"Diamond Jim"

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.

"When you smoke a full-bodied Husky Boy cigarette – made of only the finest Virginia tobaccos – let me tell you, boy, you know you're smoking something!" - Horace P. Sternwall, your host of the Husky Boy Television Theatre, broadcast "live" Tuesdays at 9 PM on the DuMont Network; this week's episode: Mr. Sternwall's "Before the Devil Knows You're Fred", directed by Artemis Boldwater, and starring Hyacinth Wilde and Angus Strongbow; featuring Miss Ruth Gordon in a special guest appearance

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"Excuse me, gentlemen!" Addison and Milford turned as one to see an enormous portly man emerging from a dark adjoining corridor. The man wore a fur overcoat, and carried a cane, and on his head was a smart derby hat. In his mouth was a cigarette in a jet black holder, and he smiled in what seemed a friendly fashion. "I see you are having difficulties in igniting your cigarette," said the man. "Why, yes, sir," said Addison. "It seems my friend's lighter is en panne, as the French say." "Which is why I always carry good old fashioned Ohio Blue Tip matches," said the big man, approaching, and taking a large box of the aforementioned matches from his coat. "Made of good sturdy American aspen wood. Here, allow me." Hooking the crook of his cane on his thick forearm, he opened the matchbox, took out a match with his fat fingers, struck it, and gave Addison a light. "Thank you, sir," said Addison. "Here," said the fat man, tossing away the match and proffering the matchbox, "keep it, pal. I always carry a back-up box or two." "Gee, thanks," said Addison, and he took the box. The man turned to Milford. "Not smoking, chum?" "That was my last cigarette," said Milford. "You gave away your last cigarette?" "Um," said Milford. The fat man turned back to Addison. "That's quite a friend you've got there, fella." "Yes, indeed," said Addison. "Some people say a dog is a man's best friend," said the man. "But try to get a cigarette from a dog." He turned to Milford again, bringing out a golden cigarette case studded with sparkling stones, and he clicked it open. "Take one, buddy, I hope you like Husky Boys King Size." "Thanks," said Milford, and he picked out a cigarette. "Brady's the name," said the man clicking the case smartly shut, and shoving it into a pocket, "known popularly as 'Diamond Jim', but my friends all call me Jim, plain and simple. Call me Jim, because I consider every man my friend until he has proven himself otherwise." "Pleased to meet you, Jim," said Addison, and he struck a match from his newly-gifted box of Blue Tips and lighted Milford's cigarette. "And might I presume to know your own names?" said the man whose friends allegedly called him Jim. "Well," said Addison, flicking away the match, "my friends all seem to call me Addison, or should I say my acquaintances, because, to be quite honest I have only one real friend, at least of the male gender –" "And that is this young fellow?" said Jim. "Yes," said Addison. "And, Jim, meet my friend Milford." "Pleased to meet you, Wilfred," said Jim, and he extended his great hand, on the middle finger of which was a large bejeweled signet ring. "Um, hi, Jim," said Milford, and he allowed his small hand to be enveloped in the big man's hand. "Don't worry, fella, I won't crush your hand. Even though my strength is as legendary as my appetites, I got no time for these guys always gotta advertise their masculinity by trying to crush another fella's paw." "I appreciate it, sir," said Milford, withdrawing his hand after only a mildly painful squeeze and a shake that shook his whole slender body. "And may I press my flesh to yours, Mathewson?" said the man to Addison. "By all means," said Addison, and he in turn allowed his own weakling's hand to be swallowed up by the big fat man's huge hand. "Two young bucks out on the town," said the man called Jim, releasing Addison's hand without unbearable harm. "From the looks of you both I judge you to be members of the bohemian demimonde. You, Mr. Harrelman," he said, addressing Addison, who was wagging his right hand to get the blood flowing again, "you, sir, taking into account your worn old topcoat and that faded brown department-store suit, you I make to be a novelist, unpublished at present, but yet you still have time, before you fatally succumb to that predilection common to all great American writers, in other words, booze, you still have time I say to finish your sprawling epic of the old American west." "That is very preceptive of