"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"I said no, I'm not."

"Are you quite sure?" said Mr. Bogman.

"Um, yes," said Addison. "I mean, to the best of my knowledge –"

"Oh, okay," said Mr. Bogman. "My mistake. It's just that you look a little, uh –"

"Light in the loafers," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Precisely," said Mr. Bogman. "Do me a favor, hold out your hand."

"Why?" said Addison.

"He wants to see how limp your wrist is," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"But I'm not homosexual," said Addison.

"To your 'knowledge'," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Yes," said Addison.

"So what you're saying, or alleging," said Mr. Bogman, "is that you and Mr. Billfold here," he gestured in the direction of Milford, "are not, in the argot of the back alleys, 'butt buddies'?"

"What? No," said Addison.

"So answer me this then," said Mr. Bogman, "why the lie about having to meet some 'ladies'?"

"Look," said Milford, "as fantastic as it may sound, we are indeed trying to meet up with some ladies of our acquaintance."

"And you're quite sure they're not – yes, I'll say it – lesbians?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Well," said Milford, "I suppose we're not absolutely sure –"

"So you're not sure at all?" said Mr. Bogman.

"How I wonder could they be absolutely sure?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Unless," said Mr. Bogman.

"Yes, unless," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Unless?" said Addison.

"Unless you've actually committed the act of darkness with them," said Mr. Bogman. "Or have you?"

"Committed the, uh, what?"

"Act of darkness," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Made the beast with two backs," said Mr. Bogman.

"Oh," said Addison.

"Have you?" said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Um, uh," said Addison.

"What about you, young Mr. Milldorf?" said Mr. Bogman, to Milford.

"What about me?" said Milford.

"Have you, as the lads in the pool halls say, played 'hide the salami' with any or all of these supposed ladies?"

"No," admitted Milford.

"And, may I ask, have you ever played hide the salami with any lady, supposed or otherwise?"

"I fail to see how that is any of your –"

"So the answer is no," said Mr. Bogman. "And you, Mr. Paddington," he said, addressing Addison, "I shan't humiliate you further by asking if you have ever inserted your member of so-called masculinity into the sacred slot of an at least nominal member of the female gender. Or have you?"

"Um, uh," said Addison.

"Don't even ask," said Mr. Bormanshire. "If this chappie ever saw the sacred slot of a member of the distaff community, he'd put a Bandaid on it."

"Ha ha," said Mr. Bogman.

"Look, fellas, let's just cut the shit, shall we?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Like we said, you're home now. All these guys here," he waved expansively at the crowded smoky barroom before them, "they're all bad poets and novelists just like you, and also bad painters and sculptors, bad librettists and composers, bad artists of every possible description, every man jack of them. The hopelessly bad, the abominably bad, the monstrously bad, and the plain old common or garden variety boringly bad."

"And you're welcome here," said Mr. Bogman. "Even if you are homosexual."

"And, if I may say so," said Mr. Bormanshire, "even if you really aren't homosexual, hey, you might as well be. Because no woman wants anything to do with a bad poet or a bad novelist."

"Maybe a homely woman, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman.

"Yeah, maybe a really hopelessly homely woman," said Mr. Bormanshire. "A really homely and desperate woman."

"But who wants a desperate homely woman?" said Mr. Bogman.

"Nobody," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Not even a bad novelist, or a bad poet."

"So come on and join our merry band," said Mr. Bogman.

"Yeah, first round's on the house," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"First round?" said Addison.

"Sure," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Anything you want."

"I must say at this point in the proceedings I could go for a nice bracing cocktail."

"But of course," said Mr. Bormanshire. "How about you, Mr. Pilfoy?"

"Me?" said Milford. "I'm sorry, but I am an alcoholic."

"Splendid, then you've come to the right place. We have all the alcoholic beverages you could possibly want here."

"Um," said Milford.

"Might I suggest a round of nice Rob Roys?" said Mr. Bogman. "Our barman Marcel makes a delightful Rob Roy."

"Gee," said Addison, "a Rob Roy sounds really good."

"The secret of a good Rob Roy is good scotch," said Mr. Bogman. "Marcel uses Cutty Sark."

"Oh, boy," said Addison, "I haven't had Cutty Sark in years."

"You can't go wrong with Cutty Sark," said Mr. Bormanshire.

Milford sighed, for the twelve-thousandth and thirty-fifth time since he had awakened the previous morning from a fitful sleep into an infinitely more fitful waking state. He felt himself getting sucked like Poe's nameless narrator down into the maelström, but not into the depths of the ocean but rather into a drunken binge that might quite possibly lead to his lying dead and frozen under a blanket of snow in a cobblestone alleyway. It would take all his willpower to insist on having a ginger ale, while everyone else enjoyed a nice Rob Roy, made with Cutty Sark scotch whisky.

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

"We Have Much to Learn from the Youth of Today"

2025-11-13T09:08:00.003-05:00

It was a tavern, a saloon, yet another one, dark and choked with smoke, packed with people sitting at tables and booths and at a long bar. There was no music to be heard, only a dull babble of voices.
Addison and Milford turned and watched the little fat bald bearded man turning the button of a deadlock, thrusting home the bolt of a barrel lock and then securing a chain lock above it. He then turned to the two companions.

"There," he said, taking his pipe from his mouth. "That should keep the douchebags out."

"Thank you, sir," said Addison.

"And the door itself is quite secure I think," said the little man. He rapped the wood of the door with his tiny chubby fist. "Go ahead, give it a knock."

"Oh, I believe you," said Addison.

"That's solid three-inch oak you're looking at there," said the man.

"Yes," said Addison, "it does look quite stout."

"You need stout wood for a door," said the man. "And perhaps you are concerned with the hinges?"

"Um, uh," said Addison.

"What about you, young man," he said, turning the thick lenses of his glasses on Milford. "Know anything about door hinges?"

"Not really," said Milford.

"Really?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"You really know nothing at all about door hinges?"

"I know that they attach a door to the wall."

"It's called a jamb."

"Yes, sorry, the jamb."

"Well," said the little fat bald bearded man, "may I then direct your attention to these door hinges." He gestured vaguely with his little hand. "Solid stainless steel. With screws also of the finest quality alloy. Let those douchebags pound and kick to their hearts' content, they're not getting through this door!"

"Well, that's very, uh –"

"Comforting?" said the little man.

"Uh," said Milford.

"Yes, it's comforting," said Addison.

"And you, young sir," said the man, looking at Milford. "Do you not feel comforted?"

"Yes," said Milford. "Thanks."

"I know what you're both thinking, by the way."

"Um," said Addison.

"Yes," said the little fat man, "I know very well what you're thinking." Again he turned those thick glasses in Milford's direction. "You can't hide it."

"Uh," said Milford.

"Especially you can't hide it," said the man. "Your friend is a little better at playing the game, and bully for him, but not you, you can't play the game, can you? Can't, or is it won't? But one thing is undeniable, and that is that you don't."

"Pardon me?" said Milford.

