“The Guano and Feed King of Indiana”

Another tale of a golden age by Dan Leo

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq, through exclusive arrangement with quinnmartinmarq™ productions

“Yes, another Thanksgiving holiday in the heartland, and what a simple but sublime joy it was to board the bus back to the city with a new modest hoard of quinnmartinmarq™ affordable and pocket-sized paperbacks to get me through the journey!” – Horace P. Sternwall, author of “The Inebriate Postman’s Gift” and Other Tales of Christmas, available now for pre-order at half-price from quinnmartinmarq™ productions

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

“Is that you, Marion?” “No, Mother,” said Milford, removing his peacoat, “it is a burglar.” “Ha ha, very funny. Take your shoes off, I don’t want you tracking wet all over the house.” Obediently Milford hung up his newsboy’s cap, then sat in the foyer chair, took off his wet work shoes, and pulled on his slippers. Then he stood up. “Good night, Mother,” he called. “Come in here first.” “I want to go to bed.” “Indulge your mother and come in here.” Milford sighed, and turned left down the hall to the sitting room where his mother sat in her chair, Daniel Deronda in her lap. “How was your lunch with your friend?” “My what?” “Your lunch with your friend.” “Oh, that, yes, it was quite nice, thank you.” “It must have been quite a long lunch as it is now –” she glanced at the grandfather clock –”nigh on eleven o’clock.” “I – I – yes, um, I –” Should he lie? Would a lie be any better than the truth? How could one know?  “If you must know I was at the Prince Hal Room,” he said, the truth just welling up out of him for some strange reason or complex of reasons. “Oh,” said Mrs. Milford, “so you did take your friend to lunch at the Prince Hal Room. I rather expected you to be a cheapskate and take that twenty I gave you and parsimoniously give your friend lunch at the automat, keeping the difference for yourself.” This of course was exactly what Milford had done, but why tell the harridan?  “Yes,” he said, “so anyway, we, uh –” “So you lingered at the Prince Hal.” “Yes, one might say that.” “You don’t seem drunk.” “I am not drunk.” “Join me in a glass of sherry.” “Mother! How many times must I tell you, I am an alcoholic and I cannot have even one drink. Are you really trying to drive me by main force back to the sanatorium?” “It’s only sherry, for goodness’ sake, Marion.” “Even sherry!” “So you mean to tell me you spent all afternoon and evening in the Prince Hal Room and had not even one drink.” Milford sighed. “You sighed,” said Mrs. Milford. “So you did drink.” “I had one Cream of Kentucky and ginger ale. There, are you happy?” “Only one? How does one spend some eight or nine hours in a cocktail lounge and have only one highball?” “One does it when some oaf buys one a highball, and one drinks it before one realizes that aforementioned oaf has bought it for one.” “Was the oaf your friend that you treated to lunch?” “No, it was just some guy at the bar.” “What was his name?” “I don’t know.” “Yes you do.” “Okay, it was Brown. His name was Brown, but he called himself Farmer Brown.” “Fiftyish, heavyset, never shuts up?” “Oh dear God, you know this man?” “Occasionally after a rigorous day’s shopping I have had a restorative martini at the bar in the Prince Hal Room. A cocktail bar is a public setting, and people do start talking to me, I don’t know why.” “I can’t believe you know this man.” “Farmer Brown has been haunting the Prince Hal and the lobby of the St Crispian for over twenty years. He’s not hard to miss, dear boy.” “My mind is reeling.” “You’ll get over it.” “That you actually know the man.” “I know many men.” “What does that mean?” “It means exactly what it seems to mean.” “Dear God, do you have some sort of secret life, Mother?” “Nothing secret about it. But how odd.” “What’s odd? That you consort with barflies?” “Farmer Brown is no common barfly. I’m told his family owns the largest guano and feed concern in Indiana.” “Guano? Feed?” “Next time you see the Farmer tell him hello for me.” “I most certainly will not.” “Have a sherry. I want to hear about your evening with the Farmer.” “I’ll not have a sherry, and there is nothing to tell about my evening with the Farmer, except that he bored me silly.” “He does go on. But he means well.” “The man is mentally retarded.” “What else did you do?” “Who says I did anything else?” “You did something else. A mother can tell.” “I – I –” “Oh.” “Oh what?” said Milford. “Did you meet someone else?” Again Milford sighed. Why try to hide anything from her? “Okay, I met someone else,” he said. “Who?” “Someone.” “An attractive someone?” “If you must know, yes. Extremely attractive.” “I must ask, so please don’t become exercised with indignation. Was this person a man?” “What?” “This attractive person you met, it was a man?” “What?” “I’ll find out anyway, you know.” “No, Mother, it was not a man, it was a – a –” “A girl?” “Yes! It was a girl! Okay? I met a girl! And you know what else? We’re having lunch tomorrow!” “You’re having lunch with a girl?” “Yes, as fantastic as that possibility may seem to you, I am having lunch with a girl!” “Sit down. Pour yourself a sherry and tell me all about it.” “No, I’m tired, and I want to go to bed.” “How can you be tired after sleeping till one and then spending the rest of your day in the Prince Hal Room? Not exactly a grueling shift at a steel mill, is it?” “Good night, Mother.” “What is that in your hand.” “What, this?” Milford held up the rolled-up sheaf of paper, tied with a red ribbon, which he had been holding all this time. “I see nothing else in your hand.” “It is a collection of my poems.” “May I read them?” “Most certainly not.” “Did you show them to your friend? What was his name, Hatcherson?” “Addison. And, yes, he did read my poems.” “Did he like them?” “Yes.” "He said he liked them?” “I said yes, didn’t I?” “Have you shown them to your new girl friend?” “Mother, I can stand no more of this inquisition! Good night!” “Don’t show her the poems, Marion. Don’t scare her off first thing.” “Oh my God!” And Milford turned and left the drawing room.  Mrs. Milford reached for the sherry decanter and refilled her glass. And all this time she had been sure the boy was homosexual. Will wonders never cease. Was a grandchild out of the question? Was her only child perhaps not the last of the family line after all? Well, one step at a time. She would prize more out of the lad on the morrow… next story

