"Follies of a Flâneur"

Another cautionary tale tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

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

This episode sponsored by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"Everywhere I travel across this great land of liberty I hear the proud cry, 'Make mine a Husky Boy!'" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of I Forgot to Forget: a Memoir of Years of Struggle

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"Shall we retire to the living room?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Unless of course you would like another piece of cake, Mr. Plumbtree?" Harry had already had two slices of the chocolate cake, and he could easily have devoured a third, but, despite his gluttony, he said no thank you. Ralston was looking at a pocket watch on a chain. "Good, we can still catch the beginning of The Waldo McGee & Mickey Pumpernickel Show." The Negro maid Matilda had appeared, and with her another old woman who was addressed as "Cookie". "Matilda," said Mrs. Lovechild, "you and Cookie can clear the table now. We're going to go in and watch the television." "Would you like some popcorn, Mrs. Lovechild?" said the woman called Cookie. "That would be lovely, Cookie, thank you," said Mrs. Lovechild. "And don't stint on the butter, Cookie," said Ralston. "Oh, Mr. Ralston, sure you'll die of a massive fatal heart attack if you don't watch all that butter you consume night and day." "And if I do die of a heart attack, Cookie," said Ralston, "I shall die as I have lived, stomping the earth like a man and not trembling and skittering in fear like a mouse." "Are you fond of television, Mr. Plumbly?" said Gwendolyn, addressing Harry. "Well, I haven't watched much of it," said Harry. "I'm afraid I don't own a set." "We finally got one last year," she said, "and now we are profoundly addicted. Wait till you see Mickey Pumpernickel. He's only a wooden dummy, but he's ever so clever, and you can barely see Waldo McGee's lips move. It's like Mickey Pumpernickel is a real person." "Oh, um," said Harry. Livingston pushed his chair back and stood up, patting Harry on the shoulder. "Come up to my room, Harry. Want to show you something." "Oh, but you'll miss Waldo McGee and Mickey Pumpernickel," said Gwendolyn. "That puppet gives me the creeps," said Livingston. "Come on, Harry." Harry thanked Mrs. Lovechild for the delicious meal, glanced awkwardly at Gwendolyn and shyly at Ralston, and then got up and followed Livingston out of the dining room, through a living room draped in shadows and flickering with light from the crackling fireplace and into a hallway with a staircase. "Thanks for being so nice to the family," said Livingston. "I know they're a little eccentric, but they mean well." "I think they're very nice," said Harry. "My mother is quite insane," said Livingston. "Lives in her own world. As does Gwendolyn. And of course Ralston. Come to think of it, as do I. But don't we all? Aren't we all merely prisoners for life in the solitary confinements of our corporeal hosts? Anyhoo, I'm just on the second floor, follow me, old chap." What could Harry do? In his borrowed woolen slippers he followed Livingston and his stockinged feet up the stairs to the second floor and then down a hall towards the front of the house where there was a tall window looking out onto the blizzard rumbling and churning outside. Livingston opened a door to the right. "Here it is," he said. "My sanctum sanctorum. Welcome." He waved with his hand, and Harry went in. Livingston came in behind him, flicked on an overhead light, and closed the door. "Sorry about the mess," he said. The room had a large brass bed with a canopy of faded embroidered drapery, and bookcases lined the walls, with stacks of books and magazines on the floor and on tables on either side of the bed. There was a