"That's How You Do That"

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

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

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

"When I pass from this vale of tears, let it be with a song in my heart and a fine, flavorful Husky Boy cigarette in my lips!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "unsparing"* new collection of autobiographical essays Down and Out in Poughkeepsie and Port Huron

*Flossie Flanagan's "Book Beat", The New York Federal Democrat

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to begin series, click here

They walked down the hallway into the darkness, and then they bumped simultaneously against what seemed to be a wall. "What the deuce," said Livingston. "Could Pompey have given us a bum steer?" "Livingston," said Harry, "I don't mean to cast blame, but you said that Pompey told us to make a left at the end of that other hallway, but when we came to its end, you made a right." "I did?" "Yes, I'm pretty sure." "Why didn't you say something?" "I don't know." "You don't know." "No, I suppose I'm not very assertive by nature." "Wait a minute," said Livingston. Harry heard a knocking sound from Livingston's direction in the near total darkness. "Do you hear that?" said Livingston. "Yes," said Harry. "Does that sound hollow to you?" "Sort of," said Harry, not wanting to commit himself and possibly commit another blunder, either of commission or omission.  He heard another knocking sound. "Is that you knocking?" asked Harry. "Yes, it's me," replied Livingston. "And I think that's a hollow sound." "Could it be a hollow wall?" "What is a hollow wall?" "Well, I mean a thin wall," said Harry. "It could be," said Livingston. "You never know in these old buildings. Or even new ones I suppose. One moment." Harry waited several moments, hearing what might have been the sound of a rat climbing up and around Livingston's plump small body, but then he heard a scratching sound accompanied by a flash of light and saw that Livingston had lighted one of his Ohio Blue Tip kitchen matches. "Ah ha," said Livingston. "I was right after all." He held the match to what they had thought was a wall and saw a faded and dirty hand-painted sign, reading NO ADMITTANCE "See?" said Livingston. "This must be the door to the basement. We're on our way now." "It says NO ADMITTANCE though," said Harry. "Yes, but you know what the motto of Her Majesty's Special Air Service is, don't you?" "Not offhand," said Harry. "'Who dares wins.' And so shall we dare." "But wouldn't that be trespassing?" "Look, the fees I pay for membership in this club, they wouldn't dare charge me with trespassing." "Maybe we should just go out the front way." "Nonsense," said Livingston. "Not after we've come this far. Here, let me just try this doorknob." There was indeed a doorknob, and, transferring the match from his right hand to his left (which still held the box of matches), Livingston turned the knob and pulled, but the door failed to open. "Okay," said Harry. "It's locked, so, uh, maybe we should, uh –" "Hang on," said Livingston, "Pompey said no one ever locks this door, didn't he?" "I'm not sure." "I'm pretty sure. It's probably just stuck, on account of the wood's so old and decrepit, just like all those half-dead farts out there in the club. Here, hold this match. And the matchbox." Harry did as he was asked to do, and then he saw Livingston grip the doorknob with both hands, turning it and pulling it and yanking it, and then with a dull popping sound the door opened onto more darkness. "There," said Livingston. "It's open." "I think you might have broken the lock." "Look, Harry," said Livingston, "if I could break that lock, I who have never performed any physical exercise more strenuous than opening a beer bottle, then I think it's high time that the lock needed to be replaced." "It's awfully dark in there," said Harry. "Absolutely Stygian," said Livingston. "Hold the match closer." Again Harry did as he was ordered, perhaps his three unheroic years as a typist in the army had not been entirely wasted. "Ah," said Livingston, "just as I had hoped. Look." A light bulb hung from the ceiling inside, and a thin chain hung from the socket the bulb was attached to. Livingston pulled on the chain, and the bulb gave forth light, not a great deal of light, but enough to illuminate a spiral staircase leading down from the doorway, into dimness surrounded by further darkness. "Voilà," said Livingston. "And Bob's your uncle. Let's go." "I'm afraid," said Harry. "We're all afraid, Harry," said Livingston. "And with good reason. We're all going to die. Now let's go." "What do I do with the match?" "Give it here." Harry handed him the still burning match and Livingston flicked it down the stairs. "Do you want the matchbox back?" "Hold onto it. I have a back-up. I'll go first." Without