"You are pardoned," said the man. "For thinking so apparently that I am boring you with my talk of doors and locks and hinges. Do you deny it?"

"No," said Milford.

"Good fellow." He turned to Addison. "See, he admits he's bored. As are you."

"Um," said Addison.

"We can learn from the young people, my friend. Because they have not yet learned how to 'play the game'. The 'game' that society would have us play."

"Um, yes," said Addison, "I have always felt that we have much to learn from the youth of today."

"Not that we cannot also learn from our elders."

"Yes, of course," said Addison. "The elders have much to, uh, you know, impart to, um –"

"And as well we can also learn from our coëvals," said the little fat man. "Or do you disagree?"

"Um, uh, no, uh," said Addison.

"What about you, young fellow?" the fat man said to Milford.

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

"Do you also agree that we have much, potentially speaking, to learn from our coëvals?"

"I neither agree nor disagree," said Milford.

"You have no opinion?"

"I have no opinion, nor interest, nor do I have any interest in having an opinion, nor even an interest in having an interest."

The little fat man put the stem of his pipe into his lips and drew on it, as if pensively. The pipe had gone out, and it made a noise like a mouse's death rattle. He withdrew the pipe and addressed Milford again.

"I'm beginning to like you, my lad. You remind me of myself when I was your age, young and full of nihilism. But look at me now."

"What do we have here, Bormanshire?" said a new voice.

Addison and Milford turned to see another little fat man.

"Oh, hello," said the first little fat man. "Mr. Bogman, meet my new friends whose names I have not yet been so privileged as to ascertain."

"Bogman is the name," said the new little fat man, extending his fat little hand in Addison's direction. He was smaller than the first little fat man, yet proportionately fatter, and he wore a toupée the color and seeming texture of a ferret's fur.

Addison reluctantly but resignedly took the man's littler fat hand in his own larger but much thinner hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Mister, uh, Bogman."

"And your appellation, sir, if one may know it?"

"Well, it seems my friends all call me Addison, but in point of fact my actual name –"

"Well, if that's what your friends call you, then so also shall I, by George."

The little man called Bogman continued to hold onto Addison's hand, but now he turned his round face toward Milford.

"So you must be Steele then?"

"What?" said Milford. "No, my name is –"

"Ha ha," said the first fat man, apparently named Bormanshire. "I get it, Addison and Steele! Well-played, Bogman!"

"But all jesting aside," said Mr. Bogman to Milford, still holding tight onto Addison's hand. "What's your moniker, young man?"

"Milford," said Milford.

At last the little man called Bogman slipped his hand out of Addison's with a squishing sound and now extended it to Milford.

"Slide me five, Clive," he said.

Reluctantly Milford gave the man his hand, although it should be made clear to the reader that Milford never gave his hand to anyone willingly.

"A weak hand," said Mr. Bogman, "and a weaker grip. Not that I pass a moral judgment, because I suspect that you are a poet. Do you deny it?"

"Would it do any good if I did?" said Milford.

"None at all, my dear Milfold, none at all, because everything about you screams not only 'poet', but 'bad poet'. And again, I make no moral judgment, merely an observation."

"He's a bad poet," said Mr. Bormanshire. "And Addleton here is a bad novelist."

"Splendid. You have done your usual yeoman service as gatekeeper, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman, and he allowed Milford to withdraw his hand from his own, the squishing sound repeating itself. "Shall we then proceed to the formal initiation of these young chaps into the ranks of the Society of the Prancing Fool?"

"Forthwith," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Come with us, gentlemen," said Mr. Bogman.

"Um," said Milford.

"Uh," said Addison.

"Don't be afraid," said Mr. Bogman.

"Yes, fear not," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"But, uh," said Milford.

"Lookit," said Mr. Bormanshire, "you're a bad poet, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford.

"And you," said Mr. Bogman, pointing his fat little forefinger at Addison, "are a bad novelist, n'est-ce pas?"

"Well," said Addison, "I think that remains to be –"

"He's writing an epic novel about the Old West," said Mr. Bormanshire, "but it's actually by way of being an in-depth exploration of man's search for meaning in a meaningless world."

"Right, so, bad novelist," said Mr. Bogman. "Swell, now come with us, gentleman."

"But where are you taking us?" said Milford.

"We're not taking you anywhere," said Mr. Bogman.

"That's right," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We're not taking you anywhere, because you're already here."

"Yes," said Mr. Bogman, waving to the barroom before them, the tables and booths and the long bar, all filled with people and smoke and the indecipherable rumbling of human or humanoid voices. "You're here, you see."

"At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"You're home now, lads," said Mr. Bogman.

"Home at last," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Home sweet home," said Mr. Bogman.

"At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire.

"Home," said Mr. Bogman, with what sounded like a tone of finality.

{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 Prancing Fool"

2025-10-30T07:17:00.008-04:00

They ran until they came to a turning of the dim hallway, to the right, and this passage led into an unlighted section through which they stumbled, bumping into one another and almost falling several times until they came to another turn, this time to the left, a long stretch of narrow corridor lighted by widely and irregularly spaced dim bulbs, and on they staggered, still hearing the shouting and stomping reverberating behind them.

After another minute they came to a junction where the corridor continued straight ahead into dimness but was bisected by another corridor going to the left and to the right.

They each bent forward, panting and sweating, their hands on their knees.

"Which way?" gasped Milford.

"I haven't the faintest idea," said, panted, Addison.

To the right the corridor continued on into dimness and then darkness, as it did to the left.

"This way?" said Milford, pointing to the right.

"Why not?" said Addison.

They both looked over their shoulders, and far back down the way they had run they saw the angry gang turning a corner stomping and roaring and shouting imprecations.

"Faggots!" one voiced yelled, echoing down the corridor.

"Cunts!" bellowed another harsh voice.

"Perhaps we should split up?" said Milford. "And then only one of us will die."

"Yes, but which one?" said Addison.

"I don't want to die alone," said Milford.

"I for my part don't want to die at all," said Addison.

"So we stick together?" said Milford.

"To the end," said Addison.

"To the right then?" said Milford.

"Why not?" said Addison.

"Cunts!" echoed a harsh voice.

"Faggots!" echoed another voice.

Not knowing why, the two companions turned and ran down the corridor to the left, and after another minute they reeled into another section of darkness, and when they emerged from it a few minutes or a day later they were no longer able to run, but walked, staggering and wheezing, and, turning another corner they saw up ahead to their horror that the corridor came abruptly to an end, but there was a door, which they limped up to, and on the door was a sign that read, in cursive script

THE PRANCING FOOL

If you've abandoned
all hope of hope,
if you've given up
even the the hope
of giving up,
then ring the bell
or go to hell.

Below the sign was a crude painting of what might have been a prancing fool.

"Ring the bell," panted Addison.

There was a door button to the right of the door, and Milford put his finger on it and pressed it for two seconds.

He turned and looked at Addison, whose normally pallid face had gone red, and was streaming with sweat.

