Wednesday, November 20, 2024

"Home"


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

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

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Cigarettes

"Husky Boys are not just for boys!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of the smash new stage comedy from Horace P. Sternwall That Gal From Poughkeepsie, now playing at the Demotic Theatre (group rates available)

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here





Through the thick falling snow Addison trudged, not without difficulty, so deep was the fallen snow on the sidewalk. It was a shame he was not wearing stout knee-high Wellington boots such as his mother had outfitted him with as a child, no, alas, all he wore were the same old brogans he had acquired when he first went to work at the parachute factory during the war, in lieu of military service because of his flat feet, knock knees, and heart murmur, and, to boot, what the Selective Service doctor had called his "psychological fragility". 


No matter, soon he would be in his favorite place, that place called "bar". And with a whole ten dollars to spend! It was good of his "friend" Milford to have given him the money, even if Addison had failed to use it for its intended purpose, i.e., to disencumber himself of the burden of his virginity. 

But hadn't Bubbles been willing to relieve him of that burden? It wasn't her fault, poor girl, that she had fallen asleep. She had doubtless had a long day, and a long night, and many drinks after all. Of course Addison also had had many drinks, but he was a man, hang it all, yes, despite all his faults, 


he was still a man, and even if he had flat feet and knock knees and whatever "psychological fragility" was, oh, and a murmuring heart, that proud heart which had not failed him yet, despite all the drinks and cigarettes and poor diet and lack of healthful exercise, no, someday of course it would fail him, and probably the way he was going sooner than later, but as of this moment he was alive, hang and damn it all, breathing in the wet freezing air through his dribbling nose and panting mouth, the fat snowflakes striking his face and wetting his lips,


and, after consideration, wasn't Bubbles's intention to make the beast with two backs with him almost as good as what the reality of it might have been? And what if he had lost his tumescence before he could complete the act? How embarrassing might that have been! And would Bubbles still have charged him the full ten, or would she have let it go, or at least given him a discount? 

No matter again, that was all in the distant past of possible pasts, and now was the eternal now, trudging along through the snow both falling and fallen, and now, what was this?

Addison ceased his trudging, brought to a standstill by a throbbing reddish electric sign to his left, a sign that glowed the one sacred word 

What was this?


It was that most joyful of undiscovered worlds, that world most brimming with promise, in short a bar he had never (at least that he could remember) gone into before.

How had he gotten here, to the verge of this potentially brave new world?

He turned around, to his right, and looked across the street, and there, through the unrelenting falling snow, he saw that other beckoning neon sign, in large vertical letters


B
A
R

That sacred sign of the Kettle of Fish! And, turning ninety degrees farther to the right, he saw that other holy electric sign, that of the 

S
A
N

R
E
M
O

CAFE


He completed his turn full circle and gazed again at the Rheingold sign. It stood in a snow-crusted glass-brick window to the right of a doorway down four or five steps in a dim areaway, the light of the sign tinging pink the sloped smooth snow that covered the steps and the paving below. 

What strange mysterious bar was this, hidden away below ground on MacDougal Street? A bar with no name, unless of course its name was "Rheingold", which Addison somehow doubted. No, this was that special sort of bar, the sort of bar that didn't need anything so vulgar as a sign bearing its name. No, this was one of those bars known only to those who knew, the few, and like the U.S. Marines, the proud. 


He remembered now seeing this selfsame Rheingold sign from across the street, when he and Bubbles had emerged from the Kettle of Fish not twenty minutes ago (although, in a sense, it felt like twenty years ago). Why had he never noticed this sign, this place before? Had it even existed before this night? So many hundreds, nay, thousands of bars had he gone into in his life, how had this one escaped him? 

Well, hang it, damn it, and, yes, blast it all, this mystery-bar wouldn't escape him now!


There was a snow-ridged handrail going downwards into the areaway, and Addison used it with his ungloved hand, gripping it tight as he went slowly down the steps, invisible under their hillock of snow. He stumbled once, then twice, but managed not to fall, and in less than a minute he stood before the door, of old-looking raw wood, and he put his hand on the curved iron handle and depressed its thumb-catch, and, yes, the door opened, and from inside burst that most beautiful world of all worlds: bar world, with dim lights and thick smoke, and laughing and shouting people, and the music of a jukebox.


Inside Addison stood, gathering his bearings.

