“Little Ray in Heaven”

Another instructive fable by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

Many readers have written letters and postcards asking and wondering, “What ever became of Little Ray the chronic complainer? Did he ever stop complaining?” Well, our motto has always been “Give the People What They Want”, and so, dear reader, read on… The days and the nights and the years passed, slowly, and yet, in retrospect, all too quickly, and the lugubrious fellow they called Little Ray (short for “Little Ray of Sunshine”) continued to work at his despised job as a shipping clerk at a fabric factory on Seventh Avenue, and every evening after work he went to Bob’s Bowery Bar and ate whatever the special was and drank Bob’s basement-brewed house bock and complained about his life to anyone he could get to listen to him.  Let’s face it, Little Ray (no one remembered his real name) didn’t bring much to the great party of life, and nobody knew why Bob didn’t just flag him. Did Bob feel sorry for him? No one knew, but Bob tolerated Little Ray’s baleful presence, and Little Ray knew well enough not to try to complain to Bob himself. Yes, the days and the nights and the years passed, slowly and quickly, and suddenly it was the future, and flying cars flew down the boulevards and streets, and people in jet packs zoomed up to their offices in the skyscrapers that reached miles into the sky, but still Little Ray worked at the fabric factory (which now manufactured material for space suits) and went to Bob’s Bowery Bar each evening to drink his bock beer and complain to anyone who would listen…  One wet Tuesday evening in April, a tiny old man tapped Little Ray on the shoulder as he sat at the bar hoping that someone would sit next to him so that he would have someone to complain to, and the tiny old man said, “It’s time, Little Ray. Come with me.” “Can I at least finish my beer?” said Little Ray. “I am afraid not,” said the little man, “because you’re already dead.” And Little Ray looked down and saw himself slumped forward over the bar, a victim of a massive fatal thrombosis. “This ain’t fair,” complained Little Ray. “Life is not fair,” said the tiny old man, who was an angel named Bowery Bert, “and neither is death. Let’s go, Little Ray.” “But I’ve never even gone up in one of them flying cars, or flown around in one of them jet packs. I’d like to take one of them excursions to the Moon Colony too. I been saving my money to do that after I retire.” “Too late now,” said the little man, and suddenly they were both standing at the base of a hill at the top of which was God’s enormous turreted and gabled house. “Just walk right up there,” said Bowery Bert. “Do I gotta? I don’t really wanta. What if they send me to hell?” “Yes, you got to, whether you want to or not. Now be a man and get up there.” Reluctantly Little Ray walked up the winding stone path through the gardens and shrubbery and went up the steps of the porch to where St. Peter sat at a little table with a big leather book.  St. Peter, a grey-bearded man in a plaid hunter’s cap and a faded yellow canvas work coat, took his pipe from his mouth and said, simply: “Name?” “Well, for years they been calling me Little Ray, but –” “Why ‘Little’ Ray? You look pretty big and fat to me.” “Well, it’s a shortened version of Little Ray of Sunshine, actually, but my real name is –” “And why did everybody call you a shortened version of ‘Little Ray of Sunshine?” “Do we really gotta go into all this?” “I’ll ask the questions, you answer them. So answer me.” “Awright, awright, they called me Little Ray short for Little ray of Sunshine on accounta they thought I complained all the time.” “And did you?” “Complain all the time?” “Yes. Did you complain all the time?” “Not all the time.” St. Peter had been turning the pages of his great book, and now he stopped, and put the stem of his pipe on the page. “Here we go,” he said. “Little Ray.” “They got me listed in there as Little Ray?” “That’s what everybody called you, wasn’t it?” “Well, yeah, but –” “So that’s what you’re listed as.” “That don’t seem fair to me. That don’t seem very fair at all,” complained Little Ray. “Quiet,” said St. Peter. “I’m reading. You can complain about how unfair it all is when I’m finished.” “I wasn’t complaining, I was just saying, I was just making a like observation –” “I said quiet.” “Sorry.” It really wasn’t fair, thought Ray. Even in the afterlife he had to be stuck with that awful nickname. Was it his fault that life had been so hard on him? But he kept his trap shut, while St. Peter read the great book, mumbling under his breath and taking occasional puffs on his pipe.  Finally St. Peter closed the big book. