"I Can Explain Everything”

Another sad but true tale of  la vie de la bohème, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions, inc.

This episode sponsored by Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"Need to give your smoke-caked lungs a little break? Try Husky Boy 'Fire-Cured' Chewing Tobacco, now available in Mild, Strong, or Super Strong!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "searing"* new novel The Back Alleys of Dawn

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

There were only two empty seats at the bar. "Oh, splendid," said Miss Alcott. "Available real estate." Still gripping Milford's arm in hers, she pulled him toward the empty stools. "Listen, Miss Alcott –" She stopped.  "No, you listen, buster. I'm not going to say a word to you, or listen to a word from your prevaricant mouth, until we are seated." "Okay," said Milford, humbled. Soon enough they were seated, but not before Milford almost fell off of his stool as Miss Alcott watched. He tried again, and this time successfully settled his narrow posterior on the cracked leather of the stool, which had no back, and so he knew he must be careful. "I was just about to ask you if you're quite all right," she said, "but then it immediately occurred to me how ridiculous that question would be." Milford had no response to this, or at least none he could summon at the moment. Miss Alcott reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out her pack of Lucky Strikes, shook one out, and placed it between her lips, which Milford noticed were ruby red against the vellum paleness of her face. Suddenly he remembered his manners and, after patting his pockets hurriedly, he found his lighter, clicked it seven times, and lighted her cigarette. "Thank you," she said, exhaling a plume of smoke just to the right of Milford's head. "You're welcome," he said. "Yours has gone out," she said. "My what?" he said. "That enormous reefer you're holding in your left hand." "Oh," said Milford. He stared at the fat brown hand-rolled cigarette, not even half-smoked. "I thought," he said, and there his thought and his words slipped into nothingness. "You thought what?" she said. "Okay," said the voice of Milford's interior alter ego, "get your shit together now, or you're on your own. Now take a breath and say something before she slaps you." Milford took a breath. "I thought you disapproved of my smoking reefers," he managed to say. "Why do you care if I disapprove or not?" she said. "Dear God, boy, don't let me stop you." "Okay," said his alter ego, self-named "Stoney", in his brain, "show her you're a man and light that bad boy up!" This time after only six clicks he got his lighter alight and he put the flame to the fat cigarette and drew deeply, filling his lungs. "There ya go," said Stoney, "hold it in good now." Milford held it in, looking deep into Miss Alcott's eyes as he did so, those eyes which he noticed for the first time were an autumnal marbled brown, like the eyes of an inquisitive squirrel. "Keep holding it in," said Stoney. "If you're going to smoke, smoke like a man, and don't just puff like some milquetoast poseur." Milford held the smoke in, and all around him he heard the laughing and shouting of the dark-skinned revelers, and he could hear the man singing into his microphone over the music of the combo: Mama got a washboard,  Pappy got a gun, Grandpa got some whiskey,  he's the seventh son  of a seventh son of a son of a gun… Milford felt, almost, as if he could hold in the smoke forever. "But you can't," said Stoney, "so you can let it out now, but nice and slow." And after pausing for another moment, just to prove to himself that he had some personal agency, he let the smoke out, slowly, as Miss Alcott watched him. "Feel better now?" she said, after a moment. And Milford realized that he did feel better, as if he were coming to the surface after swimming underwater, into a sparkling world full of promise and possibility.  "I do, actually," he said. "And is this you talking," she said, "or is it this supposed inner voice of yours, this 'Stoney' character?" Milford did a quick survey of the contents of his skull before answering the question. In fact Stoney seemed to be gone. Gone forever? Who was to say? "No," he said, "it's me, or as much me as I can be." She said nothing to this gnomic reply, but turned to the bartender who was standing there, as if amused. "Oh, hello, Clyde," she said. "How are you?" "Pretty good, Miss Lou."  