A fat bald man in an old-fashioned tweed suit with a stiff-collared shirt stood up from a stool at the end of the bar on the right, and approached, a cigar in hand.

"I say, young fellow, how about closing that door behind you, unless, and in which case I retroactively forgive you, you were brought up in a barn."

"Oh, sorry," said Addison, and he turned and pulled the door shut.


"Perhaps you assumed," said the fat man, "that our door was equipped with one of those modern pneumatic door-closing devices."

"No," said Addison, "I assumed nothing. I merely was too awe-stricken to notice that the door was still open."

"Awe-stricken?" said the fat man. "By our humble caravansary?"

"Yes, sir," said Addison, "because something tells me, something deep in my soul –"


"Ah!" said the man. "So you believe in the soul, do you? A traditionalist!"

"Yes, sir," said Addison, "I do, and I am. But, as I was saying, something deep in my soul tells me that this bar, of all bars, in this or any other possible universe, is the most special bar of all."

"I like the cut of your jib, my lad," said the man. "However, this establishment is a private one."

"Oh," said Addison. "Just my luck. Well, no matter, I should have known better. I guess I'll just have to go back across the street, to the Kettle of Fish, that's not such a bad place –"


"If I may interrupt," said the man, "I said private, but not exclusive. You may indeed still perhaps enjoy our hospitality, with all the privileges incumbent thereunto –"

"If it's a question of money, I have in my possession a ten-dollar bill, but –"

"Please, sir, let us not speak of such base matters as 'money'. We have members who are millionaires, and others who have rarely a penny in their purses, nor a pot to piss in; no, it is not through filthy lucre that one becomes a member of our society, but through nobility of the spirit, of the soul, as soi-disant traditionalists such as yourself would call that invisible je ne sais quoi which distinguishes man from beast."


"If I may venture, sir, I have always tried to behave as befits the noble of soul."

"I'm glad to hear it, m'boy, however it is I who will be the judge of the quantity and, more important, the quality of any nobility you might possess. And, so, to the point, a few questions. Are you an artist, sir, no matter be it in the realms of letters or oils or granite, or in any of the performing arts?"

"I am a novelist," said Addison.

"Published?"


"Not yet. You see, I am still in the beginning stages of what I hope to be my magnum opus, a saga of the Old West, which I am calling Six Guns to El Paso."

"Hmm, sounds delightful," said the man. "But, please tell me, what are the themes of this proposed masterpiece."

"The futility of all human endeavor is my primary theme," said Addison, "but I hope also to delve deeply into those of the hopelessness of human life, the impossibility of understanding existence, and the fear of oblivion. I should like also to touch on the topic of human love, both platonic and, shall we say, concupiscent."


"Good answer," said the man. "One more question: what do you most love to do in this life."

"To sit or stand at a bar," said Addison, without hesitation, "drinking alcoholic beverages, and speaking nonsense, while listening, or pretending to listen, to the nonsense of others."

"You have answered all my questions admirably, and so I welcome you to our establishment. My name is James, Henry my Christian name, perhaps you've heard of me."

"James Henry?"

"Flip it around."

"Henry James?" said Addison. "Why yes, of course I have heard of you, and I have read and admired your work all my life."


"Oh, splendid, so nice to hear this from a member of the younger generation, usually so 'hepped up' on these newer upstarts like James Branch Cabell and Booth Tarkington."

"Not a patch on you, sir."

"Any favorites?"

"Favorite what?"

"Favorites from among my oeuvre."

"Well, let me see, that's hard to say," said Addison, which it was, because he had never been able to finish anything by the man, not even a short story.


"I do hope you're not one of those who find my later works, and I quote, 'difficult'."

"Not at all," said Addison. "I love your later works."

"Thank you," said the fat man. "And your name, sir?"

"Oh, just call me Addison, Mr. James, everyone else does."

"Addison it is, then. May I press your hand, sir?"

"Of course," said Addison, and he took the fat man's hand, which was warm, and damp.


"My, your hand is cold, sir, like that of a marble statue in one of the cinquecento colonnades of Florence!"

"Yes, it is rather gelid outside, and I seem incapable of not losing gloves."

"We must warm you up! Allow me to welcome you to our little confraternity with a complimentary tankard of our proprietary hot spiced grog."

"Sounds great, sir," said Addison. 