you, Jim," said Addison. "Whereas you, Milfrey," said Jim to Milford, "considering your peacoat, your fisherman's sweater and workman's dungarees, and of course your newsboy's cap as well as your thick round spectacles and facial pallor, you of course must be a poet, yes, a lyric poet if I am not too far terribly wrong." "Well, attempted lyric poet," said Milford. "I myself am a man of business," said the huge man called Jim, "but I have always had a great fondness for the arts and especially for those who create art. In another life perhaps I would have trod the boards, specializing in embodying Shakespeare's immortal Falstaff. However, in a sense I am an artist, but my art is my life, the living of my life to the full. But I look at you two young scamps and I confess I feel just a tinge of envy. Ah, to be young again, just like the pair of you, wandering from saloon to pool hall to dance hall to bawdy house and then back again, I'll warrant, on an endless rollicking merry-go-round of debauchery. I do hope you're not on your way home yet." "Well, no, not actually," said Addison. "You see, we were just looking for –" "Splendid!" said Diamond Jim. "I insist that you accompany me, as my guests, of course, to the nearest likely tavern or bistro where we will eat, drink and make merry, because life is short and we must make the stuff of memories even if we get too plastered to remember them!" "Well, that sounds great, Jim," said Addison, "but as I meant to say, we're trying to find a certain bar in particular –" "What's it called?" said Jim. "It's called the Hideaway I believe," said Addison. "The Negro saloon?" "Yes, precisely," said Addison. "Do you know it?" "I know it very well," said the big man. "Have you been there before?" "Yes, we just left there not so long ago, and now we would like to go back, but we've been having trouble finding it." "I could take you there," said the big stout man. "You could, you would?" said Addison. "I should be glad to," said the man known as Diamond Jim. "But why if I may I ask did you ever leave such a delightful caravansary in the first place?" "Well," said Addison, "that's a little difficult to explain. You see, Milford here had momentarily gotten a little under the weather so to speak." "A drop too much taken, my boy?" said Jim, winking and smiling at Milford. "Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, "especially because I am an alcoholic and shouldn't drink at all, but also, besides drinking wine and beer and whiskey and grog, and for reasons not quite clear to me, I had earlier smoked hashish and marijuana, and eaten the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians, and most recently smoked a couple of special hand-rolled cigarettes comprised apparently of Bull Durham tobacco mixed with Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum." "What a jackanapes, you are, young sir!" said Jim. "Yes, well, anyway," said Milford, "it all got a bit much for me, and so I decided to go home, or try to go home. And Addison here was nice enough to offer to see me home." "But now you have changed your mind." "Yes," said Milford. "And, again, not to seem intrusively inquisitive, may I ask why?" "Well, uh," said Milford. "You see, Jim," helped out Addison, "we left some ladies at the Hideaway." "Ah, ladies!" said Jim. "Yes, ladies," said Addison. The man looked at Milford. "So you came to your senses," said the big fellow. "I'm not so sure about that," said Milford, "but at any rate, I, and Addison, we decided to go back." "Because of the ladies." "Yes," said Milford. "Because of the ladies. Because, because –" "Never mind, my boy, you have said enough," said Jim. "Why did Odysseus wend his long and winding and peril-fraught way back to Ithaca?" "Because of a lady?" "Precisely. But precious time is wasting. Therefore, let us stand not upon the order of our going, but as the bawdy Bard put it, go at once." "And you know really know how to get to the Hideaway?" asked Addison. "My good fellow, there's not a bar on this happy island I don't know how to get to," said Diamond Jim. "Now let's bust a move. By the way, I do hope your lady friends have other lady friends." "They do, actually," said Addison. "Then what are we dallying for? Come with me." The big man turned and lumbered off, with surprising speed for his size, like a great thirsty hippopotamus trampling the savannah towards a water hole, and Addison and Milford stepped quickly to catch up with him as the dithering thumping of his great booted feet reverberated through the air and along the trembling boards of the flooring.