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You lived sixty-three years and all you did was bitch and moan and complain.” “It wasn’t all I did. It ain’t fair to say that was all I did.” “What, because you also slept sometimes? Because the only reason you weren’t complaining every waking hour was because you couldn’t find somebody masochistic enough to listen to your whining?” “I had a tough life.” “What about the starving children in China and Africa. You think their lives are easy?” “I guess not. But still –” “Never mind. It kills me to do this, but here –” St. Peter scribbled something on a notepad, then tore the note off, folded it once, and held it out to Little Ray. “Take this, go through that door behind you, give it to the person inside.” “Am I going to hell? Because if I am, I really don’t think it’s fair –” “Take the paper, go through the door, hand the paper over. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind.” Little Ray took the folded paper, turned and went through the door, handed it over, and he was led through many vaulted rooms and long corridors until finally the docent brought him to the entrance of what looked like a crowded bar much like Bob’s Bowery Bar. “Take a seat anywhere, table or bar, and a server will be right with you.” Little Ray always preferred to sit at the bar, because who could you talk to if you were all alone at a table? Just the waitress, and waitresses never wanted to talk to him. He made his way through the crowd, and there at the bar he saw many of the old Bob’s Bowery Bar crew who had pre-deceased him: Fat Angie the retired whore, Gerry “the Brain” Goldsmith, Philip the uptown swell, Willie the Weeper, Mushmouth Joe, George the Gimp, Gilbey the Geek, the old guy they called Wine, Tom the Bomb, and a bunch of the poets who never let him sit with them. There was an empty stool between Angie and the Brain and so Little Ray went over and sat on it. “Oh, my God,” said Angie. “I thought this was heaven, but now look who they let in.” Little Ray chose to ignore this remark, and the bartender was right there. It was Paddy, the philosophical Irish bartender from Bob’s who had died right around the time when they sent up the first expedition to colonize Mars. “What’ll it be, Little Ray?” “Can I drink anything I want?” “Anything you want, as long as we carry it.” “You got Cream of Kentucky bourbon?” “No, sorry, that we don’t carry.” “What about Cyrus Noble?” “No.” “What do you got?” “Heaven Hill?” “Okay. Give me a Heaven Hill, although I’m not a fan. Can I get a glass of the basement-brewed bock, too?” “We don’t got a basement-brewed, but we carry a good genuine German bock.” “I’d prefer Bob’s old basement-brewed bock.” “Well, we ain’t got that. And anyways, didn’t you drink enough of that stuff back on earth?” “I liked it.” “You liked it ‘cause it was cheap. Drink the German bock, Little Ray, and stop your complaining, you just got here.” “I ain’t complaining, Paddy, I was just saying, just making a observation.” “Heaven Hill and a German bock,” said Paddy, and he went to fetch Little Ray’s collation. Angie had turned away from him, so Little Ray turned to the Brain, on his right, who was also turned away, pretending he hadn’t seen Little Ray. “Hi, Brain,” said Little Ray, loudly.  The Brain turned to face Little Ray, feigning surprise. “Oh, Little Ray, didn’t see you there, what a pleasant surprise.” “What,” said Little Ray. “Like you’re surprised they let me in? Let me tell you something, Brain. I wasn’t a bad guy.” “No one sad you were, Little Ray,” said the Brain, already planning to pretend to go to the men’s room and not come back to this seat. “I wasn’t the worst guy in the world, Brain,” said Little Ray. “Oh, far from it, I’m sure,” said the Brain. “And you know what else?” said Little Ray. “Uh, no, what, Ray?” “This place ain’t so great.” “No?” “No. Now don’t get me wrong, Brain, I ain’t complaining.” “No, of course not.” “I ain’t complaining, but this joint don’t look that great to me. Again, I ain’t complaining. But I woulda expected something just a little bit more classy, y’know?. But hey, that’s just me. I ain’t complaining. But.” “But?” “I’m just saying, just making a, you know, a observation.” “I see, yes,” said the Brain. “Hey, listen, will you excuse me, Little Ray? I just have to go to the men’s room.” The Brain had a nearly full glass of what looked like Bob’s old basement-brewed bock, and he lifted the glass, polished it off in three gulps, got off his stool and hurried away. Meanwhile Little Ray was still waiting for his Heaven Hill and German bock. What, did Paddy have to go all the way to Kentucky for the Heaven Hill and to Germany for the bock? It was busy in here, but it wasn’t that busy, and if Paddy couldn’t handle the crowd they should have another bartender on back there.  Little Ray didn’t want to complain, but still.  next story

