"Satori"

Yet 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 get those occasional 'pre-show jitters', I simply light up a fine Husky Boy™ cigarette with the patented new Benzo-Tip© 'cork' filter, and in a matter of seconds I am ready to go out there and 'knock 'em dead'!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of the smash new musical comedy hit, Say There, Sailor Boy! (book and lyrics by Horace P. Sternwall, music by Igor Stravinsky), now playing at the Demotic Theatre on MacDougal Street (group rates available)


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The cab ground to a halt, its motor humming through the falling snow. Its roof and hood were white with snow, and Harry could see the shadowed form of a driver behind the wheel. "Can you help me, sir?" he yelled. "My friend has fallen!" The driver didn't budge, so Harry trudged through the snow around the front of the car to the driver's window and knocked on the crusted glass with his cold bare knuckles. The man inside rolled down the window a few inches. He had an ear-flapped leather cap on his head and a cigar in his mouth. "You want a cab, or don'tcha?" "Yes, sir," said Harry, "I would like a cab, but you see, my friend has collapsed into that snowbank over there, and I wonder if you could help me get him up?" "What do I look like, a good Samaritan?" "Please, sir, if you could just help me get him into your cab, we'll leave you a nice tip." "How far you going?" "Just straight up Bleecker, to Sullivan." "Sullivan," said the man. "I make that like eight blocks." "Whatever you say, sir." "That's what I say," said the cab driver. "Ain't nobody knows this town like I do." "I'm sure that's so," said Harry. "Now would you please help me get my friend into the cab?" "What's he doing lying in that snowbank?" "He, uh, he fell," said Harry. "He fell down, in a snowbank." "Yes," said Harry. "And may I ask why he fell down?" "He, um, uh –" "He's drunk, ain't he?" "Well, it's true he's had a few bocks, but –" "What if he tosses his cookies in my back seat?" "I'm sure he won't." "And what makes you so sure exactly?" "Well, I can't be entirely sure." "He throws up in my back seat who's gonna clean it up? You?" "Look, sir, I believe my friend is fairly well off. If you agree to take us just as far as Sullivan Street, I'm sure he'll make it worth your while." "What's on Sullivan Street anyway?" "His house, he lives in a house at the corner of Bleecker and Sullivan." "One of them big houses?" "Yes, I think so." "You think so?" "I've never been there. I only met him a couple of hours ago." "Sounds a little fishy to me." "Please, sir, he could freeze to death out here." "Ten bucks." "What?"  "Ten bucks, flat fee." "Ten dollars to go eight blocks?" "Take it or leave it, pal. I ain't got all night." "Yes, but –" "Ten bucks, up front. Fork it over and I'll even help you get your pal in the cab." "I don't have ten dollars." "How much you got?" "I don't know, a couple dollars maybe, some change." "You say your buddy's well off, lives in one of them big houses." "Yes." "So get a sawbuck offa him, then I'll give yez a ride. Also you don't even got to tip me." "Wow, thanks." "Don't be sourcastic with me, mac. You talk like that to me, I leave you here, you and your swell buddy." "I'm sorry," said Harry. "Look, please, help me get him into the cab, and I'm sure he'll gladly give you ten dollars." "He'll give it to me all right," said the driver. "I don't know how glad he'll be about it." "Please, sir." "Awright, awright," said the driver. "Jesus H. Crackers. Now get away from the door so's I can open it." "Thank you, sir," said Harry, and he backed away from the door. The cab driver opened the door and disembarked. He was short and squat, wearing a leather jacket with a fur collar. He still had the cigar in his mouth.  "Awright," he said, "let's get this so-called friend of yours." He shut the door, and then he looked up at Harry and pointed his leather-encased stubby finger at him. "But know this. Your buddy throws up on my back seat the price goes up." "Okay," said Harry. "Fine." "Double sawbuck." "What?" said Harry. "You hard of hearing? I said double sawbuck. Twenty simoleons, U.S. currency." "Great," said Harry. "Now please, sir." "Let's go," said the driver. He turned and slogged through the snow around the front of the cab, and Harry followed him to the corner. Livingston still lay face down in the snowbank, and his small but fat body had already been covered almost completely with snow, with just a few patches of his