roll-top desk in front of the one tall window, and in front of it was a swivel chair. A big black typewriter sat on the desk, with stacks of paper on either side of it. "There it is," said Livingston. "That is where the magic happens." He went over and switched on a gooseneck lamp on the desk. "Come here, buddy, I'd like to show you something." Again, what could Harry do? He came over to the desk. "Sit down, Harry. Get comfortable." Harry sat down in the swivel chair, but he didn't feel comfortable. What had he gotten himself into? Was a free meal of Chicken à la King worth it, even with some several glasses of fine red wine? Not to mention the chocolate cake and fresh strong coffee. "Let me give you a little room here," said Livingston, and he pushed the typewriter, an old Royal, inward. Then with both hands he picked up a great stack of typescript to the right of where the typewriter had been, turned the stack over, and laid it down in front of Harry. "And here," he said, "is my little magnum opus. Still in progress of course, but I wonder if you would be so kind as to read a page or two. Tell me what you think. You being a professional author and all. Not to mention my favorite living author." This was every writer's worst nightmare, to be asked to read someone else's work. "I mean, if you don't mind," said Livingston.  "No, of course not," lied Harry, baldfaced, looking at the stack of paper, two reams at least, maybe even three. He picked up the top sheet, on which was typed: Follies of a Flâneur by  Livingston P. Lovechild He turned the cover page over and picked up the next sheet and read. These are the confessions of a failure. But perhaps these confessions will in themselves prove to be his ultimate triumph.  "What do you think so far?" said Livingston. "Well, I've only read the first two sentences," said Harry. "Only about two million sentences left to go," said Livingston. "Don't worry, it picks up."  Harry read on. From my earliest age I noticed one thing that all human beings had in common, to wit, they were annoying. Some more so, some less. And experience proved that even the less annoying people became more annoying the more you were in their company. Not that I was exempt, as I annoyed myself as well.  Harry laid the sheet down. "Oh, no," said Livingston. "Is it that bad?" "No, not at all," said Harry. "But I wonder if I could have a cigarette." "Oh, sure," said Livingston. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em. In fact–" He opened a little drawer in the desk and brought out a small engraved wooden box and opened it. In it were a dozen or so hand-rolled cigarettes. "Have one of these," he said. "Oh, but I have my own," said Harry. "Husky Boys." "An excellent smoke," said Livingston, "but try one of these bad boys instead." "What are they?" "Marijuana. Ever try it?" "No." "Oh, you simply must, old boy." "I don't know. Won't I get addicted?" "Not at all. Go ahead, take one." What did Harry have to lose? He picked one out, and Livingston gave him a light with an Ohio Blue Tip match from a box on the desk. "You gotta breathe it in deep and hold it in for as long as you can," said Livingston. Harry breathed in the smoke and held it in. "Okay," said Livingston. "Now start reading again. The more you smoke the better the writing is." Harry picked up the page, still holding in the smoke, and began to read again: I shall pass over in silence my early years. It was tedious enough having to live through them, let alone having to relive them in memory. No, let us begin these confessions shortly after I was sent down in disgrace from Yale and returned to the familial manse on Bleecker Street, for that was when my life began in earnest, when I finally embraced my true calling as a committed idler, a master of the fine art of doing as little as possible. Harry exhaled the rich sweet smoke. And then he read on.