"Anti-Aircraft"

Another tale of a golden age by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, through exclusive arrangement with quinnmartinmarq™ productions

"As I board the bus to go back to my hometown for Thanksgiving, you may rest assured that I have first visited the paperback rack and stocked up on two or three of the latest publications from quinnmartinmarq™ – high-quality literature at an affordable price aimed at the ‘thinking’ man (or woman) of today!” – Horace P. Sternwall, author of ‘Ten Steps to the Gallows’ and Other Tales of Impending Doom

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

At the entrance to the Prince Hal Room Milford said, “Wait, Miss De LaSalle –” “Shirley.” “Shirley, I think I had better go home.” “Yeah? You don’t want to hear me sing again?” “Oh, I do, very much, but, you see, I’m afraid that if I go in there I will drink, and if I drink I’ll get drunk, and if I get drunk it’s quite possible that I will black out and completely forget about our lunch date tomorrow.” “Okay. Well, I’ll see ya tomorrow then, Milfie.” “Yes, at noon?” “Let’s make it more like one-ish.” “At the automat.” “At the automat,” she said.  “I shall be there early,” he said. “Okay, pal, see ya then –” She turned to go through the entrance. “Oh, wait!” said Milford. She turned. “Yeah?” “I’ll go in with you.” “I thought you were going home.” “Yes, but I left my umbrella at the bar.” “Oh, okay, well, come on then.” They went on into the Prince Hal Room, thick with smoke, the band crashing through “Take the A Train” while the Betty Baxter Dancers danced. Milford had the strange sensation that he was floating rather than walking as he and Shirley made their way down through the lounge past all these people laughing and drinking and talking while the music crashed on. And how holy was it that he was walking beside her, she whom he had not even touched yet, how sacred was it all?  Suddenly they had reached the end of the bar, and there was his friend Addison (his only friend) sitting at the bar, and standing next to him that oaf called Farmer Brown. “Ah!” bellowed Farmer Brown, “the young lovers!” “Hiya, Farmer,” said Shirley. “And did you have a good time together, Miss Shirley, smoking the wacky weed?” “I’ve had worse,” said Shirley. .“Did I ever tell you about the time my friend Miss Charlton and her friend Lord Wolverington took me to an opium den in Chinatown?” “No, Farmer,” said Shirley, “and I really want to hear the whole sordid story, but I gotta go backstage and peel off my wrap and get ready to go on again, so I’ll take a rain check.” “Of course, my dear! And, in the parlance of you showbiz folk, ‘break a gam!’” “Thanks, buddy.” She nodded at Addison. “See ya too, Amberson.” Addison had been in the middle of swallowing a gulp of his Cream of Kentucky highball, but he forced it down, and blurted out, “Yes! I quite look forward to your next selection of chansons –” Lastly Shirley turned to Milford. “Later, alligator.” “Yes, um,” burbled Milford, “later, tomorrow, uh, the automat –” And then she turned and headed off, through the clamor of the music and the laughing and shouting people and through the smoke of dozens of cigarettes and cigars; and the three idiots, one young, one less young, one older, watched her go until she disappeared through the doorway to the left of the stage. “Gee,” said Farmer Brown, turning back to face Milford. “What a gal. Sit down, Gifford, and tell me, what’s all this about the automat?” “We have a date at the automat for lunch tomorrow,” said Milford. “What?” said Farmer Brown. “What automat?” “The one right across the alleyway from the hotel.” “You have a luncheon date with Shirley De LaSalle?” “Yes.” “I say, well done, Milford!” said Addison, and he patted the young fellow’s shoulder, realizing as he did so that that he couldn’t remember ever patting anyone on the shoulder in his life before, but then how many new and wonderful things had been happening in his life lately? He also realized that he was finally past the halfway point of having his load on, so that was good, mission accomplished so far… “Sit down, Milton,” said the Farmer to Milford, “and let’s have another libation and get to the bottom of this –” “No,” said Milford, “I can’t sit down because I am going home now. I just