cherilda, part 2

story by horace p sternwall

art by danny delacroix and eddie el greco

for part one, click here

to begin series, click here

part two of two

“thank you, officer.” paddy put the phone down. “they don’t have anyone that looks like her as missing from anywhere, or anybody looking for her,” he told connie. “but they will send an officer over to talk to her.” “all right. i will be on the lookout for him. excuse me, somebody just came in.” connie put her tray under her arm and headed over to a table near the one she had parked cherilda at. a respectable looking gentleman in a tweed suit and a trilby hat had sat down at the table, with his back to cherilda, and was making himself comfortable and opening a big book which he had just taken out of what must have been a very big pocket. connie recognized him as a customer whom she had seen a few times before. he called himself doctor something or other, was kind of chatty, ordered the special but no liquor, and left a pretty good tip. was he really a doctor? probably not. doctor of what? but who cared? “good evening, doctor,” connie greeted him. as she did she noticed that cherilda, behind his back, seemed to be glaring at him. “good evening, miss,” the “doctor” replied, putting down his big book, which was entitled “the encyclopedia of the unexplained” . “ i hoped to schedule my arrival tonight to coincide with the beef stew, and i see that i succeeded.” “ha, ha! mom tries to mix it up and surprise people, but i see you are too sharp for us, doctor,” connie said. the doctor tapped the encyclopedia of the unexplained. “it is all written in the cosmos, miss, if one knows how to read it.” “of course. did you want something to drink - ? “ “i know you, professor mcgraw!” cherilda’s voice broke in. “you think you have me now, but you just wait -“ connie tried to ignore her, and kept smiling, but cherilda continued , in a louder voice, “but i have other plans, and will foil yours!” “is that a radio on behind us?” the doctor asked connie. he turned and met cherilda’s baleful gaze. “we meet again. professor,” cherilda addressed him. “hopefully, for the last time.” “i am afraid there has been some mistake,” the doctor began, but connie moved between him and cherilda. “honey, you have to behave yourself. if you can’t, i am going to have to ask you to leave. i know this nice gentleman, and he’s a perfect gentleman, take it from me.” “a gentleman! “ cherilda shouted, loudly enough to attract the attention of the poets at their table. “he’s a fiend!” the door opened and a young police officer entered. he took a look around and saw connie remonstrating with cherilda and stepped forward. “is this the lady we received a call about?” he asked connie. “yes, she is.” “i am officer ignatius donnelly, from precinct 17. what seems to be the problem?” he looked down at cherilda with a friendly gaze. “there is no problem,” cherilda answered in a sullen little girl’s voice, looking down at the table. “well, then,” donnelly began, but the squeak of the doctors chair as he turned back to his own table distracted him. donnelly glanced over and saw the doctor trying to bury his face in his book. “professor mcgraw!” the young policeman exclaimed. the doctor - professor made the best of it and put his book back down. “do i know you, officer?” “i know you. how long have you been out of sing sing? i guess you didn’t escape, or i would have heard about it.” “no, officer, i did not escape. i served my time, every minute of it. i am not on parole, i am a free man.“ “hooked your wagon to any rich old ladies yet?” “no, young man, i have not found any new friends - or old friends, for that matter, to welcome me back into the world. if i had, i might be dining in somewhat more elegant quarters - not that i wish to slight this fine establishment. as it is, had hoped to enjoy a quiet home cooked meal in this comfortable little oasis in the great diabolical metropolis - but, alas, trouble always finds me.” “to be sure. well, professor, keep your nose clean and wear your rubbers when it rains. now, back to what i came here for -“ donnelly turned around, and connie pointed to the door. cherilda had escaped into the night. * “what do you think?” paddy asked connie later, toward closing time. “do you think the two of them were working some kind of scam?” “on who? nobody worth scamming comes into this place. she seemed legit to me. legitimately crazy.” “we will probably never know,” paddy mused. “and we will probably never see her again.” the poets table had broken up, but seamas macseamas the irish poet was sitting alone at the bar and had been listening to connie’s and paddy’s conversation. “i have the sixth sight,” seamas, completely inebriated, announced, “and i tell you she will be back.” “if you say so, seamas,” paddy told him. connie lit up another old gold. next story