"The Benighted Hearth"

Yet another cautionary tale tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq,through an exclusive agreement with quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode sponsored by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"From the boardrooms of the world's largest corporations and the lounges of the most exclusive clubs, to the friendly taproom on the corner and your local humble barber shop, one can readily detect the rich redolent aroma of Husky Boy™ cigarettes, the olfactory hallmark of smokers of distinction regardless of socioeconomic status!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of How to Write Like a Pro: Lessons Learnt in the Battlefields of Literature

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"Are you enjoying your Chicken à la King, Mr. Peachman?" said Mrs. Lovechild. Harry's mouth was full, and so he chewed as quickly as he could. "I should think he is," said Ralston. "I love to see a man eat with gusto," said Gwendolyn. Harry swallowed, trying not to choke, and then he dabbed his lips with the damask napkin he had been supplied with. "Yes, Mrs. Lovechild, very much so," he finally managed to say. "Would you care for seconds?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "I think you mean thirds, Mother," said Ralston. "Ralston, don't be such a cunt," said Gwendolyn. "Gwendolyn, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Language." "Here, Mr. Peachum," said Gwendolyn, rising up from her seat, "let me help you with that last bit of chicken and noodles." "Waste not want not," said Ralston, putting a cigarette into his black holder. "Oh, thank you," said Harry, "but, really, I couldn't –" "Of course you could," said Gwendolyn, "now here," and she lifted the serving dish with one hand and with the other she spooned the last of the chicken and noodles and cream sauce onto Harry's plate, spilling only a small amount onto the table cloth. "There you are, old chap, now eat up." To tell the truth, Harry still had an appetite. "Thank you," he said. "If you insist." "You must be simply famished after dragging Livingston home through this frightful blizzard," said Gwendolyn, putting down the dish and sitting back down.  "Well, we took a cab part of the way," said Harry, forking some more of the delicious food into his mouth. "Be that as it may," said Gwendolyn. "We owe Livingston's life to you. I'm sure he should never have made it home alive otherwise." "Peachman," said Ralston, exhaling a great cloud of smoke, the sort of cloud Harry would have described as "thoughtful" in one of his detective stories. "Where have I heard that name." "Mm," said Harry, if one could be said to "say" the sound "mm". "What's that?" said Ralston. "He's got his mouth full," said Gwendolyn. "Let him finish chewing, brother." "Mea culpa," said Ralston. "Chew away, old man." "Yes," said Mrs. Lovechild, "let Mr. Peachings swallow his food before answering. You know I hate the way you bolt your food, Ralston." "Yes, Mother," said Ralston, "as you have told me at the very least one million times." "Then why do you persist in doing it," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Because it's the way I like to eat," said Ralston. "Dive right in, that's my motto. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes." "Language, Ralston," said Mrs. Lovechild. "We have a guest at table." Harry dabbed his lips again with the napkin, and said, "Actually my name is Beachcroft." "What was that?" said Ralston. "Beachcroft," said Harry. "My name is actually Beachcroft, Harry Beachcroft." "Harry Beachcroft?" said Ralston. "Beachcroft?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Harry?" said Gwendolyn. "Yes," said Harry. "And here I've been calling you Mr. Peachams," said Gwendolyn. "You must forgive us," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Mister – what was it? Peachcroft?" "Beachcroft," said Harry. "With a B, not a P." "Please forgive us, Mr. Peachcroft, I mean – what was it again?" "Beachcroft," said Harry. "Yes, that," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Please forgive us." "I feel I've seen that name somewhere," said Ralston. "Me too, I think," said Gwendolyn. "Harry Peachcroft. Are you by any chance on the stage, Mr. Peachcrab?" "No, I'm afraid not," said Harry. "You remind me of a fellow I saw in a play," she said. "What was it. The Benighted Heart? The Abandoned Hearth? Anyway, it had Hyacinth Wilde in it, and it was about how Hyacinth's dead fiancé came back from the war, because he wasn't dead, only a prisoner, and he'd lost his memory, and you played her older brother. His name was Terence, I remember it now, except he had a moustache." "I'm afraid it wasn't me," said Harry. "You're quite sure." "Yes," said Harry. "Harry Peachcraft, you say," said Ralston. "Not Peachcraft," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Peachcroft." She was also smoking a cigarette now, but without a holder. "Well, Beachcroft," said Harry. "What?