red-and-black checked mackinaw and matching cap visible in the dim light of a streetlamp. "If he's dead the deal is off," said the driver. "I drive a hack, not a hearse." "I doubt he's dead," said Harry. "Make sure," said the driver. "Turn him over." "Can you help me?" "I ain't touching him if he's dead. You turn him over." Harry squatted down, put his cold hands on Livingston's upper arm and shoulder, and after only forty-five seconds and several heaves and pushes, managed to turn him over onto his back. Livingston's face was wet and mottled with crystals of snow, but his eyes opened. "Oh, hello, Harry," he said. "Livingston," said Harry. "Get up. I've got us a cab." "A cab?" "Yes, see? There's the driver." Harry gestured with his thumb at the driver who stood behind him. "Splendid," said Livingston.  "But you have to get up," said Harry. "I'm actually very comfortable here," said Livingston. "It's so soft, and I love the snowflakes falling down into my face and my eyes. I feel as if I could lie here forever, one with God and all the universe. I feel as if I have achieved what the orientals call satori." "This guy is nuts," said the driver. "You take the cab, Harry, my friend," said Livingston. "I shall just lie here, and let myself be covered up and be subsumed by the falling snowflakes. I have no regrets. No, none worth speaking of." "Look," said Harry, "let's get you on your feet." "Really, old man, no need," said Livingston. "You take the cab. Take it straight up Bleecker to the San Remo Café. An establishment in which I have passed untold happy hours. Go inside and stride manfully up to the bar, and, yes, order not one bock but two. One for you, and one for me. And drink both of them. In my memory." Livingston half-closed his eyes against the falling snow, a slight smile on his face, and Harry turned to look up at the cabby. "Look, sir, you get one arm, and I'll get the other, and we'll pull him up." "I'm quite happy here," said Livingston. "He says he's happy here," said the driver. "Yes, but we can't leave him here," said Harry. "He'll freeze to death." "Sounds to me like he don't mind freezing to death." "Look," said Harry, "if we leave him here to freeze you won't get your ten dollars." "You got a point," said the driver, and he plodded through the drift to the other side of Livingston. "Okay, here's what we do, I take one arm, and you take t'other, and we pull him up." "Yes, good idea," said Harry, but his sarcasm apparently was lost on the man. Not more than five minutes later, they managed to get Livingston into the back of the cab, where he immediately slumped over on his side and fell asleep. The driver went around the cab, opened the door and got in behind the wheel. He turned around, taking his cigar out of his mouth, and slid open the wired-glass divider window. "Ten bucks," he said. "Oh, yes, sorry," said Harry. Livingston was out cold, so there was nothing for Harry to do but to go through his friend's pockets until he found his wallet, and when he found it – a handsome brown leather wallet embossed with the cursive initials LPL – it was filled with cash, well over two hundred dollars in twenties, tens, fives, and singles. In fact it was more money than Harry had ever seen at one time in his life. He extricated a ten, and, although he was tempted, that was all he took. "Here you are, sir," he said, handing the bill through the opening in the glass. "Remember," said the driver, "he throws up, that's another ten." "Yes, sir," said Harry, "I remember." The driver closed the partition window, and Harry took one last look at the contents of the wallet, then replaced it into Livingston's back pocket. The cab moaned heavily and then jolted as the driver pulled the gear shift, and off they went, the taxi's motor grumbling and the chains on its tires crunching slowly through the snow, the wipers on the windshield moving grudgingly up and down, smearing the glass with the snowflakes that dropped heavily out of the black sky above, and all that Harry could see through the thick smoke of the driver's cigar and beyond the headlights of the cab were the vague dark shapes of buildings and the pale glowing blotches of windows, behind which, presumably, human beings lived in warmth and safety. Where the hell was he going, and what was he doing? Why had he not remained in the warm smoky confines of Bob's Bowery Bar? He turned and looked at Livingston, slumped in the shadows against the door and sleeping, snoring gently, like a large fat baby, oblivious, and perhaps even happy.