hesitation Livingston entered the staircase and commenced descending. For a brief moment, just a second, Harry considered turning around, going back down the hallway, out through the bar and the lounge to the entrance of this place and then outside, into that raging blizzard. But then he remembered the brutal severity of the blizzard, and he also felt a twinge of shame even stronger than his innate cowardice, and so he entered the staircase. "Oh, and better close that door," called Livingston, over his shoulder. "We don't want staff to get suspicious." "All right," said Harry, and he turned and closed the door, which did feel as if its lock had been broken. "Follow me," called Livingston. "We're on our way now." Yes, but where to? Nevertheless, Harry put the matchbook in his coat pocket and followed Livingston down, keeping one hand on the iron railing. The bulb from above the staircase only illuminated a small area of the surrounding floor at its bottom, and beyond this pool of faint light was only darkness, thick, black, and silent, with a faint reddish glow off to the left. When Harry got to the foot of the staircase Livingston stood there looking around. "Our basement smells just like this. Like burnt coal and moldering old stacks of National Geographics, and stale semen." "I think there's a light switch on the wall there," said Harry, pointing to the right of the staircase. "Flick it." "Okay." Harry went over and flicked the switch, and about thirty feet ahead a single overhead bulb came on, exuding a progressively faint pale light over the basement, revealing hundreds of shelves and boxes and bleak tarpaulin-covered hillocks, and to the left the source of the faint reddish glow, a large furnace, and near it what appeared to be a big black coal bin.  "Oh, I say, look over there," said Livingston, pointing to the right, "the wine and brandy!" Indeed on the wall to the right were shelves upon shelves with bottles laid on their sides. "Yes, I see," said Harry. "Should we grab a couple bottles?" "Listen, Livingston," said Harry, "do we really want to walk around carrying a couple of wine bottles?" "It doesn't have to be wine," said Livingston. "We could take some brandy. I happen to know there are some very fine bottles of Napoleon brandy and Armagnac on those shelves. Not to mention some excellent ports, madeiras, and sherries."  "Let's not," said Harry. "Oh, all right," said Livingston. "Come on, let's find that secret door, shall we? Follow me." Livingston strode purposefully ahead, and Harry followed. Was this to be his fate, to be a follower? And was not everything he had ever written merely following in the steps of far better writers who had gone before him? Was he nothing more than a lowly epigone both in his work and in his life? He trailed Livingston across the basement, past the brighter section under the overhead light, and into the dimmer area beyond, where he found Livingston shoving on the side of a large open cupboard full of cardboard boxes China-marked XMAS DECORATIONS. "Give us a hand here, Harry boy. Pull on the other side." Again Harry obeyed orders, and, working together, after a few minutes of huffing and puffing they managed to move the heavy cupboard a few feet to the left. "Okay, I see it now, God damn it," said Livingston. "Just a bit more now. Heave ho." Not two minutes later they had pulled and shoved the cupboard aside to reveal a door, a plain wooden door, all covered with dust and cobwebs. "This is it," said Livingston. "The secret door. Pompey definitely said it was never locked, so let's go." "I'm afraid, Livingston," said Harry. "Yes, you said that already," said Livingston. "But we must conquer our fears." "Why?" said Harry. "Aren't our fears there for a reason?" "Ha ha, yes, I suppose so. Now let's go." There was a doorknob, an old wooden one, and he put his hand on it and turned and pulled. "That's odd," said Livingston. "I'm certain Pompey said it wasn't locked." "Let's go back," said Harry. "Nonsense," said Livingston. "Not after we've come this far." That's what Napoleon said at the gates of Moscow." "Ha ha, that's why I like you, Harry, always one with a witty riposte." He yanked and turned and pulled on the doorknob again. "It must be locked, Livingston," said Harry. "No," said Livingston, "it's just like that door upstairs, stuck from the bloating of this ancient wood in the damp." "But –" "Just a mo," said Livingston, and he reached into his mackinaw pocket. "I know just the thing." And Harry saw with horror that Livingston was taking out and putting on what could only be a set of brass knuckles, and rearing back he slammed his fist against the doorknob with a dithering crack that broke the knob off the door, which popped open inward, revealing a dark and seemingly endless passageway. "Bingo," said Livingston, and he turned with a smile to Harry. "And that's how you do that, my chum.”