"The Last Husky Boy"

Another true 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 brought to you by the good people of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"I know of no greater pleasure than to begin my day with a visit to Ma's Diner, located just catercorner from my humble digs at the junction of Bleecker and the Bowery, where I invariably order a piping hot mug of the house freshly ground hickory 'joe', and pair it with a fine Husky Boy cigarette – composed of only the finest 'organic' Virginia tobaccos!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "stirring"* new novel, The Sad Cowpoke and the Can-Can Gal

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat

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Addison," said Milford, after a good ten minutes of wandering in alternating near to total but now only partial darkness, "I'm getting tired of this." "I confess so also I," said Addison, "even I who hardly ever gets tired of anything." "What?" said Milford.  He stopped while he dug out his cigarettes, and Addison did the same. "I said so also am I getting tired, just a trifle mind you." "Yes, but you said you hardly ever get tired of anything?" "Hardly ever, old chap, truth be told." "But how is that possible?" "I don't know really," said Addison, noticing that his crumpled Chesterfield pack held only one cigarette Milford looked into his own Husky Boy pack. Only two left. "I wake up in the morning tired," he said, and put his second-to-last cigarette in his lips. "You poor fellow," said Addison, putting his last Chesterfield in his mouth and tossing the empty pack to the floor. "Do you not sleep well?" "I sleep on an average of ten hours a night," said Milford, putting away his pack with one last Husky Boy in it, and taking out his Ronson. "So your problem is not lack of sleep," said Addison, bringing out his book of Bob's Bowery matches. "No," said Milford, clicking his lighter repeatedly, "my problem is that I can't sleep twenty-four hours a day." "Ha ha," said Addison, tearing off a match, the last one, "I should think you'd need to get up now and then to eat and drink, and to perform your urinary and fecal evacuations." "Regrettably, yes, and regretfully," said Milford, still clicking his Ronson. Addison lighted his last cigarette with his last match, and then, exuding Chesterfield smoke gently from his narrow nostrils, with cupped hands he offered the light to Milford, who was still clicking his lighter in vain. "Thank you," said Milford, accepting the light, and after coughing up a small tattered cloud of Husky Boy smoke he said, "I don't know what's the matter with this lighter." "Perhaps it needs fuel," said Addison. "I fill it every morning," said Milford. "It's been a long time since morning," said Addison, letting his match and empty matchbook fall to the floor. "How many cigarettes did you smoke today?"  "Almost three packs," said Milford. "Do you think that's too much?" "Not if you can afford it, old man." "I can afford it, but they say that cigarettes can give you cancer." "Who cares?" said Addison, exhaling a great cloud of rich Chesterfield smoke. "Cancer is something that happens to old people." "I envy you," said Milford, coughing out a bit more hot Husky Boy smoke, "your insouciant attitude towards life." "Oh, as long as my aunts and great-aunts continue to send me the odd banknote for five or ten dollars," said Addison, "and on my birthday and Christmas maybe even a twenty, who am I to complain?" "But what will you do when your aunts and great-aunts die?" "Well, my dear fellow, I only hope that they will remember to remember me in their last wills and testaments, but no matter, because soon enough I hope to be a best-selling novelist, with a handsome brownstone on the Upper East Side and a summer cottage in Cape May." "You really think someone will publish your novel?" "Why not? I truly think that an epic of the old west, but treated in a deeply philosophical, and, yes, poetic manner, just might be what the public needs in these parlous times." Milford said nothing. Who was he to disabuse his only friend of that friend's laughable delusions? No, better to say nothing if the only thing he had to say was the truth, which was that Addison was the last person on earth who would or could conceivably write a best-selling epic of the old west. "Hey," he said, abruptly, and glad to change the subject, "I think I see a faint glimmer of light up ahead." "I do believe you're right," said Addison. "Could it be what's its name, the bar?" "The Hideaway I believe it's called." "Yes, could it be the Hideaway." "It might be," said Addison. Saying not a word more, they set off again down the corridor. Alas when after a few more minutes they reached the source of the light it was only a dirty electric light bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling. "I don't understand it," said Milford, halting under the lightbulb. "What is this weird building we're in, with these endless dark or dim corridors?" "You know," said Addison, "I was just starting to wonder that myself." "And what kind of building has all these different bars in it, placed at random in these endless dim corridors?" said Milford. "I confess it's the first of its kind I've encountered," said Addison. "I just don't understand it," said Milford. "But, my dear chap," said Addison, "isn't all of existence quite incomprehensible?" "Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, "but this place seems, I don't know –" "What?" said Addison. "I'm afraid that I've lost my mind," said Milford. "I feel as if I've entered the realm of madness." "Well, my dear Milford," said Addison, "if you've entered the realm of madness, then so too have I." "Oh, well," said Milford, after a pause. "I suppose we should keep walking." "Might as well," said Addison. And they shuffled along, at a much slower pace now, smoking their cigarettes in silence. There