He was a large Negro man with a shaven skull, and he glanced at Milford. "Oh, Clyde, this is Milford. Hope you don't mind that he's smoking a reefer at your bar, but in his defense Jelly Roll gave it to him." "If Jelly Roll gave it to him he must be okay," said the man. "Actually," said Milford, "this isn't a reefer, per se, I think. If I recall correctly, Jelly Roll told me it's a mixture of Bull Durham tobacco, Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum. I'm not really sure of what any of those ingredients are except for the tobacco and the laudanum." "Well," said the bartender named Clyde, "I don't think we need to be excessively pedantic, but the inclusion of the Acapulco gold and Panama red, which are strains of marijuana, and quite good ones I would add, should justify calling the smoke a reefer. What may I get you two fine white folks?" "I wonder, Clyde, if you might have a decent sherry back there," said Miss Alcott. "Miss Lou," said Clyde, "I got a bottle of fine aged Amontillado on hand that I have been keeping exclusively just for your own delectation and no one else's." "How sweet of you, Clyde," said Miss Alcott. "I'll have an Amontillado then, straight, no ice, if you please." "And for the gentleman?" said Clyde. "Well, Clyde," said Milford, "here's the thing. I am an alcoholic, and so I shouldn't drink at all; however, through weakness of character I have had I don't know how many drinks tonight – whiskey, wine, beer, ale, and God only knows what else, not to mention this 'reefer', and others before it, as well as hashish, and the sacred mushrooms of the Native Americans, oh, and also some sarsaparilla that turned out to be spiked with ambrosia, the mystical nutriment of the ancient Greek gods, and, so, I don't really know if I should–" "How about a nice tall glass of sweet tea then?" said Clyde. "Thank you," said Milford. "Sorry if I was getting a bit longwinded there." "Hey, I'm a bartender, man. I'm used to people telling me their boring life stories." "Well, I apologize anyway," said Milford. "I think if I had your job I would go insane." "I think sometimes I am insane," said the man. "Let me get those libations for you and Miss Lou." He went away. "I like that guy," said Milford. "Yeah, Clyde's a Joe," said Miss Alcott. Milford took another, smaller drag on the brown cigarette, and Miss Alcott took a drag on her Lucky Strike. "All right," said Milford. "You can let me have it now." Miss Alcott paused before speaking. "You know, I fully intended to let you have it, Milford. To – in the parlance of the younger generation – rip you a new one, for telling me earlier that you were tired and simply had to go home and go to bed, and then, lo and behold, a half hour later I find you instead in here, carousing with Whitman and Jelly Roll and that Blackbourne woman. But you know what? Now I just don't feel like it." "I can explain. I can explain everything." "Please do." And so, as men have been doing since they lived in caves, Milford explained. In the meantime, Clyde brought Miss Alcott's Amontillado and Milford's tall glass of sweet tea, with ice and a sprig of fresh mint, a slice of lemon on the brim and with a flexible straw. The recitation took only just over five minutes, because Milford didn't want to bore Miss Alcott, and so he kept to the highlights. "And there you have it," he said, at last, stirring his tea, which he had barely sipped. "That's how I wound up here. Instead of going home." "And so," she said, "you are like a leaf, blown this way and that, hither and yon." "Yes," he said.  "I wonder," she said, "and please feel free to tell me it's none of my business, but have you ever in your obviously tortured if pampered life been kissed by a member of the female gender?" Now it was Milford's turn to pause. "Do you mean by a member of the female gender to whom I am not related, by blood?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "Your mother or grandmother or aunts or great aunts don't count." "In that case," said Milford, "the answer is no." Miss Alcott paused again, and then she put the cigarette she was smoking into the ashtray that was there on the bar, then put her hand on the back of Milford's head and drew it towards her face and those inquisitive dun brown eyes and slightly parted ruby red lips.