"The Secret Door"

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

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

This episode made possible in part through the generous support of the Husky Boy Tobacco Company's Foundation for the Humanities

"Don't we all wake up some nights screaming in terror? Whenever this happens to me, I simply light up a soothing Husky Boy cigarette, and soon enough I am back in the realms of peaceful oblivion." – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery, A Dame Named Mame

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

They came to the end of the hall and to a door on which was painted in cursive gilt letters:  W.C. Livingston pushed open the door and gestured for Harry to go first, and Harry did, entering a spacious lavatory of marble and granite, porcelain and dark wood, and at the head of a row of sinks to the left a tiny old Negro man in a white jacket sat on a stool reading a paperback book. "Ah, Mr. Lovechild," said the little man, putting a bookmark into the book and rising. "How's it hanging, Pompey?"  "By a thread, sir, but who am I to complain, at my advanced age. It is a privilege of sorts still to be alive." "It is indeed, Pompey. By the way, this is my friend, Mr. Harry Beachcroft, the renowned author." "Extraordinary," said the little man. "As I just happened to be reading one of the gentleman's novels."  He held up the book, which was Harry's Dames Spell Trouble, a novel he only vaguely recalled writing about five years previously. "How is it?" said Livingston. "I can't say I've read that one." "Pretty good," said the man. "May I borrow it when you're finished?" "Sure, Mr. Lovechild." "Anyway, we're just gonna take a quick leak." "Leak away, sir." "This way, Harry," said Livingston, and he led him over to a row of urinals, cracked and yellowed with age. "Livingston," said Harry. "This is awkward for me to say, but would you mind if we do not use adjoining urinals?" "I assure you I don't have cooties, old man." "It's not that," said Harry. "It's just that I feel uncomfortable urinating next to another man." "Oh, so it's nothing personal," said Livingston. "No, not at all." "It's actually a very common condition," interposed the tiny old man.  "Really?" said Livingston. "Yes, sir. Some gentleman turn around and leave if even one other gentleman is standing at the urinals." "Oh, okay," said Livingston. "So I shouldn't be offended." "Not at all, sir," said the old man. "You know what they say?" "No." "It takes all kinds, Mr. Lovechild. And some gentlemen just can't bear to make water in the presence of another gentleman. It's nothing to be ashamed of." "No, I suppose not." "Whereas other gentlemen take seemingly great relish in relieving themselves in the close company of other gentlemen." "Yes, I've noticed that," said Livingston. "I must say it's a matter of indifference to me. As long as chaps don't try to grab my johnson in mid-pee." "Ha ha, you are a jester, sir." "I feel we must jest, Pompey, if we are to make this life at all bearable." "A little jesting never hurt nobody, sir." "Livingston," said Harry. "Yes, Harry." "I really have to go, so if you don't mind –" "Sure, go right ahead, chum," said Livingston. "You take whichever end you prefer, and I'll take the other one." Harry quickly went over to the urinal on the far right. Why hadn't he asked to use the bathroom before leaving Livingston's house? He knew why. It was because he had been too foolishly shy to ask where the bathroom was. He was a fool, he always had been a fool, he would doubtless remain a fool, and he would die a fool.  He unbuttoned his fly and tried to put the fact that there were two other men in this restroom out of his mind. But the problem with this was that the one way to insure that something stayed in the forefront of his mind was to try to put it out of his mind.  He sensed that Livingston had taken a stand down at the other end of the line of five or six urinals, and then he heard Livingston's voice, singing, to a nameless tune: Oh, I am a bold young mountebank, some call me Fred, some call me Frank, and I wander around from town to town and ne'er will you see me wear a frown. I knew a young lass from Boston, Mass., she was full of fun and also sass; she would brook no nonsense nor no crap, and she gave me a dose of crabs and clap. So sing ye high and sing ye low as down, down, and down we go, sing a happy song and a roundelay, sing a song and then go away… As Livingston sang, at last Harry felt his bladder let loose and a great stream of urine came out of him and splashed against the stained porcelain.  