“The Bowery don’t look so bad in the snow”

Another heart-warming tale by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by rhoda penmarq

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“Nice view you got up here of the el tracks,” said Janet. “And down over them rooftops you can just see the Brooklyn Bridge. Still there in case you ever decide you want to jump off it again.” Hector Philips Stone, the doomed romantic poet, said nothing, and drank the hot tea with milk and honey she had brought him in a large take-out cup. Janet lighted up a Philip Morris, shook out the match and laid it on the window sill. She leaned her head to the side, looking up at that sky the color of the sidewalk down below. “Looks like snow again,” she said. “The Bowery don’t look so bad in the snow.” She turned to Hector, lying in his narrow bed. He was unwrapping one of the sandwiches she had brought. “You want me to crack this window, Hector, let a little fresh air in for a minute?” “It’s stuck,” he said. Ham salad. He loved ham salad. “I haven’t been able to open it since early November. I guess I could have asked Mr. Morgenstern to open it, but I didn’t want to, especially because I had to ask him to close it in the first place.” He took a bite of the sandwich. Delicious – even better than Grandma Stone’s! Janet looked at the window, as if taking its measure, and then she hit its upper sash with the heel of her right fist, once, twice, three times. “It’s really hopelessly stuck Janet,” said Hector, talking with his mouth full. Janet put her cigarette between her lips, grabbed the two worn metal sash-pulls, gave them a good yank, and the window opened, letting in the cold air of the Bowery, which did not smell so bad six floors up from the street like this. “Just a crack,” she said, lowering the window a bit. “Blow some of the stink out. I’ll close it up when I leave.” Hector swallowed, wiped his lips with one of the paper napkins she had brought. “Y’know, Janet,” he said, “I really can’t thank you enough, taking care of me while I’ve been laid up like this.” “Hey, least I can do since I’m the one laid you up,” she said.  “I deserved it,” he said. “That’s true,” she said. She flicked the dead match on the sill with her fingernail, sending it flying out the window. “Young guy like you. Educated, and a poet and all. Wanting to jump off the goddam Brooklyn Bridge.” “You don’t understand,” he said. “Yeah, I guess I don’t. Me, I was born in this crumby neighborhood, but you don’t hear me talking about jumping off no bridges.” “You’re stronger than I am, Janet.” “Yeah, I guess so. Anyways, I got a kid sister and brother to support. Who’s gonna take care of them two if I top myself?” “Well, I can never repay you.” “I ain’t looking to get repaid, Hector. Oh, by the way, you got some mail.” She reached into her old cloth coat and brought out a letter, tossed it over to the bed. Hector picked it up. From Smythe & Son, Publishers. Another rejection letter, doubtless. He tore it open, and read: Dear Mr. Stone, We have read your collection, Doom Be My Destiny, and are very interested in publishing it, if some deletions and odd changes would not be unamenable to you. Perhaps you are free this coming Friday, and if so I would be delighted to give you lunch, and we can talk the whole matter over. My preferred midday dining spot is the Rose Room at the Algonquin, easy stumbling distance from our offices, and I think you will find the food quite edible and the cocktails refreshing not to mention an excellent cellar. You did not mention if you have representation, but if you do have an agent, feel free to bring him (or her) along as well, as my guest of course. Do please call the number printed above, and I’ll have my secretary make the reservation. Shall we say about one-ish?  Sincerely, Julian Smythe Director of Acquisitions Hector folded up the letter and replaced it in the envelope. “Janet,” he said, “how would you like to be my literary agent?” next story