Back the way they had come they could still hear the harsh voices, and the stomping of feet.

"Ring the bell again," said Addison.

"Do you think I should? My mother always told me it is impolite to ring a doorbell more than once."

"But was your mother ever chased by a mob of douchebags out for her blood?"

"Not to my knowledge, no."

"Then, please, Milford, I implore you, ring the bell."

"Well, all right," said Milford, and he reached up to press the button again, but before he could do so the door opened inward, and a little fat bald bearded man stood there, peering at them through thick-lensed glasses. He held a smoking pipe, and he wore a rumpled suit of brown serge, with a red and white polka dot bowtie.

"Hello," he said. "May I help you gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir," said Addison. "We are being chased by a mob of, you should pardon the expression, douchebags, intent upon killing us, and we ask sanctuary."

"I admire your succinctness, sir," said the little fat bearded and bald man. "So am I to take it that you have both abandoned all hope?"

"If you deny us entrance, then, yes, I think you could safely say that we have abandoned hope."

"Or hope has abandoned us," said Milford.

"Yes," said the little man, "good, very good, but have you abandoned all hope of hope?"

"Oh, for God's sake," said Milford, "can't you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That stomping and shouting, down the corridor?"

The man cocked his head.

"Yes, now that you mention it, I do hear it. It sounds like an angry mob, or at least a gang."

"Precisely," said Addison. "A gang, a mob, and they're after us, so we adjure you, please let us in."

"First I have to ask you, and I think I know the answer, but I must ask anyway, are you gentlemen men of letters?"

"Yes!" whined Milford. "I am a poet, and my friend is a novelist."

"Splendid," said the little man. "Only one more question for each of you. Are you, young man, a bad poet?"

"Yes! Isn't it obvious?"

"And you, sir," the man said, turning his glasses in the direction of Addison, "do you write bad novels?"

"Well, that remains to be seen," said Addison. "You see, I am still only in the beginning stages of my first novel."

"And may I ask what this novel is about, if you are capable of saying so?"

"It is an epic of the old west, about a wandering gunslinger named Buck Baxter, on a quest to seek revenge upon a gang known as the Bad Men Gang for having slain his kinsfolk, but in a sense it is a novel about man's search for meaning in a world devoid of meaning –"

"Very well," interrupted the little fat bald and bearded man. "I think I've heard quite enough. You may both come in."

"Thank you!" said Milford.

"Yes, uh, thank you," said Addison, who was just slightly miffed that the man had not let him finish describing his novel.

In the dim distance the shouting and the stomping grew progressively louder, resounding down the hallway.

"Oh, dear," said the little fat man. "Come on in then, if you're coming, and I will lock and bolt the door."

He stepped to one side and Milford went in, followed hard on his heels by Addison.

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

"Shared Hallucination"

2025-10-17T11:01:00.004-04:00

A minute passed.

"Maybe you should press the button again," said Addison.

"I would, but I'm afraid of upsetting that John Henry fellow," said Milford.

"Oh, right," said Addison. "We wouldn't want to do that."

"We're lucky he let us in there at all."

"No, yes, you're entirely correct."

"How about if we wait another minute, just in case he didn't hear the bell, and then we'll press the button again."

"Splendid idea."

Another minute ticked by, and they smoked their cigarettes in silence. There was much they could have talked about, but for the moment neither of the two companions had the inclination, and besides, they were still very much under the influence of that fat hand-rolled cigarette of Jelly Roll's which they had smoked, what, ten minutes ago, fifteen minutes ago, a month ago.

"Wait," said Milford, abruptly.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"That Bowery Bert guy, is he really a guardian angel?"

"Oh, I had quite forgotten about him."

"We were with him only two minutes ago."

"And yet he had passed from my thoughts, like unto a faceless figure in an unremembered dream," said Addison, in his best George Sanders voice.

"Did we dream him?" asked Milford.

"Well, if we dreamt him, that means we both shared the same dream."

"And is that possible?"

"Is it any less possible than that he is in fact a guardian angel?"

Milford paused, thinking, trying to think.

"Perhaps he was a shared hallucination," he said, "brought on by Jelly Roll's cigarette."

"Perhaps this entire life is a shared hallucination," replied Addison, "brought on by the madness of existence."

"It might not even be a shared hallucination," said Milford. "Perhaps this is only my hallucination, and even you are part of it."

"Or, might I posit," said Addison, "the reverse might be the case, and you are part of my hallucination."

"I feel real," said Milford.

"Yes, but you would say that, wouldn't you, if you were an hallucination?"

"Yes, I suppose I would."

"Ring the doorbell again."

"Well, okay," said Milford, but with no enthusiasm evident in his voice or demeanor.

"Or we could wait one more minute."

"Yes, let's do that. I don't want to, to –"

"Incite the wrath of the formidable John Henry."

"Yes."

After half a minute Milford spoke.

"I hope the ladies are still there."

"So also I," said Addison. "I gather you like that one, what's her name, Lou?"

"Yes, Lou," said Milford. "Although I'm not so sure she likes me so much. Which one do you like?"

"Oh, who am I to be picky?"

"But if you had to pick."

"I should think Harriet."

"Yes, she seems nice."

"Or perhaps that Emily."

"Yes, she's nice also."

"But then, what's her name, Anne also possesses a certain je ne sais quoi."

"This is true," said Milford.

"But in the end I daresay I would be happy to take what I could get."

"Yeah, me too," said Milford.

"Do you hear that."

"Hear what."

"Listen."

In the shadowy unseen distance of dim corridors, somewhere down to the left of the doorway, the echoing sounds of tramping shoes, perhaps even of jackboots, and the cries and shouts of harsh male voices.

"Oh, no," said Milford.

"Yes," said Addison.

"It's them," said Milford.

"I'm afraid so," said Addison.

"The douchebags."

"Yes, sadly."

"What do we do?"

"We hope that John Henry opens this door before the douchebags get here. Press the button again."

"I just hope he doesn't get angry with us for pressing the button twice."

"Press the button. I'll take John Henry's ire over the prospect of being torn limb from limb by a mob of bloodthirsty douchebags."

"I'll just press it once, and briefly," said Milford, and he did so.

The two companions waited, and the stomping and the shouting grew closer.

"The Bard of Avon had it all wrong," said Addison. "Forget about women, because hell hath no fury like a douchebag scorned."

The distant stomping and shouting grew increasingly less distant, like an oncoming locomotive train of fury and nastiness, like a tidal wave of bloodlust.

"Y'know, Milford," continued Addison, "if this were a novel, then the douchebags might be interpreted as the inevitability of fate, and, by extension, of death. And indeed –"

"Addison," said Milford.

"Yes, old chap."

"I say this as a, dare I say it, a friend –"

"I am touched," said Addison. "And, may I say that I in turn consider you as a friend. Indeed, my only friend."

"Same here," said Milford.

The stomping and shouting grew louder, and closer, much louder and much closer.

"Oh, but you were saying?" said Addison.

"Never mind," said Milford.