was nothing more to say, not that having nothing to say had invariably kept either fellow silent before. In due time their cigarettes had been smoked down to the final half-inch, and Addison took one last drag and tossed his butt away to the littered floor. "Well, that's my last cigarette," he said. "Really?" said Milford. He let his own butt drop to the floor and stubbed it out with his stout workman's brogan. "I only have one left after this myself." "We'll find the bar," said Addison. "And we can buy fresh packs there." "But what if we never find it?" "We're sure to find some other bar then. They'll have a machine." "I'm scared, Addison. I think I'm starting to panic." "Well, at least you have one Husky Boy left, to calm your nerves." "This is true," said Milford. "I should light it up. But what will you do?" "I'll manage, somehow." "I would share the Husky Boy with you, but I can't bear the thought of sharing a cigarette with another man, and potentially mingling his saliva with mine." "Quite all right old chap, and in fact I should think your squeamishness is only proof that you are at the very least a latent heterosexual." "Do you really think so?" "I do." "Then why do people keep accusing me of being homosexual." "I haven't the slightest, and I know I myself get accused of being shall we say light in the loafers all the time, and I likewise cannot for the life of me see why." Actually, Milford could see why people thought Addison homosexual, but he didn't say so. Now that he finally did have a friend, he didn't want to offend him needlessly. "Look," said Milford, "you can have my cigarette, Addison." He dug into the pocket of his peacoat and brought out his crumpled Husky Boy pack, with one last cigarette in it, and offered the pack to Addison. "But it's your last one, dear chap," said Addison, "I know," said Milford, "but you can have it." Addison looked away, drew a breath, held it in for a moment and then slowly exhaled, still looking away. "What's the matter?" said Milford. "Please don't tell me you're having a heart attack." "No," said Addison, after a brief pause, and in a softer voice than usual. "Then what is it?" Addison turned to look at Milford, as if shyly. "It's just," he said, "hang it all, man, I very rarely become overcome with emotion, in fact if anything I tend to be undercome with emotion, to coin a phrase." "But what are you overcome with emotion about?" said Milford. Addison paused again before speaking. "You offered me your last cigarette," he said. "So what?" said Milford.  "I've never had anyone offer me their last cigarette." "Oh," said Milford. "Anyway, here."  He proffered the pack. "Go on, take it." "I can't," said Addison. "I can't take your last cigarette, old man." "Go ahead," said Milford. "We'll find a bar, and they'll have a machine and we can buy fresh cigarettes." "But what will you do in the meantime if I smoke your last cigarette?" "I suppose I'll suffer, but most likely not unbearably." "You would volunteer to suffer," said Addison, "whilst I enjoyed your last Husky Boy?" "It's better than the alternative, which would be to smoke it myself, being aware all the time that you were suffering." "Good lord, man, you know what you're evincing, don't you?" "I think it's called neurosis," said Milford. "No, my dear fellow," said Addison, "it is what men call empathy." "Oh. Well, maybe not. I think it's just that I'd be too aware of your suffering to enjoy the cigarette myself." "Empathy, precisely." "I still think that's a stretch," said Milford. "My mother says I never think about anyone but myself." "Well, I think you've proven her wrong," said Addison. "Anyway, take the cigarette," said Milford. Addison looked at the proffered pack, and involuntarily licked his lips. "How are those Husky Boys, anyway?" he asked. "They're all right," said Milford.  "I've always wanted to try one." "Why didn't you?" "Oh, I don't know," said Addison, "I suppose I was afraid I wouldn't like them as much as Chesterfields, and then I'd be stuck having to smoke a whole pack of them." "Take the cigarette, Addison." "You're quite serious?" "There's no point in us both suffering." Addison paused, partly raised his right hand, then abruptly lowered it. No," he said, "I can't." "If you don't take it I'm just going to throw it away." "Dear God, man, don't do that." "Then take it." "But –" "Please, just take it. I want you to take it." "Um –" "Go on, Addison," said Milford. "My arm is getting tired." "Well, only if you really insist," said Addison, raising his hand again. "I insist." "All right, then," said Addison.  Milford gave the pack a shake and the head of a Husky Boy protruded through the opening. "Like a weary soldier poking his head from a foxhole, wondering if the enemy has really and truly retreated from the field," said Addison. Milford said nothing, but continued to proffer the pack. "All right," said Addison, and quickly he picked out the cigarette between thumb and finger. He looked at Milford. "I don't care what people say about you, Milford, you're all right in my book." He put the cigarette in his mouth and patted his pockets.  "Oh, dear, I just remembered I used up my last match. I wonder if I might have a light from your Ronson?" "Sure," said Milford. He dropped the empty pack to the littered and dirty floor, and then he patted his own pockets, found the one his lighter was in and brought it out. He then put its business end below the end of the Husky Boy in Milford's lips, and clicked the little button. No flame appeared, but then it never did on first click, and so he clicked it again, and again, and, sighing for at least the twelve thousandth and forty-second time in his current long day's journey into a seemingly endless night, he clicked it a dozen more times, to no avail. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why it won't work." Addison removed the cigarette from his lips. "And so now," he said, "we both suffer."

