"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 


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"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."

"Five Spot"

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 Company

"Whenever I reach an impasse in one of my stories, my solution is to light up a Husky Boy™ unfiltered King Size cigarette, made with only the finest Virginia tobaccos, and to let my mind go completely blank; by the time that delicious cylinder of ecstasy is half-finished I invariably find myself striking the keys of my typewriter again with the utmost abandon!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Father Mike" mystery, Murder at the Bachelors' Retreat

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They followed John Henry through the barroom, past a crowded bar and towards the sounds of loud crashing music. Mr. Whitman took Milford's arm again and spoke into his ear. "Hey, Mel, you got another five in that poke of yours?" "What?" said Milford. "Let me have a five-spot, will you? All's I got is twenties on me." "If you have twenties why do you need a five?" "Come on, just let me have a fiver, okay? I'll pay you back just as soon as I break a twenty." "Can't you just get change from a waitress or a bartender?" "Look, buddy, don't bust my balls. Didn't I give you a signed first edition of my book?" "I didn't ask for it." "Mel, I'm asking you, just loan me a goddam fin and stop being such a noodge already." "Well, all right," said Milford. He didn't really care, but on the other hand moochers had been taking advantage of him ever since he was a child, because of his family's supposed and actual wealth and their imposing old townhouse on Bleecker Street. He dug into the back pocket of his dungarees and brought out his wallet. "Just a five," said Mr. Whitman. "I mean if you can spare it." "I can spare it," said Milford, opening the wallet. "Nice wallet, by the way," said Mr. Whitman, touching the crude rawhide stitching. "Very 'rustic'." "Thank you," said Milford. "I made it myself, during my brief tenure as a Boy Scout." "I like it." "My mother insisted on buying me an expensive Horween billfold from Brooks Brothers, but I have a sentimental attachment for this one." "May I feel the leather?" "Okay." Mr. Whitman took the wallet from Milford's hand and stroked its scuffed and worn surface. "What's this strange symbol burnt into the side? Is it a rune, or some sort of Chinese character?" "No, it's supposed to be my monogram. I was trying to use Spencerian capitals, but I was using this hot iron, and I've never been very dexterous, so –" "So, it's like, what, MM?" "Yes." "I see it now," said Mr. Whitman. "MM, for 'Marion Milstein' – see I remember your name. Oh, wow, look at those Negroes dancing up there." Milford turned and looked. Up ahead beyond some tables there was a crowded dance floor, with people dancing to the music of a small but loud combo. "Such a gay and happy race," said Mr. Whitman. "Here, I see you got one five left." Milford turned back and Mr. Whitman was holding a five-dollar bill up in the air. "Appreciate it, Mel," he said, and he handed the wallet back. Milford looked into his wallet. All he had left in it was two tens. He could have sworn there had been three tens there, but he let it go, closed up the wallet and put the wallet back in his jeans. "Hey, let's catch up to the others, buddy," said Mr. Whitman, folding up the five-dollar bill, and he took Milford's arm and pulled him along. They found Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne already sitting at a round table with four chairs at the edge of the dance floor, and John Henry was standing there talking to them. "Hi, everybody," said Mr. Whitman. John Henry turned. "You get lost?" "Oh, no, John Henry, we were just taking our time, heh heh. Oh, hey, what a nice table, right by the dancing. This is swell." John Henry turned back to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne. "Polly Ann'll be right over to get your orders. If you're hungry the possum stew is to die for tonight, and I can always recommend the fatback and beans, with cornbread." "Oh, wow, I love fatback and beans," said Mr. Whitman. "That's great," said John Henry, "then you should order it." He turned back to Jelly Roll. "Looking forward to hearing you get up and jam, my man." "Oh, I definitely will, John Henry," said Jelly Roll. "Cool, I'll catch you all later." "Oh, by the way, John Henry," said Mr. Whitman. "What?" "Just want to shake your hand, sir." "Oh. Okay." John Henry extended his massive hand and Mr. Whitman inserted his own large but much less huge hand into it. John Henry disengaged his hand and opened it, knuckles downward. There was a greenback folded in eighths in the center of the pale callused palm. "What's this shit?" he said. "Just a little token," said Mr. Whitman.  "What's that, five bucks?" "Yes, I hope it's enough –" "I don't want your five dollars, man." "Oh." "Take it back." "Um." "I said take it." Quickly Mr. Whitman reached over and took the folded bill out of John Henry's palm. "Sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to, uh –" John Henry gave him a look, and Mr. Whitman said nothing. Then the big man turned again to Jelly Roll and Miss Blackbourne.  "See you later, Jelly Roll. A pleasure, Miss Margaret." "All mine, I assure you, John Henry," said Miss Blackbourne, who was smoking one of her ebony cigarettes with the silver tip. John Henry seemed to notice Milford, standing a little behind Mr. Whitman. "You okay, Milford?" "Yes," said Milford, "thank you." "You don't look okay." "That's okay," said Milford. "I always look this way." "Sit down and get a drink, maybe you'll feel better with a little corn liquor in you." "Maybe." John Henry glanced at Mr. Whitman again, still holding his folded-up five dollar bill, and then he turned and strode away, his enormous legs covering a yard with each pace. "Sit the fuck down, Walt," said Jelly Roll. "You too, Milford." Mr. Whitman took the chair to Jelly Roll's left, and Milford sat down to Miss Blackbourne's right. "Fuck sakes, Walt," said Jelly Roll to Mr. Whitman, "I distinctly recall asking you to attempt to be cool." "I just wanted to, uh, show my appreciation," said Mr. Whitman. "Just put that fucking five-spot back into your pocket." "Look, how about if I get the first round with it?" "We're gonna run a tab, dipshit, now put that five away and stop trying to showboat." "Well, okay," said Mr. Whitman, and he leaned to one side and stuck the five into his trousers pocket. Milford considered asking for the five back, but he let it go, as he let so many things go, as he always had and would no doubt continue to do. A pretty Negro woman with a black apron appeared, with a tray under her arm and a pad in her hand.  "Hey, Jelly Roll," she said. "Whatta ya hear, whatta ya say?" "Nothing much, Polly Ann," said Jelly Roll. "Just fixing to get my drunk on and get up and bang them eighty-eights, darling." "Cool," said the lady. "What are you and your ofay friends drinking?" "I wonder, miss," said Mr. Whitman, "do you have a nice hot grog?" "No," said the lady. "Perhaps a fine strong ale then, brewed in great oaken casks that are piled onto drays by sweaty men muscular and hearty, and then pulled by teams of stout horses through the wet cobblestone streets in the rose-dappled dawn?" "We got Ballantine ale," said the lady, "if that's what you're talking about, you silly ass motherfucker."