Three minutes later he was finished, and Livingston seemingly was also, as he stopped his song in the middle of a line and flushed. Harry re-buttoned and joined Livingston at the sinks. "Hope you didn't mind my singing," said Livingston, turning a  tap handle. "But I love to sing while peeing. I don't know why. But do I know why I do anything? Not really." "I didn't mind," said Harry, punching some liquid soap from a bulbous dispenser on the wall in front of him. He looked at his face i n the mirror as he washed his hands. Yes, he was no longer young, and to be quite honest he looked at the very least five years older than he was. In another ten years he would look twenty years older than he was. But would he even live another ten years? People dropped like flies these days, possibly due to excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages and tobacco, not to mention lack of physical exercise and poor diet. Perhaps he should stop drinking and smoking, and begin each day with a brisk and bracing mile's walk? The odd push-up wouldn't hurt either. But what would he do with himself if he couldn't enjoy two packs of cigarettes a day, and spend at least three hours every night drinking bock? Was such a straitened and abstinent life even worth living? "To dry your hands, sir." This was the little man, standing next to him and offering a white towel. "Oh, thank you," said Harry, and he took the towel. "You're quite welcome, sir." Livingston was already drying his hands with a towel. "Say, Pompey, maybe you can help us out. We want to sneak out quietly without running into some of the old boys out there." "An Irish goodbye, sir." "Yes, exactly. Do you think it would be okay if we sneaked out the servants' entrance into the back alley?" "Normally I would say yes, but, alas, the back entrance and the alleyway are completely choked with snow. Even I had to come in for my shift today through the front door. However, there is another way." "There is?" "Yes. In the basement there is a secret door leading to a tunnel, its provenance unknown." "And where does this tunnel lead to?" "It runs westward all the way under MacDougal Street to another secret door, opening into yet another basement, and from there you can simply go up the stairs and you will be free to go where you will." "Splendid," said Livingston. "And can you tell us how to get to this secret door in the basement?" "Of course, sir. I would take you there myself, but, alas –" "You can't leave your post." "Exactly, sir." "I quite understand." "So, how do we find this secret door?" The little man rattled off detailed directions, and when he had finished he said, "The door should be unlocked. If it sticks, just give it a good pull, but close it behind you, as no one is supposed to know about it. The tunnel will be dark, so be prepared to illuminate your way with cigarette lighters or matches, or both. It should take you only a matter of minutes to reach the end of the tunnel and the other secret door at its end." "Sounds good," said Livingston, "and, Pompey, thank you for everything." Livingston had his wallet out, and he removed a five-dollar bill and offered it to the little man. "This is entirely too much," said the man.  "Not at all," said Livingston. "You're a lifesaver, Pompey. Otherwise we would have had to go back out there and get trapped by those old bore-asses for another hour or two. Now please, take it." "Very well, sir. And thank you." The little man took the five and stuck it in his jacket pocket. "I wish you godspeed, gentlemen," he said, "and only the best of luck." "Thanks, Pompey." Livingston turned to Harry. "You ready, buddy?" "Yes," said Harry. He held up the towel. "What should I do with this?" "Just leave it on the side of the sink, sir," said the little man. "I'll take care of it." "Thank you," said Harry. "All right, Harry," said Livingston. "Let's go find this secret door, shall we?" "Okay," said Harry. They said goodnight to the little man, who said goodnight back to them, and they left the W.C. and went out again into the dim hallway hung with faded portraits. "He said to bear to the left, didn't he?" said Livingston. "I'm not quite sure," said Harry, who had not been paying close attention, and who had never in his life been able to follow directions anyway. "I think he said left," said Livingston. "So let's go." They came to the end of the hallway, and Livingston turned right, and Harry almost said something, but didn't, and went along with him, down another dim corridor, which seemed to end in darkness.