"No, please, what was it?"

What Milford had been about to say were the words, Will you please just shut the fuck up. But now, as the shouting and stomping roared nearer down the dim hallway, he didn't want these words to be possibly the last he would ever speak, and so instead he said, "I think we'd better start running."

And now, out of the darkness down the hall in the distance they saw the angry mob of douchebags breaking out of the shadows in a thundering stampede, and Addison said, "Yes, I think we should."

As one the two companions tossed their cigarettes to the floor, turned on their heels, and ran, as behind them the roaring and stomping and shouting of the douchebags echoed and vibrated down the dim hallway.

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

"With Dubious Intent"

2025-10-02T08:16:00.003-04:00

"Now when you say you are an angel," said Addison, who was still very much under the influence of Jelly Roll's fat hand-rolled cigarette, "are we to understand that you speak metaphorically?"

"No, you ass," said Bert. "Like the immortal Popeye, I means what I says and I says what I means. I am indeed an angel, sub-category 'Guardian Angel', proudly serving the district of the lower Bowery, for, lo, these past one hundred and twenty years."

"Um, okay," said Addison.

"What nonsense," said Milford.

"You speak of nonsense to me," said Bowery Bert, "you little twerp?"

He bent over, pulled something from the snow, and banged it against his stubby legs revealing it to be a furled umbrella.

"You know what I should do?" he said to Milford.

"No?" said Milford.

"I should take this umbarelly and give you a sound thrashing, that's what I should do!"

"Look," said Milford, "again, I'm really sorry I peed on you, but I didn't know you were there. You were completely covered with snow, and, as Addison has already pointed out, I probably saved your life by urinating on you, because otherwise you might have frozen to death."

"And I'm just after telling you, you young pup, that I, as an angel, am incapable of dying."

"Okay," said Milford. "Sure."

"And what is that supposed to mean? 'Okay. Sure.'"

"Nothing," said Milford.

"You think perhaps I am insane, do you?"

"I think perhaps you are drunk," said Milford.

"And what if I am? If you had to be a guardian angel for thousands of hopeless dipsomaniacs, you would be continuously drunk too."

"Okay, well, look," said Milford, "by way of apology, how about if I give you the price of a nice hot all-night diner meal?"

"I don't want your money. You think I need money?"

"Um, uh –"

"I can stroll into the Bowery Savings Bank come morning and take out a hundred thousand dollars if I got a mind to."

"Oh," said Milford, "well –"

"I piss on your pathetic handouts. Just like you pissed on me. Fuck you for insulting me as if I were some common bindlestiff."

"Look, sir, I'm sorry, I just assumed –"

"Yes, you 'assumed', just because I was catching forty winks under a snowbank in a dark alleyway. Well, let me tell you something, buster, never 'assume'!"

"Okay, I won't," said Milford.

The little man now turned to Addison.

"What was your name? Addlesworth?"

"Well, they call me Addison, actually," said Addison. "But, not to be pedantic, my baptismal name is –"

"Did you ever catch up to them two fair ladies I seen you with?"

"Why, yes, in point of fact I did."

"Then why ain't you with them, Addlesbury, instead of loitering with dubious intent in a snow-choked alleyway with Little Lord Fauntleroy here?"

"Well, you see, Fauntleroy – I mean Milford here – had gotten just a little under the weather, and so I thought I would help him home."

"You mean to say you committed a selfless act?"

"Possibly," said Addison.

"I am impressed," said Bowery Bert. "You don't seem the type."

"Normally, I confess, I am not," said Addison.

"But an access of altruism overcame you."

"Yes, I suppose so."

Now the little man turned to Milford.

"You don't deserve such a friend as Allerburgh, Fauntleroy."

"I know," said Milford.

"You don't seem so under the weather now."

"I think I've gotten a second wind, yes," said Milford.

"And are you still in the process of trying to get home?"

"Well, no, you see, I decided after all that I wanted to go back to this bar where we were."

"Because you wanted to get your end wet?"

"I beg your pardon."

"Because you wanted to make the beast with two backs with a maiden fair."

"Look," said Milford, "again, I'm sorry for urinating on you, but I would really prefer not to discuss my personal affairs with you."

"Fine, be like that," said Bowery Bert. "Be a stuck-up prig all your life. I don't give a shit."

"Look, Bert," said Addison, "if I may call you Bert –"

"Please do, Addleburn."

"I beg you not to mind my friend Milford, but he is a reserved sort of chap, you see."

"Is that what you are?" said Bert to Milford. "Reserved?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Bit of a stick up your ass?"

"Uh, well –

"But you do admit, do you not, that you wanted to get back to that bar in the hopes of committing the act of darkness with a maiden fair?"

"Yes," said Milford, giving up, "I fully admit it."

"Then I just have one question, for the both of youse," said Bert. "What the hell are yez doing in this alleyway in the midst of this blizzard?"

"We got lost," said Addison.

"You got lost," said Bert.

"Yes," said Addison. "By the time we decided to go back to the bar with the ladies, we had gotten lost in this warren of dim and dark corridors, and one thing led to another, we had several strange adventures, we were chased by an angry mob for one thing, and –"

"You got lost."

"Yes," said Addison. "And, anyway, we came to this door, and we opened it, and went outside, and –"

"And now here you are."

"Yes," said Addison. "Here we are."

"Standing in a dark alleyway in a blizzard."

"Yes," said Addison.

The little man undid the fastening-button on his umbrella, and unfurled it above his head.

"You two are rather hopeless, aren't you?" he said.

Neither Addison or Milford replied to this question. Who were they to say if they were hopeless? And what was hope after all at bottom and in the end but the desire to live, even if to live was so consistently disappointing?

The little fellow reached into a pocket and brought out a stub of a twisted cigarillo, and put it into his mouth. Only now did our two heroes – who both lacked the novelist's and the poet's eye for detail – notice that he wore gloves from which his stubby grimy bare fingers protruded.

Milford thought it was the least he could do to light the fellow's cigarillo, and so at once he reached into his peacoat pocket, brought out his nice Ronson lighter, and after only seven clicks managed to produce a flame from it and ignite the little man's little cigar.

"Thanks," said Bowery Bert, exhaling a great cloud of smoke into the air filled with thick falling snow. "Maybe you're not so bad after all, Fauntleroy."

"I may not be bad," said Milford, "but I don't know if I'm any good."

"Let me be the judge of that," said the little man, or guardian angel. "You know, I don't know why, but the two of youse have aroused my pity, and I am going to help you. I want you both to close your eyes."

"What?" said Milford. He had put his lighter away, and he was wondering why he was still standing here, with Addison, in the bitter falling thick snow, in an alleyway, talking to this old bum.

"I said close your eyes, squirt," said Bowery Bert.

"But why?"

"Oh, just do it, Milford," said Addison.

"I'm afraid," said Milford.

"He's not going to hurt you," said Addison. "Are you, Bert?"

"I might hurt him if he doesn't close his eyes," said Bert.