"Tears of the Damned"

Another cautionary 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.

"Wondering how to 'break the ice' with that attractive young lady sitting next to you on the subway? Offer her a Husky Boy, big boy!" – Hyacinth Wilde, now starring in Horace P. Sternwall's smash new play Moon Over Montana, at the Demotic Theatre (group rates available)

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I'm sorry," said Addison, "what?" "Did I mumble?" said Punch. "Well, it sounded like you said you wanted our immortal souls." "So I wasn't mumbling," said the little man. "Oh," said Addison. "Okay," said Milford, "you know what? The hell with this madman. Let's go, Addison." "Where are you going?" said Punch. "Anywhere but here," said Milford. "You'll never find the Hideaway on your own," said Punch. "That's our problem." "I assumed you wanted to lose your virginities," said the man. "No one said anything about us losing our virginities," said Milford. "No one had to," said Punch. "Just look at the pair of you. If ever there was a pair of unfucked fuckwads it was you two." "Okay. Goodbye," said Milford. "Come on, Addison." "That's right, go ahead," said the little man, "go ahead and wander around lost all night, and for the rest of your pathetic lives for all I care, it's no skin off my nose." Milford gave a pat to Addison's arm. "Come on." "All right," said Addison. "Go ahead, go," said Punch. "But which way?" Milford paused.  "Um," he said. "See?" said Punch. "You don't even know which way to go, do you?" Milford turned and looked one way along the hall, and then the other way in the opposite direction. Then he pointed the first  way, with his right hand. "That way," he said. "Got news for you," said Punch. "That's the wrong way." "Fine," said Milford. "So we'll go the other way." "Fat lot of good that will do you," said Punch, "because I can tell you right now that there are some several more turnings in that direction, a few more winding dark corridors, perhaps even a staircase or two, maybe three! No, I'm sorry, my dear fellows, the odds of you two finding the Hideaway on your own are, by my reckoning, slim to none." "We'll take our chances," said Milford. "Yes, but why take a chance?" said Punch. He reached into his old army coat and brought out a scroll of some sort, on thick yellowed and dirty-looking paper. "Here, I have a contract all written up. All I will need are your two John Hancocks, and we're good to go and ready to roll." "Fuck your contract," said Milford. "No need for such vulgar language. And I am surprised to hear it from a young gentleman of such obvious good breeding as yourself." "Fuck your contract and fuck you," said Milford. "Look, what's the big deal?" said Punch. "It's only your souls I'm after. And in return you just might possibly get your ends wet, at long last. How about you, Mr. Hattieson? You seem a reasonable sort." "To be quite honest," said Addison, "I'm not so sure I even believe in the concept of an immortal soul." "Fabulous," said Punch. "In that case, why not sign?" "But what if there is some truth to the concept?" said Addison. "So what?" said Punch. "Bottom line, you want to get to this bar where these alleged 'ladies' are, and maybe – just maybe mind you, perhaps – get laid, and I'm the feller can take you there." He put his cigarette in his lips and reached into his coat again, and came out with a quill pen. "Now all we require is your signature and, boom, Bob's your uncle." "Don't you need some ink for that pen?" said Addison. "Ink?" said the man. "Ha ha, no, we don't need ink, not for this kind of contract. What we do is, I jab you in the finger and draw some blood, and you make your