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "It's Beachcroft," he said. "With an initial B. I mean, it doesn't really matter, but –" "Of course it matters," said Mrs. Lovechild, "Mister, uh –" "Beachcroft," said Harry. "Now I've got it," said Ralston. "Harry Beachcroft. I've seen that name on these paperback novels Livingston's always reading, lying on the divan where even now he reclines, snoring contentedly. Are we to understand that your are that Harry Beachcroft?" "Yes, I suppose so," said Harry. "There you are," said Ralston. "We have a celebrated author in our midst." "Well –" said Harry, in vague modesty. "You write books?" said Gwendolyn. "Yes, I'm afraid so," said Harry. "I adore books," said Mrs. Lovechild. "What books have you written?" "Oh, uh," said Harry. "I want to read your books," said Gwendolyn. "Livingston's got loads of them in his room," said Ralston. "Stacks of them." "I, uh," said Harry. "What should I read first?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "Well, um," said Harry. "Do you write mysteries?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "I have written mysteries, yes," said Harry. "What about romances?" said Gwendolyn. "Well, yes, I've written some of those," said Harry, "but mostly under the pen name of Lucille de la Strange." "I want to read them," said Gwendolyn. "You know what I like to read," said Ralston, "I like books about small-town girls who come to Hollywood to make it in pictures. But they keep meeting rotters who take advantage of their good nature. Got anything in that line?" "He does in fact," said a familiar voice, and Harry turned to see that Livingston had entered the room. He was in his stockinged feet, and wore a plaid flannel shirt of the kind that lumberjacks presumably wore. "Harry has written a delightful novel called The Girl on the Greyhound Bus, and it is about a lass who comes to Hollywood to make it big in pictures, but gets caught up in a web of passion and betrayal, and, yes, murder." "The sleeper awakes," said Ralston. "Just needed to rest my eyes for a minute," said Livingston. "Is there any Chicken à la King left?" Harry stared guiltily at his empty plate. "I'm afraid it's all gone, dear," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Sit down and you may join us for coffee and dessert." There was a little tarnished brass bell on the table, and she picked it up by its wooden handle and rang it. "Oh, well," said Livingston, pulling out the empty chair to Harry's left and seating himself. "You know what they say." "What do they say, dear?" said Mrs. Lovechild. "When you snooze you lose," said Livingston. He reached over the table and picked up one of the three wine bottles there. "Chambertin," he said, looking at the faded label. "Excellent." There was an empty wine glass at his place, and he filled it with ruby red dark wine. He turned to Harry.  "Top you off, Harry?" "I really shouldn't," said Harry, for no honest reason. "Nonsense," said Livingston, and he refilled Harry's glass. Putting down the bottle he raised his glass. "Up the long ladder," he said, "and down the short rope. To hell with King Billy and God bless the Pope." And he drank, and so did Harry.  What did it matter?  How would he get home tonight? Would he even get home tonight? Did it matter if he got home tonight? Outside the tall front windows the snow continued to fall heavily over Bleecker Street, illuminated by a street lamp, pattering against the glass panes, the wind deeply whistling, but inside this house all was warm and smelling of the burning wood in the fireplace and of wine and women's perfume.  Gwendolyn looked at him through her large blue eyes over her wine glass. Perhaps Harry would never leave here. .<