"Steel Driving Man"

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 made possible in part through a generous endowment from the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Corporation Foundation on the Arts

"Mondays, when the theatre is dark, it is my most profound pleasure to lounge on my divan with my cat Boris, the new Horace P. Sternwall mystery, a glass of champagne, and a fresh pack of Husky Boy Ladies' Ultra Slim Cork Tips!" – Hyacinth Wilde, now appearing in the Demotic Theatre's Production of Angus Boldwater's "stunning tour de force"*  Sleep Soundly, Sweet Sinner

{*Flossie Flanagan, "Theatrical Notes", The New York Federal Democrat}

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"I see you brought some honkies with you, Jelly Roll," said the huge Negro man. "Yes, I have, John Henry," said Jelly Roll, "but I assure you they're cool, daddy-o." "The lady looks cool," said the man. "Why, thank you, kind sir," said Miss Blackbourne, "for the delightful compliment." "You can come in," said the big man. "May I ask your name?" "Blackbourne is the name, Margaret Blackbourne," said Miss Blackbourne, "but, please, call me Margaret." "I shall call you Miss Margaret," said the huge man, with a slight bow. "And may I call you John?" "My friends all call me John Henry." "And so, with your permission, I shall call you John Henry, sir," said Miss Blackbourne, and she horizontally extended her lily-white hand with its blood-red fingernails. The man called John Henry placed his enormous fingers and thumb in a gentle touch on Miss Blackbourne's hand. "Like a delicate flower," he said. He disengaged his fingers and looked at Mr. Whitman. "Who's this goofball, Jelly Roll?" "Whitman's my name," said Mr. Whitman, extending his own hand. "Walt Whitman. Perhaps you have heard of me? I wrote a little book called Leaves of Grass?" "Never heard of it," said John Henry. "Oh," said Mr. Whitman. "Well –" "You ever read anything by Horace P. Sternwall?" said the big man. "Um, the name sounds vaguely familiar," said Mr. Whitman. "That man can write like a motherfucker." "Indeed?" said Mr. Whitman. "Which of his books might you recommend?" "All of them, but just off the top of my head, Salt Chunk Mary and Her House of Blue Lights is pretty good." "Salt Chunk?" said Mr. Whitman. "Mary and Her House of Blue Lights," said John Henry. "Another good one was Rip Roaring Rip Riley, Range Rover." "Okay," said Mr. Whitman, "I'll make a mental note of that one." "He writes good poems too. A favorite collection of them is one called Christmas for the Doomed. The title makes it sound kind of gloomy like, but it's actually pretty uplifting." "Okay," said Mr. Whitman. "I'm a poet myself, and so I always like to see what other people are doing in the discipline –" "Then you'd probably like this other poetry book he wrote called A Bed of Cobblestones. That's a good one." "Okay," said Mr. Whitman. "Another one of my favorites from Sternwall is a book of inspirational essays, it's called, Pass That Bottle Over Here." "Well, I'll certainly look out for any of his books, Mr., uh, Henry." John Henry had ignored Mr. Whitman's outstretched hand, and so Mr. Whitman made a couple of grasping motions with his fingers, as though he were trying to loosen up a case of writer's cramp, and then lowered the hand and rubbed it in a nervous-seeming way on the front of his thigh. John Henry now turned his impassive gaze on Milford. "And who is this sad-ass looking pale little motherfucker?" "You don't have to let me in," said Milford. "I don't mind." "What's your name, boy?" "It doesn't matter," said Milford. "I can go." "His name is Melman," said Mr. Whitman, "but I call him Mel." "His