the man who had an opinion on everything

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

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a quiet night in bob’s bowery bar, at the corner of bleecker st and the bowery. outside, snow was starting to fall gently. a stranger walked in, and approached the bar, where bob himself was presiding. the newcomer was not a prepossessing individual. he looked about fifty years old, heavy and round, wth the roundest nose in new york, and an old derby hat a size too small for him crammed down on his round bald head. “whskey,” he ordered. “any particular kind?” bob asked. “cream of kentucky.” “cream of kentucky it is, then,” and bob reached behind himself for the bottle of that famous brand. “by far the best brand for the price,” the stranger added. bob smiled. “i see you are a man who knows what he thinks.” “indeed i am, sir.” bob poured the drink and moved away, as the stranger did not seem to him to be inclined to talk. just to the stranger’s left and and six feet short of the bar was the large round table known as the poet’s table. tonight it was sparsely attended with only seamas mcseamas the irish poet and lucius pierrepont st clair iii the negro poet representing the fraternity of bards, and seamas had invited father frank the whiskey priest to join them. their conversation had turned to irish poetry, with father frank standing up for tom moore, and seamas denouncing moore as a fraud and championing james clarence mangan. lucius introduced the name of yeats, while meekly admitting he was no expert on the whole history of hibernian verse. although only seamas had been speaking in a particularly loud voice, the stranger at the bar suddenly turned to the trio and announced, "if it is irish patriotism you’re wanting, gentlemen, clearly mangan is superior to moore, but for a true nationalist poet, your man is samuel ferguson." "by the crusted toenails of finn mcool," cried seamas, "what have we here? a man with strong opinions on the poetry of ireland? who might you be, sir, a professor of literature specializing in the subject, perhaps at new york university, or at princeton?" "not at all, sir," the stranger smiled, showing crooked whiskey and tobacco stained teeth, "just a man who knows what he thinks." "with strong opinions on a variety of subjects?" seamas smiled back. "with opinions on everything, sir." "everything?" father frank asked. "everything?" "why not, sir? i know as much as anybody and i am just as good as anybody. why should i not have an opinion on everything?" "none, i suppose," seamas laughed. "tell me, sir," lucius asked the stranger, "do you have any thoughts on the poetry of the american negro?" "i do, sir. melvin b tolson is your man, melvin b tolson, sir, far superior to the insipid langston hughes, whom i consider to be a poet fit only for children." "do you have opinions on subjects other than literature?" father frank asked the stranger. "religion, for example?" "all religions are one," the man replied. "and are converging toward being one. the criminally neglected works of madame helena petrovna blavatsky are crucial toward understanding this. read blavatsky, my friend, and gurdjieff. nietzsche is also useful in this regard. " "and politics"? enquired seamas. "what are your thoughts on the united nations, for example?" "the united nations is a monstrously misguided enterprise, my dear sir. at this stage of humanity’s progress. and one, i may add, most cynically promulgated by that archfiend, mr churchill, and his henchmen in the corridors of world financial power." the stranger had been expounding his opinions in an ever louder voice, and even bob had begun paying attention, with a small smile on his face. the two waitresses, janet and connie, who had been standing at the end of the bar, edged closer out of curiosity. "how about history?" seamas asked. "do you have any thoughts on the conduct of the battle of waterloo?" "i certainly do, sir. napoleon was wont to disparage ney after the fact, but if he had wanted things done differently he should have taken charge of ney’s operations himself. and this is not to mention the ridiculous amount of energy wasted on the farmhouse at la haye sainte." the conversation went on in this way, with other patrons drifting in and out of it as the night progressed. the stranger was not to be denied, and faced all challengers, respectful and sarcastic alike, with manful resolution. in this way mr thaddeus aloysius “opinions” o’toole joined the ranks of the regulars and semi-regulars at bob’s bowery bar, adding his more than two cents to the endless cacophony of song, story, disputation, denunciation, and assertion, that filled the rainy and snowy nights, in those long ago years, when a nickel was a nickel and a dime was a dime. bob’s mom, in particular, always remembered him as a “perfect gentleman”. next story

"Basket Lunch"

A heartwarming tale of the Bowery by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by rhoda penmarq