"The Ancestral Manse"

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

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

"Oftentimes on my speaking tours across this great land of liberty, I am asked what do I do when I reach one of those seemingly impassable virtual brick walls in my writing, and my answer is always the same: I light up a fresh Husky Boy cigarette (produced from a blend of the finest Virginia tobaccos), sit back in my chair, and very soon I find myself sailing over that wall into the glorious land of inspiration, and I am typing away to beat the band!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of First You'll Need Some Paper: How to Write for Fun and Profit.

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Again Harry yanked on Livingston's arm. "Come on, Livingston, let's go." And again Livingston's small eyes opened. "Where are we going?" "Home," said Harry. "We're at your house." "Oh," said Livingston. He sat up straight, blinking. "Splendid. What do we owe you, my good man?" he said, addressing the driver. "Nothing," said the driver. "Your buddy already paid me." "Oh, thank you, Harry," said Livingston. "It was your money," said Harry. "I took the liberty of taking it from your wallet." "Splendid, splendid," said Livingston. "I put the wallet back in your trousers," said Harry. "Yes, of course you did," said Livingston. "Shall we disembark then?" "Yes," said Harry. Livingston was sitting on the street side of the back seat, and he turned, depressed the door handle, opened the door, and fell out into the street. Exactly one minute later Harry was pulling Livingston to his feet as the cab pulled away into the blizzard, belching exhaust into the falling snow and groaning like a dying elephant. "Home at last," said Livingston, looking up at the snow-shrouded house before them, with a tall leafless snow-whitened tree in front it, its branches reaching up into the blizzard. "The ancestral manse." "Yes," said Harry. "Are you all right to walk?" "Right as rain," said Livingston. "I can't wait to introduce you to la famille." "There's no need for that," said Harry. "What do you mean?" said Livingston. "I mean I'm going to get you up the steps and into your house, and then I'm going home." "But you can't mean that!" Actually Harry didn't mean it, because what he really wanted to do was to make his way back to Bob's Bowery Bar and get a quiet peaceful load on, vowing all the while never to go on such a fool's expedition again. Nevertheless, "Yes," he lied. "I think I just want to go home." "I won't hear of it," said Livingston. "You must stay for dinner." "Look, Livingston, let's just get you up there, okay?" "Yes, of course. We can't just stand out here in this blizzard, can we?" "No," said Harry. He took Livingston's arm and guided him out of the street and onto the sidewalk to the snow-covered stoop of the tall house that loomed above them. "Mind the steps now," said Livingston. "They're under this snow, somewhere. Keeping his left arm on Livingston's right, and his right hand on the snow-caked iron railing, Harry pulled and yanked and slogged them both up the five or six steps to the landing and into the front doorway, which was flanked by fluted weatherworn columns. A stained-glass fanlight above the door glowed with various colors.  "Do you have your key, Livingston?"  "My key, yes," said Livingston, and it only took him three minutes to remove his thick wool mittens, shove them into the pockets of his mackinaw, and then, after patting and probing various pockets, to produce a large old tarnished skeleton key attached to a ratty rabbit's foot, and then it took him another full minute to insert the key into the keyhole in the door. "Now here comes the tricky part," he said. "You have to turn the key while you simultaneously turn the door knob, jiggling both key and knob in unison." "Okay," said Harry.  "Like this," said Livingston, turning the key and knob and jiggling. "Voilà!" He pushed against the doorknob, but nothing happened. "Oh, dear," he said. "That usually works." Another minute of turning and jiggling and pushing passed, and then Harry said, "Look, let me try." "Yes," said Livingston, "you try, Harry." Harry had never been good with keys and door locks, but he did his best, and he failed, and failed again, and again. "You have to jiggle it, old chap," said Livingston. "Simultaneous with sort of pushing." "That's what I'm doing," said Harry. "Let me try again," said Livingston. "Can't we just ring the door bell?" "Oh, my dear fellow, that door bell has been en panne since as long as I can remember." "Okay, fine, then what about the door knocker." There was indeed a heavy engraved bronze knocker on the door. "Yes," said Livingston, "I suppose we could do that. Here, give me the key and let me try it just once more." "All right," said Harry, thinking, Never again. He pulled the key from the lock and handed it to Livingston, who stared at it, and then put it in a pocket of his mackinaw.  "Well, then," said Livingston. "Shall we go?" "What?" said Harry. "Shall we hie us hence, old man? Where are we going anyway? Shall we start at the San Remo? It's only just up the corner, and we can be there in a trice. I don't know if you've ever been there, but it's a delightful establishment, and quite popular among the bohemian set." "Livingston," said Harry, "we're not going anywhere. We're trying to get you into your house." "Oh, bother my house," said Livingston. "I've spent my whole life in that dump. Come, the great pulsing city awaits! Women, wine, and, yes, perhaps even a song or two!" He turned to face the street, and then turned his head to look at Harry. "It's a veritable winter wonderland, old boy!" He took a step forward and then fell to his knees. He quickly got up and then fell forward again, tumbling down the snow-covered steps. And then he lay there facedown in the deep snow, perhaps alive, perhaps not.  