the twins, part 2

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

part two of two

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hiram the hired man and addison spent a day looking for steele, and the next morning cleopatra went into town and called mr scratchwood in memphis. mr scratchwood contacted the nearest sheriff’s office, and late in the afternoon sheriff fuster brown showed up at the big house. “well, where might he have gone, do you reckon?” the sheriff asked addison. “probably to see old peter,” addison answered. “he has probably cast his lot with old peter.” “and who might old peter be when he’s at home, and where might his home be?” “he lives in the swamp, and he is a python.” “a python, eh? friendly, is he?” “my brother and i have always found him a perfect gentleman.” “i see.” sheriff fuster looked out over the swamp. he was not at all sure if the swamp was in his jurisdiction, or in anybody’s jurisdiction. “i guess i will take a little look around.” after taking a little look around, the sheriff told cleopatra and addison to call him if anything turned up, got back in his model a ford and went back to town and was not seen again. three days later, addison was back in mr scratchwood’s office in memphis. he got right to the point in his uncivilized manner. “i reckon i get all the money now, eh?” mr scratchwood put his fingertips together again. “well, no, not exactly. at least not any time soon.” “but steele is gone!” “‘gone’ is not a legal term. the money, such as it is is, is still his, until he can be presumed dead.” “all right, presume him dead then. if he wants to live in the swamp with old peter and the other critters, i am sure he won’t care.” mr scratchwood sighed. “we can not say with certainty where he is. as for presuming him dead, that can only be done after twenty years.” “twenty years!” “yes, twenty years, not a day less. again, i would advise you to seek honest employment.” “can you sell the house?” addison asked. “if i am to stay here in memphis, or in st louis or chicago, perhaps some money could be raised that way.” “whom would i sell it to? your friend the python?” “it must be worth something,” addison protested. “it is not worth a dime. i would have to pay to tear it down. i might get you a few dollars for the books. ” * the twenty years went by. addison moved to st louis, then chicago, then new york. he found employment as a bus boy, then as a waiter in restaurants after he learned some manners, and even later as a mail clerk in a couple of publishing houses where he bored and occasionally intrigued his fellow employees with his curiously dated literary references. he learned about the modern civilized world to some extent from his own experiences and from books, but mostly from the movies. he became an avid moviegoer, always sitting in the back row if he could, and never squandering his money on the refreshments hawked at intermissions. but he never learned to think of movies as entities separate from each other, like books, but as a single endlessly flowing “the movies”, through which familiar figures like claude rains and gary cooper and joan crawford and george sanders appeared and reappeared. through it all he continued to get his small allowance from scratchwood, jackson, and dubois, and he looked forward to the day when it would be doubled - and on which, as steele’s next of kin, he would inherit all of steele’s accrued allowance - with interest! he told himself he might even be able to live “like a gentleman”! and eat and drink in better places than bob’s bowery bar! at last the twenty years were up. addison treated himself to a train trip, rather than a bus trip, to memphis. when he got to the lawyer’s office, he found a familiar figure seated in the waiting room. “hello, addison.” hello, steele.” the end next story