"Quite the Player"

Another sad tale of  la vie de la bohème, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions, inc.

This episode sponsored by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

"Be a man, boy, and smoke Husky Boys!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery A Dame By Any Other Name*

*"Had me so enthralled that I missed my subway stop." – Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat


for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

"I'm very surprised to see you here, Milford," said Miss Alcott. "Oh, um, uh," replied Milford. "What's that your smoking there?" "This?" said Milford, holding up the thick brown cigarette. "Yes," said Miss Alcott. "That. It doesn't look like one of your Husky Boys. You know, the Husky Boys I gave you a quarter to buy from the machine? Because you didn't have any change and were about to cry because you were too timid just to go over to the bartender and ask him for change?" "Uh, yes, no, well, this is, uh –" "That looks like a reefer to me." "Well, okay," said Milford, "heh heh, yes, I guess it is sort of a reefer, that's true, but Mr. Jelly Roll over there handed it to me, and, uh–" "Hi, Jelly Roll," said Miss Alcott, addressing Jelly Roll. "Howya doing, Lou?" said Jelly Roll. "Oh, I'm doing fine, Jelly Roll," she said. "So are you corrupting our young Master Milford with your drug-laced cigarettes?" "Hey, Lou," said Jelly Roll, "ain't nobody forced the boy to smoke my special hand roll." "Oh, I'm sure you didn't twist his arm, Jelly Roll. And you, Walter," she said, turning to Mr. Whitman, "I suppose you've been sharing your hashish with the lad as well?" "Aw, lookit now, Lou," said Mr. Whitman, "a little hash never hurt anybody. How do you think I write all my poems?" "Hello, Margaret," said Miss Alcott to Miss Blackbourne. "Don't look at me, Lou," said Miss Blackbourne, "all I did was buy him a pot of good Assam tea." "Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Miss Alcott. She turned to Milford again. "I wonder if we could have a word, Milford." "Um, sure," said Milford. "I mean in private. That is if your friends can spare you." "Uh, okay?" "Splendid." Milford nervously took another drag of the fat brown cigarette. The music from the combo roared through his head, along with the shouting and laughter of the dark-skinned people all around him, and the furious stomping of the feet of the dancers on the dance floor. "Well?" said Miss Alcott. "Yes?" said Milford. Mr. Whitman tilted his great hairy head toward Milford's small head. "Lou wants you to get up, Mel, and go with her." "Oh," said Milford. "Ha ha," said Jelly Roll. "Oh dear lord," said Miss Blackbourne. "Um," said Milford. "Take your time, Milford," said Lou. "Oh, I'm sorry," said Milford, standing up abruptly, and almost knocking his chair over, but fortunately Mr. Whitman grabbed it in time.  "I, uh," said Milford, addressing Jelly Roll, Miss Blackbourne, and Mr. Whitman, "if you will excuse me –" "Are you ready now?" said Miss Alcott. "Yes," said Milford. He suddenly realized he still held Jelly Roll's cigarette. "Oh, Mister, uh, Roll, here's your cigarette back –" "Take it, my man," said Jelly Roll, "I think you might need it." "Oh, okay, thanks," said Milford. "Let's go," said Miss Alcott. "Where are we going?" said Milford. "Just someplace we can talk in private." "Oh, okay –" he said. "Hey, Milford," said Jelly Roll. "Yes?" said Milford.  "Good luck, my man." "I think he might need more than luck," said Miss Blackbourne. "Ha ha, quite risible, Margaret!" said Mr. Whitman. He put his great hand on Milford's arm. "Be strong, my lad," he said, in a stage whisper. "Women love a dominant man." "Oh, fuck off, Walter," said Miss Alcott. "What would you know about women?" "Oh. Wow," said Mr. Whitman. "Bam," said Jelly Roll. "Ha ha, well said, Lou," said Miss Blackbourne. "Gee, Lou," said Mr. Whitman, "I mean, I know a little about women –" "Yes, a little," said Miss Alcott. "Come on, Milford."  She put her arm in Milford's, and pulled him away. "Okay," said Jelly Roll, "now what the hell was that all about?" "Apparently," said Miss Blackbourne, "our young Milford is quite the player." "I could be wrong," said Mr. Whitman, "but I think Miss Alcott was a little upset." "Oh, really, you think so, Walt?" said Miss Blackbourne. "Ha ha," said Jelly Roll, "young Milford gonna get his ass whooped." "Do him good," said Miss Blackbourne. They watched as Miss Alcott pulled Milford through the tables, through the laughing and shouting people and the crashing of the combo and swirling clouds of smoke, and towards the crowded bar. "Now you're in for it," said that voice in Milford's head, the voice of his alter ego, called Stoney, whom he hadn't heard from for a while. "Can you help me?" said Milford. "I'll try," said Stoney. "But just look at what I have to work with here. I mean really." "Please try," said Milford. "I'll do my best, but you've got to do your part too." "Okay, I'll try," said Milford. Miss Alcott stopped, which meant that Milford stopped too, abruptly. "Who are you talking to?" she said. "No one," said Milford, his eyes darting away from hers. "You were talking to that voice in your brain again, weren't you?" "Well, uh, yes –" "Your supposed alter ego." "Yes." "What was his name? Rocky?" "Stoney, actually." "Stoney." "Yes," said Milford, glancing at her face, and then quickly transferring his vision to the floor, littered as it was with the butts of cigarettes and cigars, and even, alarmingly, what seemed to be a used condom. "Please look at me when I'm talking to you, unless you find the planking of this floor to be of surpassing interest." Reluctantly Milford looked at Miss Alcott. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to, or, I, uh –" What didn't he mean? Had he ever meant anything in his whole life? "The answer to that is a resounding no," said Stoney, in his head. "Oh, never mind, just come on," said Miss Alcott, and she resumed pulling Milford, and perforce Stoney, in the direction of the crowded bar. "Okay, here's my first tip," said Stoney. "You want to hear it?" Milford was about to say yes, but Stoney cut him off. "My first tip is that when you're talking to me, don't talk out loud." "Oh," said Milford. "Okay." Miss Alcott stopped again, stopping Milford. "What?" she said. "Nothing," said Milford. "You were talking to that voice again, weren't you?" "Yes," said Milford. "Jesus Christ," said Stoney, and this time Milford remembered to reply silently, saying, "Sorry, sorry," to his alter ego. Miss Alcott said nothing, but resumed pulling Milford toward the bar. "Do me a favor, Milford," said Stoney, in Milford's brain. "Don't be sorry. Just try not to be an idiot. Do you think you can manage that?" Milford chose not to answer the question, because in principle he hated to lie any more than was absolutely necessary.>