name is not Melman, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne. "It's Milford." "I'm pretty sure it's Melmer," said Mr. Whitman. "Otherwise why would the diminutive be Mel?" "What's your name, sonny?" said John Henry to Milford. "Marion Milford, sir," said Milford. "But I prefer to be called simply Milford." "Your first name is Marion?" "Yes, but I didn't choose it." "Milford, you say?" "Yes, but you can call me anything. Most people do." "I'll call you Milford." "Thank you, sir." "Call me John Henry." "Okay, Mr. John Henry." "Just John Henry will do." "Okay, John Henry." "Give me your lily white hand." "I hope you're not going to crush it." "I ain't gonna crush your hand," said John Henry. "Now give it to me." Reluctantly, Milford extended his small white hand, the only kind of hand he had, and John Henry engulfed it in his own enormous black hand. His grip exuded strength and power, but he was as good as his word, and he refrained from squashing Milford's hand to a pulp, and in fact Milford felt a strange surge of puissance entering the flesh and bones of his hand, which ran up his arm all the way to his chest and through his lungs and into his sluggishly beating heart. "Your hand, young fella, is even more delicate than that of the lady here, Miss Margaret," said John Henry. "Yes," said Milford. "I have spent my entire life thus far avoiding physical exercise as much as possible." "I'm a steel driving man myself, and have always gloried in the flexing and pulsing of my muscles," said John Henry. "So also I," said Mr. Whitman. "I wonder if you have ever tried kettle balls?" John Henry ignored Mr. Whitman, and released Milford's hand. "Start with one push-up, pushing up very slowly, and coming down very slowly" he said to Milford. "Each day do another push-up, very slowly, and when you feel you're ready, go up to two push-ups, remembering to go up as slowly as you can, and down as slowly as you can. Incrementally, try to increase the number of slow push-ups until you have reached your absolute limit. Then take a break for a few days, and begin again, with as many slow pushups as you can manage. After a year of this régime you will have arms and shoulders and a chest of steel, with a stomach as hard as that of a medieval knight's suit of armor." "Okay," said Milford, although he doubted he would really follow through on the suggestion. "All right, then," said John Henry. "I like you, and you can come in. This place can get rough, but don't worry – what was your name?" "Mel," said Mr. Whitman. "His friends call him Mel." "Milford, actually," said Milford. "Don't worry, Milford," said John Henry. "Anybody in here fucks with you, they fuck with me." "Thank you, sir," said Milford.  John Henry turned to Jelly Roll.  "Okay, Jelly Roll, I guess your friends can come in." He glanced at Mr. Whitman. "Even him." "Thank you, John Henry!" said Mr. Whitman. "We really appreciate it so much. And by the way, I have long been an admirer of the Negro race. I especially enjoy your folk music and dances, and I fancy I can clog out a passable black bottom or cakewalk myself–" "Great," said John Henry. "All right, follow me." The big man turned about face and went into the room, roaring as it was with music and shouting and laughter. Miss Blackbourne and Jelly Roll followed, and Mr. Whitman whispered into Milford's ear, "I think you really impressed him, Mel!" He took Milford's arm and guided him through the doorway into what was a large barroom, dark, smoky, loud, filled with dark-skinned people.  John Henry turned his head and said in his booming voice: "Close that door behind you." Mr. Whitman let go of Milford's arm, and quickly backed up and closed the door.