The fat man took his arm, and led him toward the bar, which was crowded with laughing and shouting people. The whole place was crowded, with laughing people, shouting people, with smoke and music.

Mr. James brought them to two empty stools at the end of the bar, and gestured to Addison to take one, which he did, without falling over, and Mr. James took the adjoining stool.

"By the way, Mr. James," said Addison. "What is the name of this delightful place?"

"Valhalla," said Mr. James.

"Valhalla," repeated Addison.

So, at long last, he had found it.

He was home.

Wednesday, November 13, 2024

“Perfumes and Chocolates"


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

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

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ family of fine tobacco products

"Ever get that antsy feeling at odd times of the day or night, where you feel that all of life is just one big joke and you're the butt of it? Well, why not do what I do, and light up a Husky Boy cigarette and watch all your misgivings disappear in a cloud of delicious smoke!"
– Horace P. Sternwall, author of the smash new bestseller Next Stop, Satori: Essays and Expostulations, with a Foreword by Lord Richard Buckley 

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here





"And so you see, Mr. Stevens," said Addison, "in my view, the primary duty of the poet of today is not just to express the personal despair of his paltry existence, but the despair of the universe which gave birth to itself out of an overwhelming sense of boredom at its own previous nonexistence, that is to say, in a sense, but a very real sense, it was so bored that it could conquer its boredom only by compounding it, and this I think is the essential theme of my novel in progress, which I would love for you to read–"


"Hey, Patcherman," said Bubbles, who was sitting to Addison's right.

"Yes, dear Bubbles," said Addison, turning.

"The guy's passed out, so you can save the blather."

Addison turned to look, and, indeed, the large man's chin rested on his chest, and his eyes were closed like those of an enormous sleeping infant.

"Oh, a pity," said Addison. "I felt I was on the verge, too, of some profound insight."


"Yeah, well, save it for later, pal. Come on, I need my beauty sleep."

"Perhaps just one more for the road?"

"Not unless you want to carry me out of here."

"Oh, very well."

The combo was still blowing and crashing away, the people all around them still laughing and shouting, and one sad strangled voice suddenly shouted, "Go, man, go! Don't stop now, daddy-o!"


Addison raised a finger and caught the bartender's attention.

"Sir, are we all paid up here?"

"Mr. Stevens got all them rounds, buddy," said the bartender.

"Oh, splendid," said Addison, "and I did leave a tip earlier, did I not?"

"Yes, sir, if I recall it was sixty-five cents, and very generous of you at that."

"Let's go, Adelbert," said Bubbles. 


Addison took out his wallet and opened it. Inside was a ten dollar bill and two singles. He removed the two singles and proffered them to the bartender.

"Please add these to your hope chest," he said.

"I will do that," said the bartender, taking the two dollars. 

"Come on, big spender," said Bubbles.

It was true, Addison had never tipped a bartender so much in all his life, but then hadn't Mr. Stevens bought them three Hennessy VSOPs apiece?


Addison and Bubbles had never removed their coats and hats when the large gentleman had offered to buy them cognacs, and so now they both dismounted from their stools, grabbing onto each other as they did so.

And the beauty of it all was that Addison still had that beautiful ten-dollar bill in his wallet, and he knew just how he was going to spend it, too.

As drunk as they both were, Bubbles nevertheless looked magnificent in her red fur-like pillbox hat, her red coat, her matching shiny red purse over her shoulder, with her red lips and her dark eyes.


"You look magnificent, dear Bubbles," said Addison.

"Yeah, right," she said. "Let's barrel."

She took his arm, and off they forged to the entrance and out the door where they stood for a moment in the areaway, illuminated by the vertical neon letters in the window to their right which spelled the word BAR, and the snow still fell heavily down on the whiteness of MacDougal Street, and across the vague swirling street was another electric light, an orange one spelling the word RHEINGOLD.


"Rheingold!" said Addison. "What a beautiful word! Should we cross over there and each have a nice tall beaded pilsner glass of the golden beer of the Rheinland, just to wash down that delicious Hennessy?"

"No, you fool, you can if you want to, but if I have anything more to drink I'll explode."

"Oh, very well," said Addison, suddenly remembering what he wanted to save that ten dollars for anyway.

And so off they trudged through the falling gusting snow and through the fallen foot-deep snow on the sidewalk.


Down at the corner when they reached the entrance of the San Remo glowing orange and red with its own neon sign, Addison suggested another nightcap again, but once more Bubbles was adamant in her refusal. 