the twins, part 1

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

part one of two

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to begin series, click here

addison darkwell knew that his fellow humans regarded him as a bore, but there was nothing he could do about it. he could not help being what he was, any more than a rabbit could help being a rabbit, or a snake help being a snake. or, as he thought as he sat alone at the end of the bar at bob’s bowery bar late on yet another snowy night, any more than this small glass of bock can help being a small glass of bock, or the jukebox caterwauling behind him - it was playing “that’s my desire“ by frankie laine - could help being a jukebox. such thoughts were typical of the witticisms that passed through his mind continuously, and that even he was hesitant to attempt to share. many of his fellow denizens of bob’s bar thought he was known as “addison the wit” because of his resemblance to a character in the movie “all about eve”, and to them he was, but “addison” was in fact his given name. addison’s upbringing had not been conducive to developing a personality that many other people would find familiar or interesting, or be immediately at ease with. he had been brought up, mostly by servants, in a large gloomy house, in the middle of a dismal swamp, in the deepest recesses of the defeated confederacy. addison had an identical twin brother, named steele. the two boys never saw much of human creatures other than themselves. they developed a language of their own, in which they largely communicated. for most of their early lives, the only other occupants of the house were two old servants - hiram, a hired man who was deaf and dumb, and cleopatra, the cook, who did not have much to say, and who, unlike persons in similar situations in books and movies, in no way regarded the boys as her “children”. when they were five years old, a nurse who had brought them up from infancy was dismissed, and a tutor, a gloomy young man with the mournful sobriquet of jefferson davis collingwood, was hired for one year to teach them the rudiments of reading, writing, and numbers. after that they were left to their own devices, and never went to school. money was sent to the servants every month, by the family lawyer, mr hampton scratchwood, of the memphis firm of scratchwood, jackson, snd dubois. the boy’s education had two distinct sources. the swamp, in which they spent much of their daylight hours, acquiring an easy familiarity with its nonhuman inhabitants, including the most repulsive and poisonous. and the library. at night, after having been taught to read by mr collingwood, they perused the contents of their grandfather’s library, which consisted mostly of novels, histories, and poetry of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, much of it fallen into oblivion in the outside world. the boys developed strong opinions, often contrary to each other, on what they read, and would argue into the night as to the merits of such works as the pirate by sir walter scott, or the parisians by bulwer-lytton, or the poetry of thomas campbell or samuel rogers. later in life, it took addison a while to realize that almost nobody in the world cared anything at all about most of these authors, or even knew they existed. “but byron loved samuel rogers!” addison would exclaim, to blank stares. when the boys were seventeen years old, a chauffeur driven bentley was sent into the swamp to bring them to the office of scratchwood, jackson, and dubois, which they had never before visited. they were ushered into the private office of mr scratchwood, who as may be guessed found them a couple of very uncouth specimens indeed, and it took all of his courtliness to hide the fact while he delivered the news he had summoned them to hear. the boys had always been assured that on reaching the age of eighteen, they would “come into their inheritance”, i e , be furnished with allowances that they could spend as they wished, and which would be enough to live on. but now mr scratchwood had bad news. with his fingertips pressed together in the classic style, he explained that, due to “the unfortunate depression” - whatever that was, addison and steele wondered - there was no longer enough in the family funds to support them both. “one of you - barely, barely, and who knows for how long - but not both of you.” o “but what are we to do?” the boys asked. “i am afraid you will have to find employment,” mr scratchwood replied, but he was unable to inject the slightest trace of hope into his voice. the boys were immediately driven back to the swamp, without even getting to spend the night in memphis. that night, steele disappeared. part 2

“The Ballad of Addison the Wit”

Another fable of the drinking classes by Dan Leo

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq (through the courtesy of penmarq international studios™)

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He had a real name of course, although no one knew or cared what it was, because shortly after he began haunting Bob’s Bowery Bar a year or so ago some wag (was it Seamas McSeamas the Irish poet?) had dubbed him “Addison the Wit”, after the character “Addison DeWitt” in the movie All About Eve; the joke, the bad joke being that Addison the Wit was always trying to be scathingly witty just like the character in the movie – trying but abysmally failing.  And now poor Gerry “the Brain” Goldsmith was trapped here at the end barstool on this crowded Friday evening at Bob’s, with Addison sitting to his left and not another empty seat in the house. Gerry liked to drink (of course he did), but he liked to drink at a gentlemanly, leisurely pace, short glasses of Bob’s basement-brewed house bock, and hardly ever a whiskey. But now, here he had been stuck next to Addison a half-hour by the clock on the wall, a half-hour that felt like a year, and he was already on his third imperial pint of bock and his second double Cream of Kentucky. At this rate he would have to be carried home in another half hour. But what could he do, except suffer, and hope against hope that he would notice a stool open up somewhere down the bar. He hadn’t said more than three words to Addison this whole time, but that hadn’t stopped Addison and his flow of failed witticisms, oh, no, on and on he and it went – “And so I said to the chap,” he droned, “my dear fellow, if she were to be any more tawdry she would be on sale at Woolworth’s! Ha ha, on sale at Woolworth’s!” Gerry said nothing. Addison smiled, he didn’t care, or if he cared he sure didn’t show it, he even turned to his left where the big river boss Tommy McCarthy sat, but Tommy merely glared at him, and Addison quickly turned back to Gerry. “As if everything at Woolworth’s isn’t normally cheap and tawdry,” he explicated, “but you see, this lady was so cheap that she could have been on sale even at Woolworth’s!” Gerry merely sighed, and took a good sip of his Cream of Kentucky. “So,” said Addison, “have you heard about this new Cocteau film at the Thalia?” Gerry said nothing. He heard words coming from Addison’s mouth, but his brain and the bock and whiskey had filtered the words of any meaning they might possibly hold. “I find Cocteau to be more,” said Addison, “how shall I put it, more ambitious than artistically successful, but then is not ambition the fatal curse of any artist? By the way, you know what I always say, ‘When I hear the word Art I reach for my peashooter.’ Get it, not my revolver but my peashooter, because, really, isn’t most so-called art –” “Hey, Addison,” said Janet the waitress. She was transferring some empty glasses and bottles from her tray to the service area at the end of the bar, just to Gerry’s right. “Shut the hell up.” “I beg your pardon, dear Janet, heh heh,” said Addison. “I said clam the hell up. Can’t you see you’re boring the Brain to death?” “But, my dear Janet, Gerard and I are merely having some carefree repartee –” “Beans,” said Janet. “The whole time he’s been sitting there you haven’t taken a breath from your blathering for one second. Give the poor guy a break and put a lid on it for a while.” “But, but –” said Addison. “But nothing,” said Janet. “Why don’t you get it through your thick skull that you ain’t George Sanders, or Clifton Webb, or Monty Wooley, nor Oscar Levant neither. You’re just some boring bum in a bar.” “Heh heh,” said Addison. “Oh, my, Janet, you are a spitfire, heh heh –” Janet ignored him. “Don’t worry, Brain,” she said, “soon as I see a spot open up somewheres I’ll come and get you and you can get free of this idiot.” She went off with her empty tray. “Heh heh,” said Addison. “That Janet! Quite the little hellcat she is. The tongue of an adder, and quite a merciless adder at that! Of course she didn’t mean a word of it. Heh heh. Heh heh. Heh.” And then a strange thing happened.  Gerry felt sorry for Addison.  How strange.  That one could feel sorry for someone so tedious. And yet there it was, and Gerry couldn’t deny it. And then Gerry found himself saying something that before this moment he never would have dreamed he could possibly say, not in a thousand years: “May I buy you a drink, Addison?” “Pardon me?” said Addison. “I said may I buy you a drink.” “You want to buy me a drink?” “Yes.” Addison then did something he rarely if ever did: he paused before speaking, and Gerry even thought he could see tears welling in the man’s eyes. “Why, yes,” said Addison, “thank you, Gerry, don’t mind if I do. You know what I always say about drinking, I always say, heh heh, I always say –” Gerry mentally turned the volume down on Addison’s voice, and raised a finger to attract Bob’s attention. next story