mark with your own blood." "No thanks," said Addison. "Coward," said Punch. "I may be a coward," said Addison, "but you, sir, are insane." "Fine, call me insane if it makes you happy, I don't give a shit, and I've been called far worse." "I don't doubt it," said Addison. "Spawn of the devil, minion of evil, Satan's slave, Beelzebub's butt-boy, I've heard 'em all, and the epithets roll off my back like the tears of the damned." "So you're saying you're a demon?" said Addison. "What did you think I was? The Good Humor Man? Now, here, let me just poke your finger with this quill. It won't hurt. Not much." "No, thank you," said Addison. "Oh, okay, fine, so you want to be like your little buddy here, huh? Go the rest of your life without knowing what it's like to dip your wick into a woman's sacred socket of sensuality." "Well," said Addison, thinking of his would-be paramour Bubbles, "I suppose if push came to shove, one could always pay for the privilege." "Yeah, sure, great," said Punch, "as if you would ever pay for it, 'cause I can tell just looking at you, you would never spend a dime for poontang that you could spend on cheap whiskey and green beer, don't make me laugh, ha, and look, please don't take this the wrong way, but all I have to say is, get used to Lady Five Fingers, pal, because she's the only lady you're ever likely to perform the act of darkness with, and that's for sure." Was it true, thought Addison. Was he destined to die as he had lived, a lonely celibate? And was that necessarily even such a bad thing? Had not even Jesus of Nazareth been a confirmed bachelor? He turned to Milford. "Shall we go then, old chap?" he said. "Yes," said Milford. "Splendid," said Addison. "Which way?" Milford sighed (his twelve thousandth and forty-first sigh since so reluctantly re-entering the world of consciousness the previous morning) then pointed one way, not the way he had pointed to just shortly before. "That way," he said. "Wrong way," said Punch. "But you just said the other way is the wrong way," said Milford. "I was lying," said Punch. "Fine, we'll go the other way," said Milford. "Also the wrong way," said Punch. "I think you're lying again," said Milford. "Last chance," said Punch. "Just sign the contract, and I'll have you where you want to go in a matter of minutes." "How do we know you're not lying now?" said Milford. "You don't. Now come on, sign the fucking scroll and we'll get this show on the road." Milford looked at Addison, and Addison looked at Milford. They both looked one way, and then the other. Milford noticed that his Husky Boy had burnt down to a stub, and he let it drop to the littered floor, then stubbed it out with his sturdy workman's brogan. Addison took one last drag on his own Chesterfield butt, and then flicked it away, not worrying in the least about stubbing it out. And then as one the two companions turned and set off down the hall, in the direction Milford had first indicated not so long ago, although it felt like an hour ago, or a year ago. "Go ahead!" called the man called Punch. "Fuck off, assholes, and godspeed and good luck, because you'll need it, and lots of it. I tried to help you, God knows, and the Devil too. Hey, don't let me stop you. Go on. Walk on endlessly into darkness and oblivion. Be my guests. Did I say fuck you? Well, I'm saying it now. Fuck you, the both of you. And your mothers too!" Addison and Milford continued to walk down the dim corridor, toward the darkness.  The voice of the little man echoed behind them, shouting imprecations, warnings, and dire predictions, and, gradually, it faded away as the two friends wended their way down the dim and dingy winding hallway into the shadows.