cherilda, part 1

story by horace p sternwall

art by danny delacroix and eddie el greco

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

part one of two

a moderately busy night at bob’s bowery bar, at the bowery and bleecker street, on a cool spring evening with a hint of rain in the air. it was tuesday, bob’s usual night off, and paddy the philosopher was presiding behind the bar. a jolly party of shriner’s from ardmore oklahama had just departed the premises, and paddy was busy emptying their ashtrays when the front door opened. what paddy, from his spot at the far end of the bar, took to be a female child, entered and looked around the room uncertainly. as the neighborhood was inhabited mostly by poor fellows down on their luck and on their own, bob’s got less than its share of children coming in to beg daddy to come home, but it did get them from time to time, and paddy preferred not to deal with them. he had nothing against kids, but he did not “have a way” wth them either, so he asked connie the waitress, who was hanging at the end of the bar, to attend to the child. connie took a last long drag on her old gold, stubbed it out in one of the ashtrays paddy had just finished cleaning, and headed toward the front of the room. when she was less than halfway there, she realized that the person was not a child, but just a small woman, who could have been as old as fifty. but child or not, the creature definitely looked lost. she was wearing a heavy coat with old fashioned wide skirts and laced up boots showing beneath it, and a flowered hat of the kind seen on the heads of horses in saturday evening post covers. she had small but vivid spots of rouge on her cheeks. “can i help you, madam?” connie asked. “are you looking for someone?” “it’s miss, not madam.” “i beg your pardon, miss. but are you in fact looking for someone? or would you like to have a seat, and order something? this is a place that serves food and drink, at reasonable prices. i think the bar might be a little high for you, but there is a comfortable -“ “i’m looking for a husband ,” the little woman interrupted connie. “oh? a husband?” connie answered with a smile. “or your husband? but didn’t you just say - ?” “i have to find a husband by midnight, or they will come and get me - “ “she’s a loony!” came a voice from about halfway down the bar. the voice belonged to a semi-regular who called himself straight-talking sid, or straight-shooting sid, when he spoke to anyone, which was not often. on this night he was alone, as he usually was. “shut up, sid,” connie told him. “i mean it. i won’t tell you again.” “she’s a loony!” sid repeated. “i ought to know a loony when i see one -“ at this point paddy came down the bar. he immediately saw that the child was not a child. “what’s going on here?” he asked connie. “nothing much,” connie told him. “everything is under control, especially now that sid here is going to mind his manners and shut his yap. and i am going to find this lady a seat and she will order something and i will serve her and everything will be peaches and cream.” “all right.” paddy nodded, and went back to a post halfway down the bar, in the vicinity of the poets’ table, whose occupants had seemed to take no notice of the newcomer ’s arrival. connie took the little woman over to a table in the corner nearest the front door, away from sid, the poets, and the other.customers, and got her seated. “now, miss, besides a husband, what would you like? would you like something to drink?” “yes, please. a lemonade.” “a lemonade? we can manage that. how about something to eat? the special today is beef stew, made by bob’s own mom. it’s the best on the bowery, and beef stew always goes good with lemonade.” “um - i don’t have much money.” “that’s all right. the first time is free. we know, if you like it, you will come back for more.” “all right.” “what’s your name, by the way?” “cherilda.” “that’s a pretty name. you wait right here, cherilda, and i will be right back. if anybody bothers you, just holler.” * “i think sid was right,” connie said to paddy in a low voice, after placing the order for beef stew with bob’s mom in the kitchen. “she looks as crazy as a new jersey dock rat, the poor thing. you should call the police, see if anybody is looking for her.” “all right,” paddy sighed. “but that is all i can do. she is not a child, she isn’t causing a disturbance. i will give her one free meal if she can’t pay, but that’s it.” “right.” “you know, “ paddy said, “sometimes on this job, i think i might as well have become a priest. all i do is listen to people’s troubles, and watch the woe of the world drift by like old packing crates in the river.” “you are very poetic tonight, paddy.” “do you ever get the same feeing? i mean, that you might as well have been a nun?” “no, i can’t say that i do.” part 2