"Trapped"

Another parable of the drinking life by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by the renowned rhoda penmarq

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Master,” said the apprentice monk, “what is the meaning of life?” “Come closer, my son,” said the ancient monk, and the apprentice monk leaned closer. The ancient monk snapped a quick left jab to the apprentice monk’s nose, and the lad fell back onto his posterior. Stanching the flow of blood with the sleeve of his robe the young apprentice said, “So that is the meaning of life, Master, a punch to the nose?” “Come closer again, my son,” said the ancient monk. He had bruised the knuckles of his left hand, so this time he gave the boy a stout right cross to the jaw. Whew! It had taken Gerry “The Brain” Goldsmith all afternoon just to come up with those six sentences, but they were good ones, if he did say so himself. He left the sheet of paper in his trusty old Royal portable, so he would be all set to resume work on his “book of philosophical reflections” on Monday. But today was Friday, the beginning of the weekend, and even though Gerry had no “real” job (unless you could call writing his book a job), and indeed had never held a job in all his forty-seven years of life on this planet, he still considered it just and meet to give himself the weekend off from his literary “work”. He believed it was essential to rest his brain and let it lie fallow after five days in the trenches of reflection and creation. Time for a bock! Gerry threw on his old camel’s hair chesterfield, wrapped his threadbare Andover rowing-team muffler around his neck, put on his twenty-seven-year-old Brooks Brothers fedora, left his little efficiency apartment, and went down the six flights to Bleecker Street.   Snow was falling yet again from the darkening sky. Gerry loved the gentle beauty of the snow, as long as he didn’t have to spend too much time in it, and fortunately his haunt Bob’s Bowery Bar was just right around the corner…  The place was packed, with those who had just got off work, and with those who didn’t work, and those like Gerry who “worked” but didn’t get paid for it. God, how Gerry loved this place. A man – especially a literary man, a philosopher – needed a home away from home, especially when his home was a tiny one-room flat (formerly a storage closet) with a two-burner hot plate. As much as he enjoyed his work, a man needed to get out, to see people, to talk, and, yes, to drink! But where to sit? Bob’s was usually crowded at this time on a Friday, but today it seemed even more mobbed than usual. All the tables were full, and men and women stood two and three deep at the long bar. Gerry would have loved to join his friends “the poets” (Hector Phillips Stone, the doomed romantic poet; Seamas McSeamas, the hearty Irish poet; Howard Paul Studebaker, the Western poet from Hackensack; Frank X Fagen, the nature poet who never left the Lower East Side; good old Scaramanga, the leftist poet who was always more than ready to let loose with a rousing song of the Spanish Civil War; and genial Lucius Pierrepont St. Clair III, the Negro poet) but the round table at which the poets usually sat was full to capacity. Of course Gerry could join those standing at the bar, but his old Harvard lacrosse knee injury had been acting up lately, and he found it difficult to stand for more than a few minutes. But wait! What did he spy through the fog of tobacco smoke but an actual empty stool down there at the far right of the bar! Quickly he headed for it before someone else could claim the real estate.  Gerry heaved himself up on the stool (he really must work on losing a few pounds, perhaps start doing the odd push-up and sit-up of a morning – he would start tomorrow!) and, breathing a sigh of relief, laid a crumpled dollar bill on the bar. “And how was today’s assault on the pantheon, dear Gerard?” Gerry flinched, and realized with horror why this end-seat was empty. Reluctantly he turned to his left and saw none other than the colossal bore everyone called Addison the Wit.  Damn the bad luck! “Have you nudged Aristotle from his pride of place yet, dear boy?” Gerry sighed again, this time in despair. It was true, he considered himself a philosopher, but sometimes it was hard, sometimes it was so damned hard to be philosophical. “Found out yet the meaning of so-called life in this vale of tears?” Bob came over, took his cigar out of his mouth just long enough to say: “Usual, Brain?” Usually Gerry paced himself with short glasses of Bob’s delicious basement-brewed house bock, but if he must sit next to Addison the Wit, there was nothing for it but… “I think this evening I’ll start with the imperial pint of bock, please,” he said to Bob. “Ah, the imperial pint,” rhapsodized Addison, “a fitting libation for the emperor of unpublished philosophers!” Gerry flinched, again, and then quickly said, before Bob could head for the taps: “Oh, and Bob, a shot of Cream of Kentucky too, please.” “Ah,” said Addison, “the Cream of Kentucky, to loosen the tongue of the Wittgenstein of the beer stein, the bard of the Bowery –”  “Second thought, make that a double, Bob,” called Gerry to Bob, who was already drawing the imperial pint. Bob nodded. He understood. (To be continued.) next story