“Set Sail for Surabaya"

Yet another sad tale of la vie de la bohème, by Dan Leo

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

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

"My idea of heaven is good friends, good talk, good drink, and a full carton of rich flavorful Husky Boy cigarettes!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "stunning"* new novel That Bus Doesn't Go There

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

They headed toward the crowded bar, but someone called out. "Livingston, old man." This was a fat older man sitting at a booth to the left, and he was with another older man who was thin. "Oh, hi, Mr. Boosterman," said Livingston. "Get over here, boy," said the fat man. Livingston and Harry went over to the table. Both of the older men were smoking cigars, and they had highball glasses in front of them. The one who had called was bald and his pink face seemed about to burst from inside like a balloon. The thin one's face was the color of a damp fog on a winter morning. They were aged perhaps somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five. "Who's your pal, Livingston?" said the fat man. "This is my friend the noted author Harry Beachcroft," said Livingston. "Harry, this is Mr. Boosterman and Mr. Pickles." "Hello," said Harry.  "Did you say Harry Beachcroft?" said Mr. Boosterman. "Yes," said Livingston. "Jesus Christ," said Mr. Boosterman. "Did you hear that, Pickles?" "I did indeed," said the thin man. "Not the author of Dead Man on a Merry-Go-Round?" said Mr. Boosterman. "Yes," said Harry. "And Dead Dames Don't Blather?" "Yes," said Harry. "Set Sail for Surabaya?" "Yes, that was me," said Harry. "Good God, sir, it is an honor to meet you," said the fat man. "I would rise to shake your hand, but unfortunately my girth would make it awkward, stuffed into this booth as I am." "That's quite all right, sir," said Harry. "You and Livingston must join us for a libation." "Well, uh," said Harry. "Why not?" said Livingston. He squeezed down into the booth next to Mr. Boosterman, and Harry slipped in on the side of Mr. Pickles.  "The Far Side of Hades," said Mr. Boosterman, "now there was a good novel!" "Thanks," said Harry. "Three Cheers for the Damned," continued Mr. Boosterman, "that was a rousing epic." "Thanks again," said Harry. "But you seem so young," said Mr. Boosterman. "I should have imagined you to be in your fifties at least." "At heart I am in my fifties," said Harry. "Ha ha," said Mr. Pickles. "I myself felt quite ancient even in the first grade." "Who was it said age is just a number?" said Mr. Boosterman. "A very wise fellow," said Livingston. Another old man appeared at the table, carrying a tray and with a napkin over his arm. "Drinks, gentlemen?" "Yes, Claude," said Mr. Boosterman, "two more of the same for me and Mr. Pickles, and whatever our guests are having." "My usual Cutty and soda with no ice, please," said Livingston. "What are you having, Harry?" "I guess I'll have what you're having," said Harry. He might as well get drunk, or drunker. What was the point of sobriety at this juncture? They sat and Mr. Boosterman named more of Harry's novels, even ones Harry had forgotten he'd written, which, he reflected, is easy to do when you've churned out one every two or three months over the course of a dozen years. The drinks came, and they drank, and the conversation shifted away from Harry's books, and after a while Harry thought, so, this is the way the upper crust live, or at least the way some of them do. They sit in their clubs and drink and talk superficially and state opinions on various subjects. The only real difference between these men and the clientèle of his own local tavern Bob's Bowery Bar was money. This seemed almost a profound insight, and he made a mental note to put it in his work in progress (working title: A Cloudy Day in Newport), a novel of anomie and despair among the moneyed élite, which thus far he had based only on Hollywood movies and the novels of Henry James, Edith Wharton, and John P. Marquand, from the Cholly Knickerbocker column in the Journal-American, and from New Yorker stories he would read or skim in the public library. He didn't consider this