"A Thanksgiving Miracle"

A heartwarming holiday story by Dan Leo

Art by rhoda penmarq

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On this cold and grey November afternoon Reggie Wertham sat on an upside down Andy Boy crate in the alleyway next door to Bob’s Bowery Bar, drinking from a quart bottle of Tokay wine. He would much rather have preferred to be sitting and drinking in the warmth of Bob’s establishment, but, alas, he was short of funds, and had only fifty cents in his pocket, which was enough for a cot in the Parker Hotel, the cheapest flop on the Bowery, or, alternatively, the plat du jour at Ma’s Diner, but not both. The thing to do was to drink the Tokay slowly, to try to savor it and make it last, and not guzzle. But of course Reggie guzzled – he was not a man of great self-control, which was only one the many reasons he was on the bum and had been for ten years. Suddenly a swell-looking chap in a camel’s hair topcoat tumbled into the alleyway. “This place taken?” “Why, no,” said Reggie. “Help yourself, sir.” The man collapsed against the brick wall and slid down to the cobbles next to Reggie. “Whatcher name, pal?” “Reggie,” said Reggie. “What’s your name?” The man’s chin fell to his chest. He was wearing a nice-looking felt trilby hat, with a blue feather in it. Suddenly his head popped up again. “Whatcher name, buddy?” “Cyrus,” said Reggie. “Cyrus. The king!” said the man, and his head once again slumped forward. His shoes were shined, cordovans. His blue socks looked like silk, with tiny black and red clocks. The head popped up once more. “Whudjur name, pardner?” “Jason,” said Reggie. “Jayzon anna fuggin Argonauts!” said the man, and this time he slumped completely over against the Andy Boy crate. Reggie shoved the guy’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy, wake up. This ain’t the Ritz Hotel.” The man began to snore. The guy looked like he could spare it, so Reggie got off the box, reached into the camel’s hair, and found the guy’s wallet.  Wow. Pay dirt. Three hundred and forty-three dollars, in fifties, twenties, tens, fives, and singles. Reggie put three singles back in the wallet for carfare, he was not a brute, and he stuck the wallet back into the guy’s flannel trousers. He was just about ready to go, when he figured what the hell, pulled the fellow’s camel’s hair coat off, and tucked his own ragged old gabardine around the guy. For good measure he took the man’s hat, and replaced it with his own foul old woolen watch cap. He left the swell his nice suit and shirt, his shoes and socks, but he took his neck tie, which was silk, with a red and grey regimental pattern. A brief cab ride later Reggie presented himself at the front desk of the venerable Hotel St. Crispian. “I should like a room, with a view, for at least one week, and I shall pay in advance.” “Of course, sir,” said Mr. Bernstein, who was used to bearded but well-off eccentrics. For all he knew this not very fresh-smelling fellow was a Nobel laureate, a famous professor, author, or sculptor. “Would you like me to reserve you a table for dinner, sir? I ask because we still have a table available for the eight o’clock seating.” “Are you always so busy for dinner here?” “Ha ha, I wish we were, but, you know, it’s Thanksgiving, and we always fill up for our famous ‘Turkey ‘n’ Trimmings’ table d’hôte.” Today was Thanksgiving? Reggie had had no idea! After all, a holiday was just another day on the Bowery. “Yes, by all means,” said Reggie, “a table for one for the eight o’clock seating, please.” At last, a Thanksgiving with something to be thankful for. In another week he would doubtless be back on the Bowery, but that was the future, and the future was for squares.  next story