came back to get my umbrella.” “Nonsense, my boy,” said the Farmer. “The night is still young, and pregnant with promise. A moderate-to-strong Cream of Kentucky-with-White Rock ginger ale is what you need, and then I want to get the inside ‘gen’ on this supposed luncheon tryst at the automat with the divine Miss De LaSalle –” “Mr. Brown,” said Milford, “as I have told you a dozen times, perhaps two dozen times, I am an alcoholic, and I cannot have even one drink –” “You’ve already had one drink.” “That was a mistake. I didn’t realize there was whiskey in it until it was too late.” “Might as well have another one then.” “No! This is precisely why I must go. If I stay here you’ll keep trying to get me to drink, and I don’t want to drink.” “There’s no need to attack me, lad. I was only trying to be friendly.” “Well, I’m sorry, but, look, I’m just going to get my umbrella and go. Where did I put it?” The Farmer lifted a black umbrella from off a hook under the bar. “I believe this is it?” “Yes, thank you,” said Milford. “You’re welcome,” said Farmer Brown. “And, my dear Grimford, I hope there are no hard feelings.” “No hard feelings, but my name is Milford, not Grimford, or Mumford, or Gifford, or Rutherford – it’s Milford.” “Milford?” said Farmer Brown. “Yes. Milford.” “Are you sure that’s what you told me before?” “Why would I tell you anything different?” “I don’t know. Perhaps you wished to remain incognito?” “Okay, look, whatever, goodnight, and thanks for the, for the –” “For the conversation and companionship?” “Yeah, thanks for that, but I’ve got to go now.” “I really wish you would stay and tell me about this Shirley business.” “Well, I’m sorry, but I have to go.” “And I am sorry to see you go,” said the Farmer. “It is not often that I have the opportunity to engage with creative young people. And you know what my motto is, don’t you?” “Listen to the young people?” “Yes, how did you know that?” “Because you told me so, at least twice, and now you’re telling me again.” “And I will keep telling you, and the world, Melvin, ‘Listen to the young people! Because maybe, just maybe, they’ve got something to say!’” “Yeah, okay,” said Milford. He turned to Addison. “Good night, Addison. Thank you again for reading my poems.” “Je vous en prie, mon ami,” said Addison, not that he had read more than a score of lines of said poems. “Well, it means a lot to me,” said Milford. “Good night. Maybe I’ll see you in the rooms.” “The rooms?” “The meetings.” “The meetings?” “The AA meetings. If you ever go again.” “Oh, right, the meetings, well, you know,” said Addison, glancing with a fleeting grin at the highball in his hand, “perhaps I’ll drop in –” “Or we could have lunch. Or coffee.” “Lunch would be nice.” “Not tomorrow though,” said Milford. “Oh, right, because, uh –” “Because Gimford has a luncheon date at the automat with the fair Shirley!” said the Farmer. “Yeah,” said Milford. “Okay. Good night.” And off the young poet went, in his peacoat and his newsboy’s cap, his furled umbrella in his hand. “Crazy kid,” said Farmer Brown. “A bit eccentric. Slightly lacking in basic social skills perhaps, and the kind of feller about whom we used to say back in Indiana, ain’t quite sure whether he’s a donkey or an ass, but you can be durned sure he’s one or the other. Anyway, I like the lad, call me an old softy if you like, I won’t dispute it with you, that’s always been my number one fault, a soft heart, and I’ll take it proudly to the grave. But, Hamilton, now that we’re à deux again, tell me more about these ‘meetings’ you and Rudyard go to.” “Meetings?” “Yes, the AA meetings.” “Ah,” said Addison, “the AA meetings –” “Yes,” said Farmer Brown, “these Anti-Aircraft meetings…” At this completely asinine and yet hilariously surrealistic utterance Addison felt his glorious mind swirling amidst the music of the band and the kicking and the twirling of the Betty Baxter Dancers, the laughter and shouting of all the other drunkards in here, the heady smoke of cigarettes and cigars, the rising surging tide of his own drunkenness (and, yes, he really must not get too smashed, even if Farmer Brown was buying) and a warm sense of love for all humanity. “Ah, yes,” he said, to the Farmer’s open glowing face and bleary innocent eyes, “the Anti-Aircraft meetings…” next story