"All the World Is a Vast Museum"

Yet 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 grant from the Husky Boy Tobacco Company's Foundation for the Humanities

"Be sure to collect the entire series of Forgotten American Writers trading cards, found in every pack of Husky Boy™  Cigarettes!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new collection 'The Yawning Maw' and Other Tales to Keep You Up at Night

"Kept this reader up till dawn!" – Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat

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Livingston P. Lovechild opened the door and beckoned, waving with a slight bow. "After you, good sir!" Despite the thick icy gusts of snow swirling through the doorway, Harry stepped through, and Livingston followed him, pulling the door closed behind him. Outside the bar darkness had fallen, and the snow had apparently never stopped falling, now lying at least a foot and a half deep on the sidewalk and banked up in great drifts against the walls of the buildings and the iron pillars of the elevated train, completely covering the humped parked cars along the Bowery. The neon sign heralding BOB'S BOWERY BAR cast its reddish orange glow through the falling snow and onto the snow on the ground, the pale light of a street lamp glowed faintly through the blizzard, and the pink face of Livingston P. Lovechild smiled broadly at Harry's appalled face. "Isn't it glorious, Harry?" shouted Livingston. He was actually serious, or at least so he seemed. "I am reminded of the snowscapes of the Ashcan School. Are you familiar with the work of Robert Henri?" "Who?" shouted back Harry. "Robert Henri, the painter! Ashcan School!" "I have no idea who you're talking about." "Robert, H-E-N-R-I." "You mean Robert Henri?" said Harry, pronouncing the last name in the French manner. "Ah, but you see he pronounced his surname 'Hen-rye', in a proud American way. Hen-rye!" "Oh," said Harry, already beginning to feel uncomfortably cold. "I didn't know that." "Regardless," said Livingston, "isn't it just marvelous out? I often wonder why people waste their time in museums and galleries when all the world is a vast museum, don't you agree, Harry?" "I, uh –" "But come, we're wasting time here, let's mush!" He grabbed Harry's arm. Harry hadn't noticed before but Livingston had put on thick woolen mittens. Harry for his part wore no gloves, and in fact he didn't own a pair. "Wait, Liv-, Love-" "Livingston is my name, Harry, and don't wear it out, ha ha." "Livingston, don't you think that maybe it really is a little too snowy out for walking?" "Harry," said Livingston. "My dear Harry." The lenses of his horn-rims had already become crusted over with frost, and he removed the glasses awkwardly with his mittened hands, and shoved them into a pocket of his mackinaw. "Y'know, I thought we had settled all this too snowy nonsense." His eyes without spectacles seemed much smaller, and they blinked against the falling snowflakes. "You're not going to back out on me now, are you?" "Um," said Harry. "On me, your biggest fan?" "Well, I do appreciate your saying that," said Harry. "But –" He looked up and around at the falling snow and at the snow on the ground reaching halfway up his calves. "Then come!" said Livingston, beaming, and he pulled Harry onward, through the falling snow. Oh well, thought Harry, what's the worst that could happen? Perhaps it wasn't the worst that could have happened but it wasn't good when, having turned the corner from the Bowery onto Bleecker and proceeded slogging past the tenement where Harry lived and slowly onward to Elizabeth Street, and then