"Oh, all right, I'll close my eyes," said Milford, and in fact he closed his eyes.

"You too, Addleton," said Bert, and Addison also closed his eyes.

"You got 'em closed, the both of yez?" said Bert.

"Yes," said Addison.

"Yes," said Milford, feeling the snowflakes attack his eyelids behind the lenses of his glasses.

"Okay, now open them," said Bert.

The two friends opened their eyes, and now they were indoors, out of the blizzard, standing in front of a door, a familiar door on which was a sign, that read

"THE HIDEAWAY"

Leave your cares behind
and your bullshit too.

Ring the bell and wait.

The little man called Bowery Bert was nowhere to be seen.

Addison looked at Milford and Milford looked at Addison.

Addison took out his crumpled pack of Chesterfields and Milford took out his Husky Boys.

Milford got out his Ronson and gave Milford a light, and then lighted himself up.

The two companions exhaled two great merging clouds of smoke.

"Shall we?" said Addison.

"Why not?" said Milford.

He stepped forward and pressed the door button.

And they waited.

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

"The Gnome in the Snow"

2025-09-18T11:11:00.003-04:00

They didn't float over the edge of an enormous black abyss but they did find themselves finally at the end of a hallway where there was a door, and a sign above the door read EXIT in red letters.

"Oh," said Addison.

"Um," said Milford.

"It says EXIT," said Addison.

"Yeah," said Milford.

"Should we?" said Addison.

"I don't know," said Milford.

"Let's think it over," said Addison.

"All right," said Milford.

The two companions both attempted to think it over, the pros and cons, but their thoughts traveled far and wide and fruitlessly.

"Okay," said Addison, after a minute that seemed like an hour, or a lifetime, "here's the thing."

He paused, for yet another lifetime. Milford waited, alternately patiently, impatiently, and indifferently.

"Here's the thing," said Addison again, making an effort, he was constitutionally indisposed to effort of any sort, and even more so now, under the influence of that hand-rolled cigarette they had shared what must have been not five minutes ago, no matter how long ago it felt, "if we go through this door we abdicate any chance to find those lovely ladies again."

"This is possibly true," Milford managed to say.

"Only possibly?" said Addison, an unfeigned note of optimism in his voice.

"Yes," Milford said. "Maybe we'll find them again." He paused. "Someday, or some night." And then he added, "Somehow."

There was an old and tarnished horizontal panic bar on the door, and Milford put his hand on it and pushed it in and the door moved very slightly but with resistance.

"Help me push it," he said.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Addison.

Side by side the two companions each put two hands on the bar and lent their weight to it. The door budged an inch outward and flurries of snow came through the crack.

"Right," said Addison. "I think we're pushing against a snowbank."

"Or a dead bum, frozen in the alley?" posited Milford.

"This too is a possibility," said Addison. "Shall we give up?"

"Not yet," said Milford. "Let's give it another try."

"If you insist," said Addison, in an almost neutral tone, with perhaps the smallest tinge of churlishness.

"I don't insist," said Milford, "but I'm curious."

Addison bit his tongue before he could say curiosity killed the cat, but only because of his aversion to cliché.

"Right then," he said. "A good shove. On the count of three?"

"Let's just shove," said Milford. "Ready?"

"And able," said Addison.

Milford ignored the cliché and pushed on the bar, and so did Addison, and now the door grudgingly opened, if a door could be said to open grudgingly, and after half a minute the door was now open perhaps twelve inches, and heavy snow fell through the opening between it and the jamb and lintel.

"Free," said Addison. "Free at last."

They could see the snow piled up in a great drift outside the door. The snow was white, or off-white, and more snow fell heavily from above, sheets and truckloads of snow, as if the heavens were pouring it down in an effort to cover the entire earth and all of its inhabitants forever and for good and good riddance. It was impossible to see anything beyond the snow.

"This must be how the early arctic explorers felt, peering out from their tents," said Addison. "And thinking, 'You know what? Let us go back inside, comrades, and crawl into our sleeping bags, and just go back to sleep, that sleep which -"

"I'm going out," said Milford.

"What?" said Addison.

"I'm going out. We've gotten this far. Why stop?"

"But it's awfully snowy out," said Addison.

"Yes," said Milford. "I'm aware. But I'm tired of wandering these dim hallways. I'm going out."

"Don't leave me here."

"Then let's go."

"You go first, and I'll follow."

"All right," said Milford, and without hesitation he turned sideways and went through the opening.

Outside the cold snow fell all around him and all over him, and the snow on the ground came up to his knees. He sensed that he was in an alley, the walls of two buildings just barely visible through the falling snow. To his right he saw a faint light, as of a street light.

Addison emerged sideways from the doorway.

"Where are we?"

"We must be in an alleyway next to the building we were in."

Both of them were speaking loudly through the muffling of the snowfall.

"There's light down that way," said Addison.

"Yes, I see it," said Milford.

"Shall we head toward it?"

"Yes."

And the two friends trudged through the knee-deep snow towards the light.

"Wait," said Addison. "We left the door open. Should we go back and close it?"

"Leave it," said Milford. "Someone else might need to escape."

And onward they trudged through the snow, towards the light which grew less faint with each step they took.

"Oh, um, wait a minute," said, shouted Milford.

"What is it, old man?" said Addison. "Not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No, um, but –"

"Because I don't mind going back, not at all, I've never been what you might call the outdoorsy type, let alone Northwest Mountie in the frozen Yukon type. I should be delighted to turn back and head inside, where I'm sure we'll find a delightful warm caravanserai if we keep searching."

"Look, I just have to pee, okay?"

"Oh. And do you want to go here?"

"Yes, God knows if and when we'll find a bar with a men's room, so, yes, I would like to go here."

"Then, please, fire away, old chap."

"Do you mind looking away?"

"Not at all, mon vieux, not at all. I confess I'm just a tad bit pee-shy myself. I'll just turn and enjoy the rich O. Henryesque beauty of the snow tumbling down in this alleyway. Y'know, I almost take back what I just said just now about not being much of an outdoorsman. There's something to be said for the old alleys of the city. The stained bricks and the cobblestones. And, yes, even the ashcans. And doesn't the snow somehow make everything beautiful? Why, even –"

"Hey!" shouted an unknown voice. "Stop pissing on me for Christ's sake, you asshole!"

Addison turned to see a gnomish figure rising up from the snowbank that apparently Milford had been urinating on.

"I'm so sorry, sir!" whined Milford, desperately trying to put away his so-called organ of virility.

"Wait," said Addison to the gnome, "it's Bowery Bert! Bert, you know us, it's me, Addison, and that's Milford, and I'm sure he didn't mean to micturate on you."

"You two little twats," said Bowery Bert, brushing pee-stained snow from his worn old coat. "I should have known. I should run the pair of yez straight down to the everlasting fires of hell!"

"I'm really sorry, Mr. Bert," said Milford, attempting with his cold fingers to button the fly of his dungarees.

"Bert," said Addison, "look at it this way. You were passed out in that snowbank, weren't you?"

