"A Man Called Punch"

Yet another disquieting 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™ Tobacco Co.

"Folks sometimes ask me why I smoke Husky Boys, and I always tell them, 'They just taste so darned good!'" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "frightfully amusing"* new novel Truck Stop Gal

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

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."

“Dante Gabriel Fucking Rossetti"

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™ Tobacco Co.

"Husky Boys are not just for boys!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of Horace P. Sternwall's "scintillating"* new play, Say There, Sailor!

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

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.

"Pathetic Self-Deluded Idiots"

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 good people of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"This Christmas give Dad the gift that keeps on giving, a carton of fine Husky Boy cigarettes, now available in Regular, King Size, and our Deluxe 'Cork' Filter Tip'!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Child's Christmas on the Bowery

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

"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.