progressively more slowly to Mott and to Mulberry, all the while seeing not another soul nor even a passing car, with Livingston babbling continuously about Harry knew not what, as they reached the corner of Lafayette Street, Livingston suddenly sat down in a snowbank at the curb. "I am just going to rest a bit, Harry," said Livingston, weakly panting. "Carry on without me and I'll be along presently after I catch my breath." Harry for his part was breathing quite heavily himself, and a thick bodily fluid dribbled ceaselessly from his nostrils. "Livingsworth, listen," he said. "Livingston, actually," said Livingston. "Livingston, sorry," said Harry, "listen, I'm not going to just leave you here." "Oh but you must. Go on ahead. I just need to muster my forces. Perhaps close my eyes for a minute." "Livingston, if you close your eyes you'll freeze to death." "Do you really think so?" "Yes. Now get up." "Perhaps you can send a party back for me. Perhaps I will still be alive when they get here." "What do you mean a party?" "A search party." "And where would I find a search party?" "When you get to my house, ask my mother to use the telephone, and call the police, or perhaps the fire department." "Livingston, I don't even know where your house is." "175 Bleecker, right at the corner of Sullivan. Big gabled house, with towers, you can't miss it. Just tell Mother you're my friend, and that unfortunately I couldn't crack on. She'll understand and she'll let you use the telephone." "Look, Livingston, I'm not going on without you." "But no one will blame you, old man. I only ask you this. Tell my mother – tell her I love her, despite, despite – well, just tell her I love her. I've never been able to tell her that when I was alive, but more's the pity. Also, my sister, Gwendolyn, tell her that –" "Damn it, Livingston," said Harry. "I beg your pardon." Harry took his freezing ungloved hands out of his topcoat pockets and reached down and grabbed Livingston's arm, and pulled. Harry was not a strong man, having avoided exercise and physical labor his entire life, and Livingston was a fat man, but a small fat man, and so after not more than a minute Harry got Livingston up on his feet, which he now noticed were encased in knee-length rubber boots, unlike his own, which were shod in worn old Thom McAn brogans. "Good, you're standing," said Harry. "Now let's go." "Where are we going?" "To your house, remember?" "Oh, yes, my house." "To have dinner." "Dinner, quite," said Livingston. "Yes," said Harry. "Now let's go." "Yes, we must stand not upon the order of our going, but go at once." "Okay, then, let's go." "Why are we standing here, anyway?" "Because you sat down in that snow drift and refused to get up." "Oh, yes," said Livingston. "But I am standing now, aren't I?" "Yes, you are. Now come on." "Where are we going again?" "To your house. To have dinner." "Yes. We must hurry." "Okay, then, let's go," said Harry. "Just one moment," said Livingston, and turning to look at the drift of snow, he collapsed into it again, face first. Harry was not a praying man, but he looked up into the dark night through which the heavy snowflakes fell relentlessly. Dear God, he prayed, just let me get this idiot to his house, and I promise I will never go off into a blizzard with some random drunk again. Through the thick falling snow Harry heard the low mechanical hum of a motor. He turned, and it was a taxicab, a dark green and grey cab with its roof light on, chains on its tires, approaching slowly up the middle of Bleecker Street.  Harry raised his hand. Thank you, God, he thought. Thank you. I owe you one, sir.