Another stumbling trudging half block down Bleecker and they were at the snow-humped stoop of her building.

"Thanks, pal," said Bubbles. "Go right home now."

"Oh, Bubbles."

"Yeah, what?"


"Bubbles, I still have ten dollars left."

"Good for you."

"I wonder if I might, that is if you're not too tired."

"What?"

"Well, do you still charge ten dollars for a 'throw', as you call it?"

"You want to pay for a throw?"

"Yes, and gladly, but only if you're, you know, not too tired."


"So you're finally ready to graduate from the three-buck Baltimore handshake?"

"Yes, I think so."

"You kill me, Albertson. Where'd you get all that moolah, anyway? I never saw you buy so many drinks before."

"My friend Milford gave me a twenty."

"That was generous of him."

"Yes, it was."

"Why'd he give it to you?"


"May I be honest?"

"Sure."

"I told him I had never actually committed the, shall we say, 'act of darkness' with a woman, and so he gave me twenty so I could, you know –"

"Get a throw from me."

"Yes."

"But I only charge ten."

"Yes, he gave me ten extra."


"Maybe he figured if he just gave you ten you would only spend it all on booze."

"Yes, perhaps."

"Well, okay, what the hell, come on up."

"Oh, Bubbles, thank you so much."

"Think nothing of it. But, look, afterwards, you have to split, because I like to sleep alone, and I intend to get me at least a good twelve hours snooze after this blow-out."

"Certainly."

Soon enough they were up in Bubbles's cozy little flat, warm and comfortable with the hissing radiator and the smells of perfumes and chocolates and movie magazines.


"I so love this little place," said Addison. "I would like to hide in here forever."

"Don't get any ideas, buster," said Bubbles, sitting on the bed and rolling down her stockings. "You gonna take your hat and coat off?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Addison, and he put his hat on the coat tree, and then his old worn coat.

Outside Bubbles's window the snow still fell on Bleecker Street, through the hazy yellow light of the street lamp.


So this was the time, at long last. He must savor the moment, and try not to think of something else while it was happening. Although he could forgive himself if he took a few mental notes for possible use in his novel-in-progress, Six Guns to El Paso. He had been considering including a passionate love-making scene between his hero Buck Baxter and the proprietress of the saloon, Mademoiselle Fifi, but he had been holding off until he could acquire some first-hand experience of his own, and not just have to rely on his own imagination and that deck of French playing cards in the drawer of his night table in his room. 


He turned from the window, loosening his tie in what he hoped was a debonair way, and there was Bubbles already curled up in her bed, and under her voluminous blankets and quilts.

He walked over.

"You know, Bubbles," he said, "you don't know how long I have looked forward to this moment, how many nights I have dreamed, how often I have –"

He stopped, because he could see that her eyes were closed, her mouth with its ruby red lips was open, and from that lovely mouth and equally lovely nose came the gentle but distinct sound of snoring.


Oh well.

She looked beautiful in sleep, beautiful even in her gentle snoring. 

Addison allowed himself to touch her cheek, and she said, "Ah ma, za za, mm."

He switched off the bedside lamp, then went to the clothes tree for his coat and hat. He put them on and took one last look at Bubbles sleeping peacefully and soundly, and gently snoring, in all her beauty, and then he switched off the overhead light and let himself out, closing the door behind him. 

Downstairs on the snow-humped stoop the snow still fell through the lamp light, and a dump-truck came lumbering slowly by. 

He still had that ten dollars in his wallet, and the night was, if not still young, then still alive, and he descended to the sidewalk and turned right, in the direction of the land of the sparkling golden nectar of the Rhine.

Thursday, November 7, 2024

"The Kiss"


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 the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Husky Boys – smoke 'em if you got 'em!" – Horace P. Sternwall, popular author and host of the DuMont Network's Husky Boy Theatre (Tuesdays at 10 PM, EST. This week's teleplay: Ask Not the Orangutan, by Horace P. Sternwall, starring Hyacinth Wilde and Lawrence Tierney; directed by Angus Boldwater}

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here





The kiss happened, and Milford's brain exploded gently.

To make matters worse, or better, Miss Alcott put her left hand (her right hand remained pressing against the back of his head) on Milford's right thigh, and even squeezed it, and he at once felt blood rushing in a warm torrent down to his supposed member of procreation.