“I Ain’t Complaining”

Another instructive fable by Dan Leo

Profusely illustrated by the illustrious rhoda penmarq

(Based on a true story. Names changed to protect us from lawsuits.)

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

“I ain’t complaining,” said Little Ray. His real name wasn’t Ray and he wasn’t little, either, but everybody called him Little Ray, because one night Fat Angie the retired whore said to him, “Jesus Christ, don’t you do nothing but complain alla time? You’re just a little ray of sunshine, ain’t you? Shut the hell up with your goddam complaining.” Well, he never did shut up with his complaining, and from that night onward everybody called him Little Ray, short for Little Ray of Sunshine. Hardly anybody even remembered what his real name was, and nobody cared either. “Lookit,” he said, he was talking to or talking at Philip the uptown swell, down here on another one of his benders, “don’t get me wrong. I ain’t complaining. But these bums at my job, you know what their problem is? They don’t want to work. They want to get paid for doing nothing while I pick up the slack. I ain’t complaining, but it just gets to me, ya know what I mean?” Suddenly Philip became aware that Ray was talking to him, or talking at him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “what?” “I said I ain’t complaining,” said Little Ray, who was a tall fat, disjointed-looking, goofy looking guy with milk-bottle horn-rimmed glasses held together with electrical tape. “I ain’t complaining, but –” He paused for a moment, gathering his strength to air his many and deep grievances all over again. “Yes?” said Philip, already losing interest. “It’s just these lazy bums at my job,” said Little Ray. “They don’t want to work. All they want to do is the least they can get away with, while a guy like me is doing more work than he should be doing –” “So,” interrupted Philip, “you’re complaining about your job?” “Well,” said Little Ray, “like I said, I ain’t complaining –" “You’re not?” said Philip. “No, I ain’t,” said Little Ray. “I’m only saying. Y’know? I’m only saying that it ain’t fair that I gotta do extra work when these other bums don’t do half the work I do.” “So you’re complaining about your co-workers?” “I ain’t complaining, per se,” said Little Ray. “I am only saying. I am only making a observation, Philip. I am not complaining. Nobody likes a complainer.” But Philip was no longer listening. Little Ray continued to complain but his voice was no more than a meaningless distant buzzing as far as Philip was concerned. What did Little Ray care?  “Again,” he said, again, “I ain’t complaining, Philip. You understand that. I ain’t complaining.” He continued to complain, and Philip continued to stare into something that could not be seen here in Bob’s Bowery Bar or anywhere, deep into the swirling multitudinous memories of his life, and even into events and thoughts and sights and sounds he had never consciously remembered before, and might never remember again. “I ain’t complaining,” said Little Ray. “You understand that, don’t you, Philip?” For some reason Philip heard this last sentence, and he turned to Little Ray. “I understand,” he said. At last Little Ray shut up.  At last someone understood. He took a sip of the flat and warm bock beer he had been nursing for over an hour in the hopes that Philip would offer to buy him a fresh dime glass. It wasn’t like the guy couldn’t afford it. Everybody knew that Philip was loaded, and came from money, but just try to get these rich bastards to buy you a beer, it was like pulling teeth. Little Ray sighed, and laid the short stubby glass down. “I ain’t complaining,” he said. next story