"Life's Feast"

Another tale of a golden age by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq through exclusive arrangement with quinnmartinmarq™ productions

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

Farmer Brown leaned closer to Addison. “Love is what it’s all about, my lad.” “Oh, I quite agree,” said Addison. “You do?” “Yes. Absolutely.” “And, if it is not too personal, may I ask if you yourself have known the glories of love?” “Believe it or not, Mr. Brown, yes, I have, and do.” “Ah ha! Spoken like a chap in love! I should have known by the glow emanating from your corporeal host, sir!” “Well, that glow could be the result of Cream of Kentucky bourbon, Mr. Brown –” “No, I speak of a spiritual glow, sir. And tell me, dear Thatcherson, what is the name of your objet d’amour?” “Bubbles.” “Bubbles! A delightful name. Tell me about her.” “Well, she’s a – uh – an entertainer,” said Addison, prevaricating if not outright lying. “Oh, splendid,” said Farmer Brown. “Nothing like a showbiz gal, is there?” “I suppose not,” said Addison, adding, silently, “not that I would know.” “And may I ask – and again, if it’s not getting too personal – have you made sweet love with Bubbles?” “What?” “Sweet, savage, sweaty love?” “Mr. Brown!” “Oh. I have gone too far.” “Perhaps just a bit,” said Addison.  “I hope you will forgive me.” “Of course,” said Addison. After all, Farmer Brown was buying, and Addison didn’t really have but half his load on yet. “Here, let me order you another drink,” said Farmer Brown. “Only if you insist,” said Addison. “Raoul!” shouted the Farmer to the barman, who was way down at the other end of the bar. “Two more over here if you please!” He then shoved his silver monogrammed cigarette case toward Addison, and clicked it open. “Another Old Gold?” “Thank you,” said Addison, although he was already smoking a cigarette, but he took one anyway, and placed it in an indentation of the ashtray he shared with Farmer Brown, a sturdy glass ashtray emblazoned in gold and red with the legend At the St Crispian Hotel our Service is Swell. “I am aware that sometimes in the throes of quite innocent enthusiasm I overstep the bounds of civilized discourse,” said Farmer Brown. “But, you see, Thatcherson, I think it terribly important that a young man such as yourself should taste in full of the pleasures not just of the soul but of the flesh. Unless of course you are a religious fellow. You’re not by chance a Roman Catholic, are you?” “No.” “Thank God – I mean, nothing against any religion, even the Papist, but can any red-blooded man really be expected to refrain from the concupiscent pleasures until marriage?” “I don’t see why he should,” said Addison. “A kindred spirit!” said the Farmer. “Because why would the good Lord above give us the beauty of womanhood were it not to be enjoyed in full?” “My sentiments exactly,” said Addison. “And so you have,” said the Farmer. “I have?” “Enjoyed the physical pleasures of woman, qua woman.” “Well – yes,” said Addison. “Here, let me light that Old Gold for you,” said the Farmer, picking up his monogrammed lighter which perfectly matched his cigarette case. “Thank you, Mr. Brown, but, as you see, I haven’t quite finished this one,” said Addison, showing the Farmer his lighted cigarette. “Oh, yes, of course, one at a time, heh heh.” “Yes,” said Addison. “Ah! Our drinks!” said