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Hector Philips Stone felt terrible. It’s true that normally this doomed romantic poet felt more or less terrible, but today he felt extra terrible. Not only was he subsumed by his usual Weltschmerz, along with just an average hangover, but his jaw, his left shoulder, and his left kneecap all ached terribly from where Janet, the beautiful waitress at Bob’s Bowery Bar, had smacked him with her leather sap the night before. And why? All because she had overheard him announcing his intention to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge after the bar closed down.  Next time he would keep it to himself, God damn it! Just go down to the bridge and do it without first broadcasting it to all the world, or at least to the tiny portion of the world consisting of Bob’s bar and its patrons and staff. Well, he would never be able to make it to the bridge today, that was for sure. It was all he could do to limp the six feet to his little bathroom and and then back to his bed, forget about making it all the way down six flights of stairs to the street, even if he did have bus fare to the bridge, which he hadn’t. On top of everything else he was hungry, starving! Once again he had forgotten to eat the previous day, preferring to spend the last of his Christmas money on bock beer and shots of Schenley’s whiskey at Bob’s. So maybe he wouldn’t have to go to the bridge after all, maybe he would starve to death. Not as dramatic as jumping off the bridge, but pretty damned romantic and pathetic, that was for sure. It occurred to him that he might jump out the window, but his lone window was stuck, and had been stuck ever since Mr. Morgenstern had managed with great difficulty to close it when the cold weather came this past November. Of course he could try to break the window pane, but he hated to put Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern to the expense of replacing the glass, especially since he was over a month in arrears on his $20-a-month rent. Misery. Such was his lot. He wondered if he had some aspirin, and he was thinking about dragging himself out of bed and hobbling to the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet, when a knocking sounded on his door. “Yes, who is it?” “It’s me, Janet.” Janet? Had she come to finish him off? “Let me in, Hector.” “Come in, it’s not locked.” He never locked the door, knowing he would only lose the key if he did. Janet came in, carrying a wicker basket, covered with dishtowels. “I thought you might be hungry.” She came over and sat on the side of the bed, and laid the basket down, pulling off the dishtowels. “You got sandwiches here, roast beef, chicken, liverwurst and ham-and-cheese. A container of split pea soup, eat that before it gets cold. Some hard-boiled eggs, and there’s hot tea with milk and honey in this big container. This here is Bob’s Mom’s boysenberry pie, still warm. Eat up, and I asked Mrs. Morgenstern to check in on you later today to see if you need anything. How’s your knee, anyway? Is it broke?” “I don’t think so.” “Let me check.” She started to pull the bedclothes away, Hector’s old army blanket and the quilt his Grandma Stone had made for him when he went away to college. Hector drew his legs up and grabbed at the covers. “Janet, please! I’m not dressed!” “You wearin’ underpants?” “Yes, but –” “Oh, please, don’t you know I got a little brother?” She yanked away the blankets and felt Hector’s swollen knee. “Okay, it ain’t broke. Another week or two you’ll be dancing the black bottom with the best of them.” Hector covered up his legs. “I assure you I have never danced the black bottom and never will.” “Whatever.” She had laid out all the provisions on Hector’s little night table, and now she stood up, taking the empty basket and the dish towels. “I’ll stop by tomorrow around the same time. Rest that leg, and don’t go jumping off any bridges in the meantime.” Without another word she left Hector’s small room, closing the door behind her. Hector waited until he heard her steps going down the stairwell, and then he broke into great heaving sobs. Three minutes later he caught his breath, wiped his face on his grandma’s quilt, and then he began to eat and drink. next story

the stranger

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

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a cold and dark night, with clouds covering the moon and stars. a stranger walked into bob’s bowery bar. there was nothing remarkable about that. bob’s was an establishment open to the public, located on the corner of two busy thoroughfares in the greatest city in the world. strangers walked in all the time. many were just passing through, and never returned. others returned on occasion, others with more regularity. yet others became part of the bob’s “family” and spent much of their lives there. but there was something about this stranger… janet the young waitress, connie the not so young waitress, and bob’s mom, who had just finished cleaning up after preparing tomorrow’s special (bob’s mom’s own lasagna with meatballs), were chatting near the kitchen door when the stranger walked in. “he looks like a strange man,” connie the not so young waitress said. “he must be pretty strange if you think he’s strange,” said janet. “he’s not bad looking,” said bob’s mom. “for a bum. maybe,” janet replied. “look at that hat. and that coat collar. well, i think i hear one of my masters’ voices.” and she headed off to one of the back booths. meanwhile the stranger approached the bar. it was bob’s night off, and paddy the philosopher was presiding. “whiskey. a double, “ the stranger annoounced, “any particular kind?” paddy asked. “the cheapest kind you have.” “that would be old wellbottom. does that suit you?” “i didn’t know they sold it north of the mason dixon line. that will do very well.” paddy took the bottle of old wellbottom from a low shelf, wiped some dust off it, and poured the stranger his double. the stranger stared at his drink but did not immediately seize it. “you probably think it strange that a gentleman as distinguished looking as myself would be drinking old wellbottom.” “not at all, sir. there is no accounting for tastes. the best dressed and most respectable customers often choose the best bargains, and the most raffish and disreputable looking will often bely their outward appearance by ordering the most expensive potions.” “i did not always drink old wellbottom,” the stranger responded in a lugubrious tone. he had a deep voice, like an actor of the old school. “i am sure you did not, sir.” “my story is a strange one.” “i am sure it is, sir. but if you will excuse me, one of our most valued patrons is somewhat peremptorily calling for my services." after serving sammy the schmuck at the other end of the bar, paddy returned to the stranger. “my story s a strange one,” the stranger began again. but just then the door opened and terrible tolliver strode forcefully up to the center of the bar, and paddy hastened to serve him. “it is no use,” the stranger intoned when paddy returned, “my tale is not to be told this night.” “i tell you what, sir,” paddy replied. “you see that table in the center of the room, off to your left, where those three gentlemen are seated?” the table paddy indicated was the poets’ table. it was quieter than usual, with only three of the regulars in attendance, namely seamas mcseamas the irish poet, hector philips stone the doomed romantic poet, and frank x fagen the nature poet. “those gentlemen are poets,” paddy continued, and waved at the table to get the occupants’ attention. “and always ready for a tale to while away the hours. look here, seamas," paddy raised his voice. "this gentleman has a story to tell. would you and your companions like to hear it?” “of course,” seamas growled. “if he cares to buy us a round.” “that’s cheap enough,” said frank x fagen. “seeing as there are only three of us.” “but there may be more,” hector philips stone added, with a glance at the door. “the night is young.” “i am sorry,” the stranger replied. “but my present financial situation precludes such a generous offer on your part.” “no need to get on your high horse, my friend,” seamas told him, with a wave of his hand. “we will continue without you, thank you very much.” bob’s mom had been listening to the exchange. “for shame!” she cried. “for shame! this is bob’s bowery bar! bob’s bowery bar, famous the whole world over, as a place a stranger can tell his tale and find a sympathetic ear.” the stranger gulped down the remains of his drink and stood up. “i thank you madam, most sincerely for your concern ,” he announced in his actor’s voice which carried across the whole of the room. “but i am afraid it is misplaced. i am not a mountebank, nor yet a little dog, to beg for any man’s attention. i bid you all good night, and pleasant dreams.” and with that the stranger turned and stalked out the door. “that was the saddest story i ever heard,” said paddy. “but he didn’t even tell it,” said frank x fagen the nature poet. “that’s what i mean, boyo. that is the saddest story - the one nobody wants to hear.” next story