an honorable occupation

story by horace p sternwall

art by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

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taffy could not remember where she had left her copy of the new mary roberts rinehart novel, so she began looking in all the rooms, including the spare bedrooms and guest rooms. a man was sleeping in the bed in the green bedroom. his face was turned to the wall, but she was sure she had never seen him before. she went in search of her mother, and found her in the blue library, with a book in her lap, staring into space. “there is a man sleeping in the green bedroom.” “oh, that is just uncle philip.” “uncle philip. yes, i think i remember uncle philip being mentioned somewhere before.” “i am sure you have.” “there are a lot of uncles. and aunts. and cousins. it is hard to keep track of them all.” “yes, it is, dear. no one is blaming you for not doing so.” “what does uncle philip do?” “he is a drinker.” “a drinker! do you mean that he is a drinker in the same way that father is a banker, and uncle john is a surgeon, and uncle theodore is in the state department?” “exactly.” “and is being a drinker considered an honorable occupation?” “by some people. your great-uncle samuel, who flourished before your time, was a great drinker, and could expound at great length on the social utility of the drinker, as providing honest work for whole armies of hops and rye and barley gatherers, brewery workers, bartenders and barmaids, importers and exporters and their clerks, liquor store clerks, draymen, and horses.” “i see. be that as it may, what is uncle philip doing here right now?” “he is resting.” “from what?” “he has just spent three weeks in a rest home in kingston.” “so now he is resting up from being in a rest home?” “why, yes, in a manner of speaking.” “and how long is he staying, or is that a rude question?” a figure appeared in the doorway. it was taffy’s older brother, frederick, a young man who had just finished his first year at princeton. “talking about poor uncle philip, are we? i could not help overhearing your conversation.” “you never can, can you?” taffy said. “perhaps you can embark on a career as an overhearer, as uncle philip has as a drinker.” “yes,” frederick answered. “uncle theodore has already floated the idea of getting me into the state department. in any case, i think philip deserves a rest from the rest home, no less than i do from princeton.” “taffy was just asking how long philip is staying,” mrs mortimer addressed frederick. “no more than a few days. perhaps you could run him back to the city, frederick, when he is ready.” “i would be delighted to. may i take the rolls? it could use a good spin.” “i do not see why not, as long as barker certifies it as in working order. perhaps you could go with them, taffy. you have been talking about seeing some of your chums in the city.” “and trust myself to frederick’s driving?” “i am an excellent driver, “ frederick protested. “yes, an excellent flouter of the rules of the road.” * as the sun rose in the sky , frederick pulled into a diner by the side of the road that he thought looked amusingly low class, “like something in a dorothea lange photo book”. frederick ordered a big stack of pancakes with sausages. taffy only ordered coffee, and philip did the same, observing, “i still don’t have much of an appetite.” but as frederick shoveled the pancakes and sausages down his throat like a hired man , philip relented and said, “maybe i will have one of those sausages.” “help yourself." frederick held his fork with a sausage on it across the table to philip. philip attempted to take the greasy sausage off the fork but it slipped out of his fingers on to his lap, and then on to the floor. taffy laughed, choking slightly on her coffee. philip started to cry. “i am sorry, uncle philip ,” taffy said. “that was rude of me. but you know children these days have no respect.” “pull yourself together, old man,” frederick commanded philip. philip stopped sniffling, and began sipping his black coffee, which he thought was the worst he had ever tasted. next story