"Oh, no," Milford managed to say, withdrawing his narrow lips (the only kind he had) from Miss Alcott's plump lips.


"Now what's the matter?" she said,

"Please don't be angry with me."

"I'll be angry with you if you don't tell me what the matter is."

"I have become possessed of an erection again."

"What?" she said, removing her hand from the back of his head. "Already?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."


"That was quick."

"I couldn't help it."

"I'd better stop kissing you then."

"Yes, I think so, because I feel as if I have a growing monster in my Levi's, tying to escape."

"Well, don't let him do that. This is a public place after all."

"It might help if you took your hand off my thigh."

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, and she lifted her delicate but strong hand away.

Milford sighed. This would be his twelve-thousandth and thirtieth sigh since unwillingly re-emerging from the world of dreams into that of so-called reality the previous morning.


Meanwhile the combo crashed and wailed, and a Negro voice sang:

Bang a wang dang doodle
I got a riot in my noodle
she wags her tale like a poodle
so I will bid you all toodle
toodle-oo toodle-ay
all the livelong day
just don't you lose it
anyway you choose it
'cause Grandma's got a rolling pin
and she ain't afraid to use it…

"Well," Miss Alcott said, picking her Lucky Strike up out of the ashtray,


"look at it this way, Milford, at least you got your first kiss of your life out of the way."

"Yes," he said, "there is that, and I am grateful."

"May you have many more, dear boy."

"That's kind of you to say," he said. 

"Perhaps someday you will even, oh, how can I put this nicely?"

"Lose my virginity?"

"Yes. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"


"Possibly," he said. "I don't suppose, um, oh, never mind."

"What?"

"Well, at the risk of seeming presumptuous, I was wondering, hoping, daring to wonder, and to hope, if you, that you would – not that I deserve it, but nevertheless if you could possibly see your way to, to –"

"To relieve you of your virginity?"

"Yes," said Milford. "Forgive me."


"Oh, I forgive you," said Miss Alcott, exhaling a cloud of fragrant Lucky Strike smoke. "But, tell me, did you intend to mount me right here –" she tapped the polished wooden bar top with a fingernail, "on the bar, to the amusement of all these dusky-fleshed revelers here?"

"No!" said Milford. "Not at all, I meant that maybe we could go somewhere –"

"'My place or yours?'"

"Yes, although, on second thought, even though I live just a couple of blocks from here, I live with my mother –


it's her house, you see – and I'm sure that if I brought a young lady home I would never hear the end of it –"

"So you'd rather go to my home, with my sisters and parents."

"Oh, it never occurred to me that you live with your family, I beg your pardon. So, uh, well, never mind, I take it all back –"

"You give up so easily."

"Yes, that is a trait of mine. I have been giving up, or trying to, since I reluctantly learned to walk."

"Maybe we could go to an hotel."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"It would have to be a respectable hotel."

"I actually know what might be considered a respectable hotel near here. The Hotel St Crispian."


"Oh, is it nice?"

"Yes, I think so. I've never actually stopped overnight there myself of course, but I have had lunch there with my mother fairly often, they have a dining room and lounge called the Prince Hal Room –"

"But won't it be frightfully embarrassing just walking up to the desk with no luggage, and asking for a room?"

"Yes, that would be awkward."

"Everyone knowing what we had in mind."

"Yes."

"And an hour or so later, after the deed is done, when we emerge from the elevator, my hair a fright, all the staff staring at us knowingly."

"I imagine they're used to it though."

"The long walk of shame across the lobby floor."


"We could stop in at the Prince Hal Room first."

"For a post-coition cocktail?"

"Well, I would only have a ginger ale, probably."

"It all seems so sordid," she said.

"It wouldn't have to be. We could think of it as romantic."

"Oh, could we?"


Milford sighed again. Number twelve-thousand and thirty-one of this long day's and night's journey to an unknown destiny.

"Oh well," he said.

"At least you got a kiss," she said.

"Yes," he said. "There's at least that."

"That's not nothing," she said.

"No," he said. "It's far from nothing."

Milford realized his fat brown reefer had gone out, and he saw no good reason not to light it up again, as the music continued to crash and roar, and all around him people laughed and shouted. 

Yes, at least he had gotten his first kiss, from a female to whom he was not related by blood. 

This was not only not nothing, but undoubtedly something.