“Something to Whine About”

A cautionary fable by Dan Leo

Profuse illustrations by rhoda penmarq

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Janet laid down the fresh pitcher of bock. “I’ve had it,” said Hector, the doomed romantic poet. “Ah, we’ve all had it, lad,” said Seamas the Irish poet. “Up to the ears,” said Scaramanga the leftist poet. “And out the butt,” said Frank X Fagan the nature poet. “Had it and been had by, son,” said Lucius Pierrepont St. Clair III, the Negro poet. “The game was fixed before you were born.” “We have all heard that high sad moaning whine across the prairie,” said Howard Paul Studebaker, the western poet. “Tonight I do it, damn it,” said young Hector. “Down to the Brooklyn Bridge, and off I go.” “We’re heard that before, me boyo,” said Seamas. “That old sad song,” said Scaramanga. “But somehow it never grows old,” said Frank X. “The Comanche call it the coyote’s song of death,” said Howard. “Just make sure you go all the way out to the middle of the bridge,” advised Lucius. “You don’t want to botch the job.” “I won’t botch the job,” said Hector. “Just you guys wait and see.” “Hey, Hector,” said Janet, who had been standing there the whole time. “Can I talk to you a minute?” “What about?” said Hector. This was unheard of, beautiful Janet actually asking one of these bums to talk to her. “I just want to talk to you a minute. Step outside with me and we’ll have a smoke.” “But it’s cold out there,” said Hector. Janet just stared at him, and so he said okay. Outside it was snowing again, and they stood under the slight shelter provided by the entranceway of Bob’s Bowery Bar. “What is it, Janet?” said Hector. He was wearing his old army overcoat, he hadn’t taken it off all night, nor his Greek fisherman’s cap, but Janet only wore her old threadbare cardigan. She offered Hector her pack of Philip Morris Commanders, and of course Hector took one. Janet popped out one for herself, and she gave them both a light. “So you’re gonna top yourself, hey, Hector?” She flicked the match out into the falling snow. “Jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.” “Yes,” said Hector, “in point of fact I am, and please don’t try to talk me out of it, Janet, because my mind’s made up.” “Oh, I won’t try to talk you out of it. But can I ask you exactly why you wanta jump off the bridge?” “Because I’m tired of it all, Janet! The rejection, the failure, the poverty, the, the, gee, all of it.” “Tired of it all, huh?” “Yes, tired to my soul.” “Okay, I can understand that. But, Hector, before you take that long jump, can I at least give you somethin’?” “Gee, sure, Janet. What is it?” Hector for a brief moment thought he might be getting a kiss, a farewell kiss, but instead Janet brought her leather sap out of her apron pocket and whacked him hard across the jaw with it. Hector fell back against the wall and slid down to the pavement, and Janet drew back and gave him another stout whack on the shoulder. Crying, Hector curled up in pain, but Janet leaned over and gave him one more well-placed whack right on the kneecap, and he screamed, but his scream was softly muffled by the thick falling snow. Janet straightened up, and slid the sap back into her apron. “Now you got something to whine about,” she said. She went back in the bar and told the poets to go outside and carry Hector back to his trap around the corner. Maybe someday Hector would jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, but he sure wasn’t going to do it tonight. next story