lack of first-hand knowledge of his subject cheating; after all, what did Shakespeare know about the royal court of medieval Denmark, or of the great families of Italy, or of ancient Rome, and no one ever called Shakespeare a phony or a poseur. It occurred to Harry that perhaps he should pay closer attention to the conversation at the table, and maybe he would pick up some good material, but the problem with that idea was that the conversation was boring, so much so that he forgot each drawling sentence or sentence fragment as soon as it was spoken, and then he realized further that he had in fact never been so bored in his entire life, not forgetting his wretchedly unheroic wartime service typing up requisitions in triplicate at Fort Dix, New Jersey. "What do you think, Mr. Beachcroft?" said Mr. Pickles. "Um, well, that's hard to say," said Harry, having not the slightest idea of the topic in question. "But you are an author," said Mr. Pickles. "An intellectual." "Well, I'm not so sure about the intellectual part," said Harry. "You are far too modest," said Mr. Boosterman. "No one could write a searing novel like Sideshow Sally and Jimmy the Geek and not be an intellectual." "Or Two Tickets to Tehatchapee," said Livingston. "You want searing? That book seared like a hot poker." "It did indeed," said Mr. Boosterman. "So, please, Mr. Beachcroft, we implore you, in the words of the Bawdy Bard, to 'unmuzzle your wisdom'." "Well, I would," said Harry, "but." "But what?" Should he just admit that he had been paying only the vaguest attention to a word that had been said since he and Livingston had seated themselves here fifteen minutes or a half hour ago? But such an admission might cause ill feeling. Fortunately, Harry's dilemma was solved by his bladder, as he suddenly realized that he actually did need to go to the lavatory. "Gentlemen, I will give you my thoughts on this subject, but first I am afraid that I must answer a call to nature. So if you could perhaps direct me to the men's room?" "I'll show you, buddy," said Livingston. "If you could just give me directions," said Harry, who had always felt awkward going to the men's room with other men. "No, I have to go also," said Livingston. "Oh, okay." "Right, come with me," said Livingston. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse us." "Hope it all comes out okay," said Mr. Boosterman.  "Don't forget to give it that one extra wag," said Mr. Pickles. "Ha ha, come on, Harry, let me be your guide," said Livingston. He shoved himself out of the booth, and Harry did as well. "Hurry back, Mr. Beachcroft," said Mr. Boosterman. "I really want to hear your opinion on this matter." "Um, uh," said Harry. "Let's go," said Livingston. "I really gotta go." They set off once again through the barroom, and Livingston put his mouth close to Harry's ear. "I tend to forget how soul-crushingly deadly those guys are, but then I talk to them again, and it all comes rushing back to me. Come, we must make our escape." "Okay, but I really do have to pee." "So also I, but then we should bolt this popsicle stand posthaste." "Where to?" said Harry. "Does it matter?" said Livingston. "As a man once said, I think it might have been me, but I'll say it again: anywhere but here. This place is okay in small doses, but there's too many of these drudges here. Follow me, we'll go take a slash, and then high adventure awaits."  Adventure? Harry had written about adventure in dozens of novels and stories and serialized novellas, but he could not say he had even once experienced what might reasonably be called adventure. Would he experience it this night? And if he did indeed experience it, would he live to transform it into salable fiction, perhaps even into art?  He followed Livingston through the smoke-clouded room, full of babbling bores and the reekings of tobacco and liquor and leathery colognes. "Oh, by the way, Livingston." "Yes, Harry." "What was it those guys were asking me about, anyway?" "I haven't the slightest idea. And you know what? It doesn't matter. Okay, down this hallway for the pisser. Come on." Harry followed Livingston down another dim hallway, hung with faded and dingy portraits of tedious tosspots of the past.