Harry turned and put his cold bare hand on the cold bronze heavy knocker, and knocked.   He continued to do so for for perhaps two minutes and then finally the door opened. An old Negro woman in a black and white housemaid's uniform and cap stood there. "What's this commotion?" she said. "My name is Harry Beachcroft," said Harry, "and I have brought Livingston home." "Mr. Livingston?" said the old woman. "Where is he?" "He's down there at the bottom of the steps," said Harry. The old woman stepped forward and raised her chin to look down at the sidewalk. "Is he alive?" "I don't know, to be quite honest," said Harry. "Well, I suppose we'll have to get him up here. Won't you wait a moment, and I'll go get Mr. Ralston to help." "Who's Mr. Ralston?" "He is Mr. Livingston's younger brother. He's not very strong I'm afraid, but he's the only man in the house, so he'll have to do. Wait here, please." "All right," said Harry.  The old woman went away, leaving the inner door of the foyer open behind her. Beyond the door were shadows and in the shadows was a carpeted staircase leading up to somewhere. Harry waited. What else could he do? He could just leave, but what if this Mr. Ralston was too weak to get Livingston up the steps by himself? Surely that frail old woman wouldn't be much help.  Harry stood there in the foyer, which was dimly lit from an overhead multicolored fixture. The walls were tiled, old and faded and stained, and the tiles seemed to illustrate fawns and naked nymphs in a sylvan paradise. There was a hat rack on the right wall, with hats on it, and a coat rack on the left wall, with coats on it. To the right was a great cracked vase in a floral motif, with several old umbrellas and walking sticks in it. A dozen or so pairs of boots and galoshes were ranged along the wainscoting of both walls, and there was an ancient rubber runner on the floor. There was also an old wooden stool, as well as a small table with a yellowed tattered lace cover over it, with a pile of gloves and mittens, a chipped ceramic dish with a collection of keys and coins and envelopes, and a glass ashtray with some cigarette butts in it, emblazoned on its side with the slogan The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell.  Harry stepped back into the falling snow and looked down the steps. Livingston was still there, and he was either dead or alive. If he was dead, Harry hoped there wouldn't be an inquest.  "Hello, there," said a slightly masculine voice. Harry turned, and the old Negro woman was there, with a young pale man wearing an embroidered garnet and gold smoking jacket, and holding a cigarette in a black holder. "Hello," said Harry. "My name is Ralston Lovechild," said the young man. "At your service. And you are?" "Harry Beachcroft," said Harry. "I've brought your brother home." "So Matilda tells me," said the young man. He stepped forward and looked down the steps. "Oh, dear. Not again. All right, just give me a mo to get my rubbers on, and we'll get him inside." Harry waited while the young man sat on the stool and pulled a pair of galoshes on over his house slippers, then got up and put a great Russian fur hat on his head, and finally the old woman helped him on with a a fur coat of some sort. Another old woman appeared, this one was a white woman, and with her was a younger woman, who looked like a younger version of the older woman, but with dark hair that looked natural, whereas the older woman's hair looked dyed. They were both smoking cigarettes. "Ralston, you're letting all the hot air out," said the older woman. "I know, Mother," said Ralston, taking his cigarette from its holder, and stubbing it out in the ashtray, "but this gentleman and I must bring Livingston up into the house." "Where is he?" "Passed out on the pavement," said Ralston. "Hi, there," said the young woman, to Harry. "What's your name?" "Harry Beachcroft," said Harry. Oddly enough, she was not unattractive, at least not by Harry's modest standards. "A friend of Livingston's?" she said. "Not really," said Harry. "I just met him a couple of hours ago." "Livingston could use a friend," said the young woman. "My name is Gwendolyn, by the way. I am Livingston's sibling." "Please to meet you, miss," said Harry.  "And this is our mother," said the young woman, indicating the older woman. "You may address her as Mrs. Lovechild." "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lovechild," said Harry. "And you as well," said Mrs. Lovechild. "I suppose we should thank you for bringing Livingston home." "It was the least I could do," said Harry. "Well, are we going to spend all evening gabbing here in the chill, or shall we bring the prodigal inside?" said Ralston. He had pulled on a pair of sturdy-looking leather gloves. "I hope he's not dead," said Gwendolyn, who had stepped forward to peer down at the sidewalk. "Well, if he is dead," said Ralston, "he will have gone out the way he would have wanted. Drunk as a skunk. Shall we, Mr. Peachcraft?" "Yes," said Harry. "I'm ready." "And then afterwards," said Gwendolyn, "whether Livingston is alive or dead, you must dine with us, Mr. Peachtree. Are you fond of Chicken à la King?" Harry had only ever had the kind of Chicken à la King that you got in automats or diners, and it had never seemed as good as it was touted up to be, but he didn't want to appear rude, so he said yes, he was actually very fond of Chicken à la King.