"And what if I was?" said Bert. "Who are you to point the accusing finger of scorn?"

"I am not scornful at all, but if Milford had not awoken you from your slumbers, you very well might have frozen and died."

"Look, wise guy, I'm an angel," said Bert. "And you know one thing about angels?"

"Um," said Addison, because he didn't know one thing about angels.

"Angels don't die," said Bowery Bert.

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

"Over the Edge"

2025-09-04T16:38:00.002-04:00

No one stopped them from leaving, no one cared if they left or if they stayed.

"It's like life," said Milford, as they approached the door.

"What is?" said Addison, prepared to be bored.

"No one cares if we live or die, and no one cares if we leave this place or if we stay until we're as old as all these old wrecks in here."

Addison made no reply to this. His mind was still on the Falstaff beer and the shot of Cream of Kentucky he had never gotten.

They came to the door, Milford opened it, waved Addison through, and followed.

Outside in the dim hallway they stood, smoking.

"Okay, here's the plan," said Addison.

"A plan?"

"We pick a random direction, and the first bar we reach, we go in and have a shot and a beer."

"What about getting back to that Negro bar and the ladies?" said Milford.

"Oh, I assure you, mon pote, I haven't forgotten about that place, and of course those delightful ladies, heh heh. But I just think we should stop into the first bar we see even if it's not the Negro bar and have a beer, a beer and a shot. Sort of get our bearings and then set out anew, rested and refreshed."

"Once again, Addison, you forget, or disregard the fact, that I am a recovering alcoholic."

"Then just have a beer, old chap. A beer hardly counts. A beer is nothing."

"I'll have a ginger ale."

"Splendid," said Addison. "Ginger ale, a most noble beverage."

"Although I suppose it doesn't really matter at this point," said Milford, "since I've already had whiskey, wine, and beer, and grog laced with rum, not to mention sarsaparilla infused with ambrosia – the supposedly legendary food of the ancient Greek gods – as well as having smoked marijuana and hashish and eaten the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians."

"Then a beer is okay," said Addison. "In fact it might even be recommended at this point."

"But what really put me over the edge were these hand-rolled cigarettes that this Negro fellow Jelly Roll gave me."

"Do you have any left?"

"I don't think so."

"Would you mind checking?"

"If you insist."

"I'm only curious."

Milford put his cigarette in his lips and put his hand in the side pocket of his pea coat. He came out with a fat hand-rolled cigarette.

"I had no idea I still had one of these," he said. "I wonder if Jelly Roll stuck it in there surreptitiously?"

"Perhaps he did," said Addison. "Giving you one in reserve, like a good fellow. Shall we smoke it?"

"Addison, I just told you that it was one of these that put me over the edge."

"And yet here you stand, hale and hearty."

"That's only because I've been running around being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty douchebags, and the effect has been sweated out of me."

"Can I smoke it?"

"Be my guest, I don't want it."

"Are you sure?"

"Positively. But I warn you, if you smoke it, you too might go over the edge."

"What's in it?"

"if I recall correctly, it's Bull Durham tobacco, mixed with Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum."

"I don't know what any of that is except for the laudanum, which quite frankly I've always wanted to try."

"Here, help yourself."

Milford proffered the fat hand-rolled cigarette, and Addison took it, and looked at it.

"I feel rather like Keats's Cortez," he said, "staring with his eagle eyes at the Pacific with a wild surmise."

He tossed away his Chesterfield, which he had smoked down to a stub anyway.

Milford walked over to where the still-smoking butt lay and ground it out with the sole of his stout workman's brogan. Then he realized that he had smoked his own Husky Boy down almost to its end, and so he dropped it to the floor and ground it out also. When he looked up, Addison had just lighted up the hand-rolled cigarette with one of his paper matches.

"Rather an interesting flavor, and aroma," said Addison, exhaling, and flicking away his match. "Musky, with notes of old leather and dried apple."

"I think you're supposed to hold the smoke in for a while," said Milford.

"Indeed? For how long?"

"For as long as you can stand."

"Thanks for the tip, old boy."

Addison took another drag and held it in, while Milford walked over and stepped on the match Addison had just tossed to the floor, even though the match was extinguished, but he couldn't help himself. And why? Was he not able to control these absurd compulsions? Was he not able to control anything in his life? He glanced over at Addison, who was holding his breath, and Milford didn't know why, but he walked over and took the cigarette from Addison's fingers and took a great drag on it himself, ignoring or not caring about the end moistened with Addison's spittle, and so the two companions stood there, eyes wide open, holding in the smoke, and after a minute Addison exhaled, followed shortly by Milford, their two clouds of smoke mingling and merging in the still indoor air.

"Ah," said Addison.

"Yes," said Milford. "Ah."

"Shall we take another drag each?"

"Why not?"

What did it matter? What did anything matter?

They stood there, passing the cigarette back and forth, luxuriating in the madness they were submitting themselves to, in the strange ecstasy of the madness, feeling if not happy then indifferent to everything but this moment which seemed to stretch on forever, and not only forever but into the past and into a present which existed both in the future and the past, in some realm beyond time.

And, in time, if there was such a thing as time, five minutes later, or five years later, they had smoked the cigarette down to a nubbin, a red glowing nubbin in which was contained all the universe.

Addison stubbed out the nubbin on a button of his coat sleeve, and then dropped it into a side pocket of his top coat. It seemed somehow disrespectful just to toss the butt to the floor, and, besides, he thought, perhaps he could chew on it later, slowly, and then swallow it, and then this feeling he now felt would blossom forth from within himself to outside himself and he would become one with all the universe.

Without a word the two friends then floated randomly in one direction down the hallway, and on they floated, saying nothing, there was nothing to say, there was everything to say, and they turned a corner and came to a dark passage which they entered into without fear, and they floated through the darkness until the darkness grew less dark and then was replaced by dimness and still onward they floated.

Would they come to some sort of edge, or ledge, beyond which was a black and bottomless abyss, and if they did come to such an edge, or ledge, would they float over it, and then what would happen?

They didn't know.

And on they floated.

{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 Meaning of Life"

2025-08-21T11:56:00.002-04:00

"Let us start with Mr. Charrington," the tiny old man said to Addison.

"Me?" said Addison.

"Yes, please. Tell me of your life, such as it has been, not forgetting your hopes, your dreams, and of course your accomplishments."

"Well," said Addison, "for starters, I'm afraid my name isn't Charrington."

"Then may I ask why you said that it was?"

"Well, you see, I didn't actually say my name was Charrington, sir."

"Please, call me Happy, Mr. 'Charrington'."

"Happy," said Addison.

"That's better. So, you say your name is not really Chaffington. But I gather that is the name which you are, as they say, 'operating under'."

"Well, no, not actually –"

"Oh, I get it now."

"You do?"

"There's just something about your demeanor, your manner of speaking and your mode of dress. Am I wrong in guessing that you are a literary man, sir?"

"No," said Addison, "on that point I do plead guilty."