"Chicken à la King"

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

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq

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

"On my lecture tours throughout this great land of liberty, many aspiring writers ask me to outline my daily writing 'routine', and I invariably reply thusly: I sit myself down at my work table with a cup of coffee, insert a sheet of paper into my typewriter, light up a fine Husky Boy cigarette, produced with a proprietary blend of the finest Virginia tobaccos – and just start typing!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Give the Public What It Doesn't Know It Wants: A Guide to Success in the Writing Field*.

*"Interesting!" – Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal Democrat

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Not surprisingly, Livingston P. Lovechild proved to be a crashing bore. Not to mention a fool, a madman, or some combination of the two. But on the other hand he insisted on buying every round, so who was Harry Beachcroft to be critical? Every nickel Harry saved on bock this present snowy evening was another bock he could drink at some future time, and bock was Harry's spiritual reward for his daily ten pages of writing, and his gift to himself for surviving yet another day in this vale of tears that men laughably called "life"… "So you agree about the Rosicrucians then?" said Livingston P. Lovechild. "I'm sorry, what?" said Harry. "You agree about the Rosicrucians?" "Oh, sure, um, uh –" Harry suddenly blanked on the man's name in its entirety, first, middle initial, and last name. "Livingston," said the man. "Livingston P. Lovechild, but again I implore you to address me by my Christian name." "Okay," said Harry. "If Livingston can in fact be called a Christian name." "Um," said Harry. "But, Harry – if I may indeed call you Harry–" "Sure," said Harry. "You do agree with me about the Rosicrucians." "Um, yeah, sure –" "But here's my quandary," said Livingston P. Lovechild, Harry thought he must really try to remember the name, "if it's true about the Rosicrucians, then what, I ask you, in all good faith, what about the Protocols of the Elders of Zion?" "What?" said Harry. "How do we reconcile the hegemony of the Rosicrucians with the Protocols of the Elders of Zion?" "Well," said Harry, as if he were about to say something more, but then he said nothing, having nothing to say, or at least nothing to say out loud without the possibility of shutting off the flow of free bock beer. "Stumps you, right?" said Livingston. "And it stumped me as well, until I realized that the Elders of Zion are actually in league with the Rosicrucians. It makes sense, doesn't it?" "Uh, yeah, sure," said Harry. "But here's what I still haven't worked out yet." Harry said nothing. "I said, 'Here's what I haven't worked out yet,'" said Livingston. "Um, oh?" "What I haven't worked out yet," he said, "is how the Illuminati fit into all this." "The Illuminati," said Harry. "Yes, the Illuminati," said Livingston. "I'm still puzzled as to how they fit into the big picture." He made an expansive gesture with both hands. "You wouldn't happen to know, would you?" "Um, no," said Harry, "I mean not off the top of my head –" "And don't get me started on the Catholic Church," said Livingston. "Okay," said Harry. "Unless you really want me to," said Livingston. He paused and took a gulp of his bock, then said suddenly, "Do you?" "What?" said Harry. "I'm sorry –" "Do you want me to get me started on the Catholic Church," said Livingston. "Because I will if you really want me to." "Well, uh," said Harry. "Are you hungry?" "Pardon me?" "Are you hungry. I'm feeling rather peckish myself. What were your plans for dinner?" "Oh, not much," said Harry. "Maybe get a hot dog or two here. They're only a dime apiece." "Are they good?" "Yeah, they're pretty good." "Would you care to dine with me, en famille." "What?" "Have dinner at my digs. It's Monday and cook always makes Chicken à la King on Mondays. It's ever so good, and there's always extra." "Well, gee," said Harry. "I should be delighted to have you," said Livingston. "I don't live far, and we can walk there in a trice." "Well, that sounds swell, Liv-, uh, Liv-" "Livingston. Livingston P. Lovechild, but call me Livingston." "The thing is, Livingston," said Harry, "the thing is, it's snowing really hard out there –" "What's a little snow?" said Livingston. "A cracking bold walk through the falling snow, do us both a world of good." "Well –" "Think of Washington's men at Valley Forge." "Um." "Think of the brave chaps of Scott's South Polar expedition." "Didn't they all die?" "To a man. But they weren't deterred by a bit of snow. Far from it. And as I say, I don't live far."  "How far exactly?" "A mere a handful of blocks just right along Bleecker. A pleasant bagatelle of a stroll." "I'm really not much of a walker." "Perhaps we'll see a cab." "Well, you see, it's just that –" "I should mention that my late father left us a marvelous cellar." "A cellar." "Wine cellar. Also brandy. Do you like wine, and brandy?" "Um, yeah, sure –" Livingston removed a pocket watch on a chain from an inner pocket inside his mackinaw. He clicked the watch open. "Half seven, and cook always serves dinner promptly at eight. I suggest we strike out now, and despite the blizzard we should just make it in time. With luck. But we should really leave at once." He clicked the watch shut and put it away. "Now finish that bock and we'll split this popsicle stand." "How far is it again?" "Only six blocks or so. Maybe seven. Eight at the outmost." "But in all this snow?" "That's why we should leave posthaste." "But," said Harry. "What were the words of the bawdy Bard? 'If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly?' In other words, let us bust a move." "Well, really, Livingston –" there, he remembered the name, "I appreciate the offer, I do, but, but –" "Let me ask you a question, Harry, and I want you to answer me honestly. Have you ever had a really good Napoleon brandy?" "No," said Harry quite truthfully, never having had even a mediocre Napoleon brandy. "Well, you're going to have some tonight, my friend. I can't wait to introduce you to the family." "The family." "Yes, the family. And to think, they always say I have no friends. Well, wait till they get a load of the famous Harry Beachcroft," said Livingston P. Lovechild. "My friend. My only friend. Now quickly, old chum, swallow down the rest of that bock, and let us sally forth." "Gee, Livingston –" "Napoleon brandy. The bottle caked with ancient basement dust. Quite impossible to find anywhere, at any price, and tasting like heaven on earth. Now polish off that bock like a good fellow." Harry felt sure that the last thing he should do was to go off into a raging blizzard with this jackass, even with the prospect of Chicken à la King and Napoleon brandy. But, he thought, was he not a novelist, a teller of tales? Was it not incumbent upon him to try to experience life in all its rich variety, so that he could transform the raw matter of this experience into the gold of his art? Harry finished off his bock, put the glass down, and said, "Okay, uh, Livingston. Let's go.”