"John the Conqueroo"

Another sad but true tale of  la vie de la bohème, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions, inc.

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"When I embark on one of my speaking tours, I always make sure to pack at least a half-dozen cartons of Husky Boy™ cigarettes (unfiltered King Size by personal preference) in my trusty old Gladstone bag!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the critically-lauded* Love Songs of a Lush

*"A strikingly original collection of barroom-and-brothel ballads from one of our pre-eminent 'bawdy bards'." – Flossie Flanagan, the New York Federal-Democrat 


for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

"Ha ha," said Mr. Whitman, as the music of the combo crashed all around them, and the dancers on the dance floor thrashed and stomped, "charming, yes, well, then, I suppose I will have a great brimming tankard of Ballantine Ale then, thank you." "Fabulous," said the lady. She wrote something on her pad with a pencil, and then looked at Miss Blackbourne. "How about you, missy?" "I'll take a shot of bourbon, any kind, and a beer, any kind," said Miss Blackbourne. "How's about an Early Times and a Rheingold?" "Bring it on," said Miss Blackbourne, "and keep them coming." "I like the way your brain works," said the lady, writing something on her pad. "What's your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?" "Margaret Blackbourne," said Miss Blackbourne. "You look like one of them lost poet ladies," said the lady. "Guilty as charged," said Miss Blackbourne. "Ain't nothing wrong with it," said the lady. "It's a living," said Miss Blackbourne. "Or should I say a dying. Your name is Polly Ann?" "Yes, ma'am," said the lady. "I think we could and should be friends," said Miss Blackbourne. "May I address you as Polly Ann?" "Sure," said Polly Ann. "It's a hell of a lot better than Hey You." "And please call me Margaret." "You got it, Miss Margaret." "And, dear Polly Ann, if we are to be friends, I humbly ask you to omit the Miss, and just call me Margaret." "Sure, Margaret. I ain't never been friends with a white lady before." "It's not that big a deal, believe me." "I believe you," said Polly Ann. She turned to Jelly Roll. "Corn, Jelly?" "You know me all too well, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll, who was rolling a cigarette, and she wrote something on her pad.  "Y'all want to hear tonight's food specials now, or you want me to bring the drinks first?" "Drinks first, please, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll. "Be right back," said Polly Ann. "Um," said Milford. "You talking to me, cracker?" "Yes," said Milford, "excuse me, miss, but–" "Call me Polly Ann." "Polly Ann, then, I would like to order some sarsaparilla if you have it." She stared down at him. "You're Mr. Milford, right?" "Yes, but please, just call me Milford." "Swell, well, here's the thing, Milford, we don't got sarsaparilla." "Well, do you have anything non-alcoholic?" "We got sweet tea." "Fine, I should like a sweet tea then." "Here's the other thing though," said Polly Ann. "John Henry told me to bring you a complimentary jar of corn." "A jar of corn?"  "Yes." "Is this like boiled corn?" "No, white boy, it's corn liquor, and we serve it in eight-ounce or pint jars, and John Henry told me to bring you a pint jar." "And this corn liquor, is it an alcoholic beverage?" "Yeah, but we cut it with branch water, so it ain't more than a hunnert proof." "Oh, my God, I can't drink that." "Why not?" "I am an alcoholic, and if I drink a pint of that I'll be falling down drunk, and I'll wind up passed out in an alleyway, and it's snowing out. I could die." "You could die just walking across the street, run over by a coal wagon drove by a coal man drunk on corn liquor." "I realize that, but still –" "You're gonna hurt John Henry's feelings you turn it down," said Polly Ann. "Melfrydd," said Mr. Whitman, "I don't think you want to hurt John Henry's feelings. We are guests here, after all, and you don't want these good people to think you're racially prejudiced." "No, but, really," said Milford, "I've already had several drinks tonight, more than several actually, when I shouldn't even have had one, not to mention the marijuana, and the mushrooms, and the, that stuff in your pipe –" Mr. Whitman was smoking his pipe again. "It's a mixture of fine Kentucky burley and Lebanese hashish," said Mr. Whitman, "would you like some more?" "No!" said Milford.  "Here, Milford," said Jelly Roll, and he proffered the fat cigarette he had just lighted up with a Zippo lighter. "Smoke this, it'll mellow you out." Without thinking Milford took the cigarette, and took a drag from it. "Oh, no," he said, "I forgot." "Wudja forget, sonny?" said Polly Ann. "I forgot that these cigarettes of Jelly Roll's contain drugs." "Well, at least they don't contain alcohol, right?" "Yes," said Milford, "there's that at least," and again without thinking, no doubt because of all the alcohol and drugs he had already consumed over the present long evening's journey into oblivion, he took a second drag on the cigarette. "Tell you what, honey boy," said Polly Ann, "I'll bring you a nice big jar of sweet tea, okay?" "Oh!" said Milford, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "Sweet tea, yes, that would be nice, thank you very much, miss." "Polly Ann." "Thank you, Polly Ann," said Milford. "And just a small jar of corn liquor on the side," she said. "Oh," said Milford. "Uh, thank you." "You're welcome, Milford," said Polly Ann, and she turned and walked away. "Hey, Mel," said Mr. Whitman. "Don't worry. If you don't want your corn liquor, I'll drink it." "Thank you," said Milford, so maybe he would survive this night after all, and he took another drag of the fat cigarette, and became intensely aware of the music the combo was playing, and the stomping and swirling of the dancers on the dance floor. People were shouting through the music and the smoke and the stomping of the dancers, "Go, daddy, go!" Other people shouted, "Shake that thang!" Someone else shouted, "Shake it, mama, don't break it!" A man sang into a microphone, "I got a wang dang doodle, I got a John the Conqueroo, look out pretty mama, I'm gonna rock with you…" What did it matter? thought Milford. What did any of it matter? This was life, after all, it must be life, and was not life meant to be lived? Someone or something tapped his shoulder, and Milford turned his head. "Hello, you." It took him only a second to realize who it was, which was Louisa May Alcott, or at least the woman who said she was Louisa May Alcott, and who was he to say any different? "Oh," he said, coughing great jagged clouds of hot thick smoke, "hello."