"A novelist, I daresay!"

"Yes, for my sins."

"I knew it! As soon as I saw that rumpled and worn flannel suit and the fedora looking like it's been through a war, I said to myself, 'Happy,' I says, 'there is a novelist if there ever was one!'"

"You have a most discerning eye, Happy," said Addison.

"Bleary my eye may be," said the old fellow, "clouded and cataracted and occluded with glaucoma as well, but I can still tell a novelist from any common chancer or pool parlour jackanapes. Chalk it up to a long lifetime, rich with experience and the observation of and intercourse with – I speak of social intercourse, not sexual, not that I am prejudiced against chaps of a bent bent, mind you – mankind. And also, to an admittedly lesser extent, womankind."

"Um," said Addison.

"And so we have established then that you are indeed a novelist and that Chadsworth is the latter part of your nom de plume. But what is the first and perhaps also middle part of it? I ask so that I may look for your works at my favorite bookshop."

"Um, uh, Bertram Collingswood," said Addison.

"So your full pen name is Bennett Coleman Hapsworth?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"And is there any particular favorite of your novels that you would suggest that I read?"

"Yes," said Addison. "You might want to try The Diary of an Illiterate, Volume One."

"Diary of an Inveterate Anglican?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"So it is a religious work."

"Somewhat, yes," said Addison. "Although I would call it more a philosophical work in its themes."

"Theosophical you say! Splendid. It's good to know that the young scribes of today do not shy away from spiritual matters. That it's not all rutting and rioting."

The old fellow now cast his illegible gaze at Milford.

"What about you, Milbert?"

"I write poems," said Milford. "With neither reason, purpose, nor rhyme."

"Poems of seasons, porpoises, and limes?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"And something tells me that they are quite good poems indeed."

"No, they're all pretty bad, actually."

"Of course your poems are sad. Life is sad. And then we die. You know, I think I can help you lads in your literary endeavors."

Neither Addison nor Milford said anything to this.

"Do you want to know how I can help you?" prodded the old man.

"Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison.

"Do I what?"

"Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison, almost shouting.

"Yes, of course I keep good company, although, alas, as you can see, it consists mostly of chaps with one foot – if not both of them – in their graves. It is such a delight to converse with two bright young fellows like yourselves, and so I am glad to impart my wisdom to you. Perhaps you will then avoid at least a modicum of the mistakes I have made, indeed that most men make. I mean if you want to hear it."

"Please, Happy," said Addison, "in the words of the bard of Avon, 'Unmuzzle your wisdom.'"

"Well, I don't know who this Bart O'Mahon is, but I will gladly share my wisdom, and indeed I shall tell you lads the meaning of life."

"Well, that's certainly a tall order, sir," said Addison.

"You can order a tall water if and when Lucullus ever arrives with our drinks. But shall I tell you?"

"What's that?" said Addison.

"Shall I tell you the meaning of life?"

"Oh, by all means, sir," said Addison.

The old man looked at Milford, or at least turned his withered face in Milford's direction.

"What about you, sonny? Want to know what it's all about, this whole dog and pony show we call life?"

"Yes, thank you," said Milford.

"Very well then," said Happy. "I will tell you. I will tell you both. No more fruitless searching, no more agonized midnight lucubrations, no more endless dark nights of the soul in the bright and harsh noonday sun. Save you both a lot of botheration and wasted time. Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"What about you, my poetic young friend?" he said in Milford's direction.

"I'm sorry, what?" said Milford, whose attention had wandered for some reason, or reasons.

"Do you want to know the meaning of life?" said Happy.

"Yes, please," said Milford.

"Then bend an ear my friends, and I shall tell you."

He paused. He looked at his pipe, which had gone out. In the background the room hummed with ancient conversations and monologues, and with the singing and playing of a forgotten song by the old piano player in the hazy blue light.

"The meaning of life," said the old man called Happy.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"The meaning," said the old man, again.

Addison said nothing now, wary of leading the witness.

Milford also said nothing. There was nothing to say, not that there ever was.

"Of life!" said Happy.

He paused again, but this time the pause did not end.

His little bald head bowed forward, and it was hard to tell, but it seemed that his eyes had closed.

"Is he dead?" asked Milford.

"Perhaps just asleep," said Addison.

"He doesn't seem to be breathing."

"Maybe he's so old that he doesn't need to breathe that much."

"I think we should leave," said Milford.

"But we have drinks coming," said Addison.

"Addison," said Milford. "There are other things in life besides free drinks."

"I know, but still," said Addison.

"If he's dead, do you want to sit here and drink with a dead old man?"

Addison paused. Was it so bad after all to drink with a dead old man?

"Maybe he'll wake up and tell us the meaning of life," he said.

"Maybe he won't wake up," said Milford.

Addison paused again.

"I can't believe I'm going to forfeit a free Falstaff and a shot of Cream of Kentucky."

"Look," said Milford, "you can stay if you want to, but I'm leaving."

"Oh, all right," said Addison.

"If it will make you feel better, I will buy you a beer and a shot when we get to where we're going."

"Really?"

"Yes, now please, let's leave."

"Very well."

They both stood up from their chairs.

The old man was still sitting there, his head slumped forward, his dead pipe still gripped in his tiny hand. Was it a death grip?

"Come on, Addison," said Milford.

"All right," said Addison, sadly, turning down free drinks for the first and no doubt last time in his life.

The two companions stepped away from the table and headed back in the direction of the door, breathing in the smells of smoke and old men and of wisdom unimparted, as the piano player sang and played his unknown song.

{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 League"

2025-08-07T14:11:00.001-04:00

It was a tavern, another one, or a club of some sort, dim and thick with smoke, and in the shadows were stuffed chairs with what looked like nothing but old men sitting in them, and tables and booths with old men sitting at them, and over to the right a long and crowded bar, and straight ahead on the other side of the room sat an old man in blue light at a grand piano singing a song from the turn of the century. The place smelled strongly of varieties of smoke, not only that of cigarettes, cigars and pipes, but also marijuana, hashish, and opium, but beneath these smells lay the odors of damp woolens, of galoshes in stuffy closets, of decaying lace in the dresser drawers of the houses of great-grandparents, of basements and attics filled with broken furniture and stacks of old newspapers and National Geographics.

Milford and Addison panted and sweated, standing there, as the old man smiled and looked up at them. His head was as hairless as a skeleton's, and he was dressed in an old three-piece grey suit, in the height of the fashions of the Gilded Age.

"Welcome to the League, gentlemen."

"The League?" said Addison.

"Yes, the League," said the little old man.

"And what League is this?" asked Addison.

"Guess," said the man.

"The Justice League of America?"

"Ha ha, no," chuckled the old fellow, taking out a pipe, and now looking at Milford, or presumably looking at him, as he wore glasses which seemed to be at least a half-inch thick, magnifying his eyes to the size of an elephant's and with the same inscrutable gaze. "How about you, young fellow?"

"Pardon me?" said Milford, absorbed in the dull horror of the old man's massively wrinkled face and goggled eyes.