the Farmer, and the impassive Raoul placed the fresh Creams of Kentucky-and-ginger ales before the middle-aged and the younger man, and took away their depleted glasses. “To l’amour!” said the Farmer, raising his glass. “Yes, to l’amour,” said Addison, raising his own glass. Sure, the man was a crashing bore, but he was buying the drinks, and dispensing the cigarettes, and, one never knew, perhaps out of this insanity would come material for one’s novel? “I have a confession to make, Thatcherman.” “Pardon?” said Addison. “A confession.” “Oh.” “Stop me if you don’t want to hear it. I do tend to reveal perhaps too much.” “Oh, no –” “I myself have never known the pleasures of the female corpus.” “Pardon me?” “I have never, as the bawdy Bard put it, made the beast with two backs.” “You mean –” “Yes.” “Oh.” “Do you think I have missed out?” “Well, Mr. Brown –” “Please, Plankington, call me Farmer. As I have said, all my friends call me Farmer, and I would like to think that we have become friends.” “Okay – ‘Farmer’ –” “And so?” “So?” “Have I?” “I’m sorry, Farmer, what was the question?” “Have I missed out in never once in my life having committed what the naughty Bard termed the act of darkness?” “I, uh, well,” said Addison, who was so rarely at a loss for words, but now nearly was, “um, that is not for me to say, Mr. Br-, I mean Farmer –” “Yes, but I am asking you to say. Because you, sir, are an artist.” “I am?” “Didn’t you say you were a novelist?” “Oh, right, yes, I suppose I am.” “So that’s why I’m asking you. Because you are not just some average clod. You are a creative writer, sir, whose remit it is to delve deep into the mysteries of the human soul.” “Okay, I suppose that’s true.” “So have I missed out?” Addison considered. What about himself? He also had never actually made the beast with two backs, done the act of darkness. But he had indisputably gotten a couple of Baltimore handshakes from Bubbles. It was true he had had to pay for them, but nonetheless, he had gotten them, and they must count for something. And, back in his wartime days at the parachute factory, what about that enormous drunken sergeant who had so brutally rubbed his private parts against Addison’s rear in that barroom men’s room? Did that count? But Farmer Brown was not asking about Addison, he was asking about himself. “Yes, uh, Farmer,” said Addison, “I think that perhaps you have missed out. But –” “Yes,” said Farmer Brown, “but?” “But perhaps by missing out you have gained something else.” “And what would that be, Harrison?” “Perhaps you have missed out on being disappointed.” For once Farmer Brown said nothing. The music of the band had been playing all along, and as if on cue both Addison and Farmer Brown turned and gazed at the Betty Baxter Dancers, kicking their legs so high and twirling and leaping in unison. After a moment Farmer Brown turned again to Addison. “All my life I have been, in the words of the noted Irish author James Joyce, outcast from life’s feast. But I have gathered a few crumbs in my time. Yes, Thackerman, I have gathered my precious crumbs.” The Betty Baxter dancers kicked and swirled, and across the room the love of Farmer Brown’s life, Miss Charlton, sat drinking champagne and smoking with her fattish old male companion, the both of them laughing, probably about the notorious misadventures of their younger days. next story