american joe

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus

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nobody knew where he came from. but nobody really knew where anybody came from, who was a regular at ma’s diner, or at bob’s bowery bar, or who lived in the flambeau hotel at bleecker and the bowery. because even if they said where they were from, how did you know it was true? when he first arrived he just called himself joe, but he quickly became known as american joe. everybody had to have a name, but they did not have names like david adams marbury, or howard chapman winston iii . they had names like willie the weeper, or walter the worm, or philosoher dave, or preacher pete… you get the idea… the first hint for joe’s name probably came from a little run in he had with officer reardon, the regular beat cop in the neighborhood. officer reardon was also known as “roosevelt” to the regulars. he was not as young as he used to be, and it was widely thought that he was assigned to the bowery because he would have a problem chasing after younger, more athletic miscreants in other neighborhoods. so walter the worm christened him “roosevelt” because he “needed a wheelchair”. so, one night roosevelt is dragging sammy the schlump out of the street where he had fallen on his face dead drunk - not even arresting him, just getting him out of the street where he night get run over and onto the sidewalk - and joe takes exception to the rough treatment sammy is receiving at roosevelt’s hands. you don’t have to drag him like that! joe shouted. he’s an american! an american! he probably fought for his country! no, brother, preacher pete said, sammy has been right here in the old flambeau since ten years before pearl harbor. then he might have been at belleau wood, joe replied, and nobody had an answer for that. joe mentioned america not exactly every time he opened his mouth, but pretty close. one time he was sitting in front of the flambeau on a hot night. it had rained earlier in the day and there were big puddles in the street. some punks came by in a hot rod and splashed joe and some other guys. joe jumped up and started yelling, this is america! this is america! you can’t treat people like peons in argentina or someplace!! another time he was in ma’s and the coffee was not up to his high standards and he complained to ma, you cant serve stuff like this to an american. ma told him to try the coffee in china or japan. it was wondered if so patriotic an individual as joe had taken part in the recent hostilities, but if he was asked he always gave some answer like, i would rather not talk about it, or that was a long time ago, leaving the impression he had seen and done things too terrible, etc, though he never came right out and said so, and nobody cared enough to press the issue. other times, out of nowhere, he would just blurt out something like, you guys don’t realize how lucky you are to be living here in the u s a. one night it was pretty quiet at bob’s, and bob let a bunch of the guys hang around even though they were hardly buying anything, and the conversation somehow turned to candy bars. i was at the newsstand today, willie the weeper said, getting the racing form, and they had a new flavor turkish taffy candy bar. what do you think, joe? walter the worm said, should they sell a candy bar named turkish taffy in america? why not american taffy, or at least new york or new jersey taffy? and that isn’t all, seamus mcseamas the poet added, i was in the grocery store the other day and they were selling tea labelled english tea. can you beat that? english tea, right on the label, here in america, after all those guys fought and died at valley forge and yorktown. joe started to say something, but then suddenly it was like a light went on in his brain, and he realized the guys were ragging on him for being such a patriot, and he got up and walked out of bob’s and nobody ever saw him again, or knew where he went. maybe he just went over the bridge to brooklyn, or he went to california to pan for gold, or swam across the atlantic to africa to convert the heathen, or went to argentina and became a gaucho. who knows? they come and they go. next story

"Ten Pages a Day"

story by Dan Leo

art by rhoda penmarq

Harry Beachcroft had one rule, which was to knock out ten pages a day, no matter how hungover he was. He gave himself one day a week off, Sunday, which meant he could really tie one on Saturday night at his favorite stop, Bob’s Bowery Bar, conveniently located just around the corner from his fifth-floor walk-up at Bleecker and the Bowery.  Today was Monday, a grey November Monday in the year of our Lord 1950. Harry rose at noon as usual, and went down to Ma’s Diner across the street for his usual breakfast, scrambled eggs, scrapple, hash browns, burnt toast, and lashings of black coffee while he read the Times. You never knew, you could get a good story idea from the Times. He left his usual fifty-cent tip, then crossed the street again and went back up to his one-room flat and his battered old second-hand Royal portable.  Harry rolled a blank sheet of paper into the machine and lighted up a Philip Morris Commander. At present he had at least a dozen stories out circulating at the pulps, and three novels (a western, a detective, an exotic oriental adventure) making the rounds of the paperback publishers. He’d finished up his most recent novel on Saturday, so now it was time to start a new “project”. What would it be, a short story, a novel, maybe a serializable novella? As usual, he had no idea. But something always came to him, something clicked in his brain once he’d rolled that blank sheet into the machine and lighted up that first Philip Morris. Harry started typing: Barry Beecham had one rule, and he stuck to it. Ten pages a day, no matter what. Rain or shine, horribly hungover or just normally hungover, he always ground out ten full pages before he let himself call it quits for the day and went around the corner to Big Bill’s Bar and that first gloriously satisfying mug of bock. Barry picked up a fresh sheet of typing paper and rolled it into his old Remington standard, a gift from his father on his matriculation at Yale. Barry had just finished a story the day before, so it was time to start a new one. What would this one be? A science fiction yarn? An African jungle adventure? Maybe a war story – they were always fun to write, even if Barry had been 4-F (chronic bunions) himself. Whatever, something would come, who knew, maybe a new novel? He had made a cool three hundred bucks from his last one, Range Riders of the Open Steppes, about a band of cowboys in Czarist Russia, pulling off “one last caper” – robbing the fabled Orient Express! Barry lighted up a Camel, and started typing: Larry McGarry had one steadfast rule. Ten pages a day. Come hell or high water, that was his quota, ten pages, and he never let himself go across the road to Phil’s Roadhouse for that first cold “English style” ale until he had finished those ten pages… next story