"Guess what sort of League this is?"

"The League of the Damned?"

"Ha ha, quite risible, my youthful friend! Would you like to guess again?"

"No, thank you," said Milford.

The old man now swiveled his skull again towards Addison.

"What about you, my good man? One more guess?"

"Um, uh," said Addison.

"Guess correctly and you get to drink free the rest of the night," said the old guy, packing his pipe with ragged leaves from a cracked leather pouch.

"My friend too?"

"But of course!"

"Okay," said Addison. He looked from the old man to around the room, and then back again to the old fellow. "The League of Veterans of the Army of the Potomac?"

"By George!" said the old guy, "Close! Very close!"

"May I ignite your pipe, sir?" said Addison, drawing out his book of Bob's Bowery Bar matches.

"How gentlemanly of you!" cried the old man, and he allowed Addison to light his pipe, drawing in the smoke with wet rattling slurping noises.

Addison waved the match out.

"Is there an ashtray nearby?" he asked.

"Oh, just toss it to the floor, my good chap, we don't stand on ceremony here at the League."

Addison did as he had been urged, and noticed that the floor was already liberally littered with spent matches and butts of cigarettes and cigars.

"Nice place you've got here," he said, with a perfectly straight face. "Don't you think so, Milford?"

"Yeah, sure," said Milford.

"We really want to thank you for letting us in, mister," said Addison, taking out his pack of Chesterfields. "Don't we, Milford?"

"Yes," said Milford. "We appreciate it, sir."

"Think nothing of it," said the old man, puffing away on his pipe. "Who was it that was chasing you, anyway?"

"You should pardon the expression," said Addison, lighting up his Chesterfield, "but they were douchebags."

"Douchebags you say! From that douchebag bar round the way?"

"Yes, I suppose it was them," said Addison, flicking his match away.

"Nasty brutes. I suppose they tried to recruit you into their unholy ranks."

"Yes, they did," said Addison, exhaling his Chesterfield smoke with a resigned-seeming expression on his face.

"Damn their impudence! The most cursory glance could tell the discerning eye that you fellows are not douchebags."

"Well, thank you for saying that," said Addison.

"Not douchebags, nor cunts neither."

"Again, thank you," said Addison.

"But if you be not douchebags, or cunts, may I ask what you are?"

"That is a good question," said Addison.

The old guy turned his face of wrinkles toward Milford.

"What are you, young man?"

"Idiots," said Milford.

At this the old man took his pipe from his mouth and sputtered and hacked, his little body convulsing like a marionette whose puppeteer had gone mad.

"Are you all right, sir?" said Addison.

The old guy sputtered and spluttered and hacked some more, but then said, "Oh. Oh my. Oh dear."

"Would you like to sit down?" asked Milford.

"Sit down? Why?"

"In case you're having an attack of some sort."

"I wasn't having an attack," said the old guy. "I was merely laughing at your bon mot."

"Oh."

"'Idiots,' he says! Idiots! Oh my word. You are quite the scamp, my lad," he said to Milford.

"I was only speaking the truth," said Milford.

"Idiots!"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"I'll give you one more guess."

"Pardon me?" said Milford.

"One more guess as to what we are the League of."

"The League of People Banned From Other Leagues?"

Once again the old fellow fell victim to a fit of spluttering and coughing, to such an extent that a set of dentures flew from his mouth and fell clattering on the floor. Milford took his handkerchief from his jeans pocket, bent down and picked up the dentures with it, and offered them to the man, who was breathing heavily and snorting.

"Oh, thank you, my good chap," he mumbled toothlessly, and shoved the dentures back into his mouth without bothering to wipe them off. "I swear your witticisms will be the death of me, my boy."

"I will try to keep them to a minimum," said Milford.

"Oh dear, perhaps you better had. Very well. I will tell you lads where you have found yourselves. Welcome, I say to you young gentlemen, to the League of Little Old Men! Would you care for a libation?"

"Yes, thank you," said Addison.

"What about you, pal?" the man asked Milford.

"I don't drink."

"You don't? Why in heaven's name not?"

"I am an alcoholic."

"But you're a mere stripling!"

"Yes, but I started young," said Milford.

"What about a sody pop then?"

"Sure, that would be nice, thank you."

"Splendid," said the old guy. "Please accompany me, if you will."

The old guy turned and walked, slowly, one step at a time, past three or four tables at which elderly men sat, some of them playing cards, others just sitting drinking and smoking, past a smaller table at which two old geezers played chess, or at any rate stared at a chess board, then finally to an arrangement of three cushioned arm chairs ranged around a low round table. He climbed up on one chair, and looked at Addison and Milford, waving a tiny hand.

"Please, gentlemen, be seated."

Our friends sat, Milford to the right of the old man, Addison to the left.

Milford took out his pack of Husky Boys. If ever there was a time to smoke, and a necessity to smoke, this was it.

"My name, by the way," said the old guy, "is William Henry Harrison Happington. But, please, call me Happy."

"Pleased to meet you, uh, Happy," said Addison. There were three ashtrays on the table, all of them with ashes and the stubs of cigars and cigarettes in them, and he drew one closer and tapped his Chesterfield ash into it. "This is my good friend Milford," he said, nodding to Milford, "and my name is –"

"Mildred you say?" said the old guy.

"No, Happy," said Addison. "Not Mildred, but Milford."

"I did not think he was a member of the female persuasion," said Happy, "but one can never be quite sure, can one?"

"No, I suppose not," said Addison.

"At least not until you get him or her into the bedroom, ha ha!"

"Uh, yes, I suppose that's true," said Addison.

"Not that I've gotten anyone into a bedroom for many years myself."

"Well, uh," said Addison.

"And what is your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"Well, all my friends call me Addison, but –"

"Happington, you say? I wonder if we are related. Are you by any chance the great grandson of my nephew James Buchanan Happington?"

"Um, no, you see I said Addison, not Happington, sir."

"Please, call me Happy."

"Sure, 'Happy'."

"So you say your name is Farrington? Any relation to the Farringtons of Grosse Pointe?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so –"

"Thank God. A most unfortunately decadent clan, if I do say so. Ah! Our noble manservant."

Another tiny old man was standing there, in a tuxedo, holding a tray, and with a dirty towel over one arm.

"Drinks, gentlemen?"

"Yes, Lucullus," said Happy. "Bring us three glasses of Falstaff lager, please, and a round of Creams of Kentucky."

"Coming right up, Happy," said the old man apparently called Lucullus, and he turned and hobbled slowly away.

Happy smiled at Addison and Milford, or at any rate stretched out the ends of his thin pale lips.

"With any luck," he said, "we will have our libations within the hour. But in the meantime, let us smoke, and get to know one another, and talk."

Milford lighted up a Husky Boy with his Ronson. Somehow the old man had forgotten, or neglected, or chosen not to order him a soft drink. It had been very hard to be an alcoholic, and it was proving just as hard, if not infinitely more so, to be a recovering one.

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