The little man droned on with his endless extemporaneous poem…
Perhaps Sartre was right, and hell was other people, and if that were so, was the deepest circle in all of hell the one reserved for poets?
On the little man droned:
I been knocked down and dragged around
and taken downtown and booked
I been slapped and attacked and tracked down
and my goose been done right cooked.
There ain’t a boxcar I ain’t jumped in,
all acrost this land of gumption,
nor a flophouse I ain’t dossed in,
a drunk tank I ain’t been tossed in.
Yes sir, I may be half dead,
but I ain’t dead yet.
Nope, I ain’t in my deathbed yet.
Nope, you betcha, son, you bet…
Milford turned away from this madness, and there on the bartop stood the glass of brandy Bubbles had ordered for him. Oh, how he longed to drink it! But if he did, he knew what would happen, all too well: awakening in an alleyway, freezing, shivering, and wet, every cell in his body crying in agony. Followed by two days of killing hangover and despair. Should he drink the brandy anyway?
There was Bubbles to his right, seemingly ignoring the bad poetry, sipping her own brandy and smoking her cigarette, ignoring the world as the jukebox music and the smoke and the chatter swirled all around her.
And to his left, Addison, very obviously drunk, leaning in toward Polly who was leaning in toward him from her stool. What are they talking about? wondered Milford. Isn’t Polly supposed to be on a date with me? Well, not a date per se, but a rendezvous? And yet she seems rather enthralled with Addison now, who is a frightful bore if there ever was one.
But then Bubbles said that I am even more boring than Addison! Could it be true? Am I really just a crashing bore, and is my poetry any better than that of this idiot Lucas Z. Billingsworth droning on behind me? I should grab up that sheaf of my poetry on the bar in front of Polly before she could read any more of it! But if I did I would only draw attention to myself. And all I want to do is to be someplace else. But where? Anywhere I go I will still be here, trapped in my head. Yes, Sartre had not taken his argument far enough, for hell is not just other people, hell is that one person we can never escape, one’s own self…
And suddenly Milford became utterly aware of his solitude in the universe, trapped in this awareness of his own existence, his own utterly meaningless existence, and with horror he wondered if at long last he was losing his mind, losing all grip on so-called physical reality; he might as well be a lonely mote of consciousness floating in the darkness of outer space, forever, except it wouldn’t be forever, he would die eventually, be snuffed out, and as horrible as existence was, the prospect of non-existence seemed more horrible still…
“Your cigarette’s burning down.”
“What?”
It was Bubbles, to his right, and she pointed to his right hand with the cigarette in her left hand.
“You’re gonna burn yourself.”
“Oh!”
Milford saw the stub of the Woodbine in his fingers, felt the heat of its burning tobacco on his delicate skin, and quickly he dropped the butt into the ashtray.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m afraid I was rather, uh –”
“In another world.”
“Yes,” he said.
Lucas Z. Billingsworth was still declaiming.
From Sault Ste. Marie to San Berdoo,
from Abilene on to Kalamazoo,
from Salt Lake City to Tallahassee,
I’ve wet my little willy
in many a willin’ lassie…
Bubbles turned to the little man.
“Okay, Lucas, that’s enough, now hit the pike.”
“But I’m not finished my poem yet,” said the man.
“Maybe you’re not, but I am. Now hop it.”
“Can I have another drink first?”
“How about I clout you on the noggin with my purse first?”
“Here,” said Milford, and he held out his glass of brandy to the little man. “Take this one.”
“Wow, I like you, Gifford,” said Lucas.
“It’s Milford, but it doesn’t matter. Now take the drink, please.”
“Only if you insist,” said the little man, and he took the glass. “I’m gonna drink this one slow, real slow. Savor it. You should learn how to savor things, Milward. You only get to ride this crazy freight train called life once, you know.”
“Okay,” said Milford. “I’ll try.”
“I see some friends of mine over there,” said Lucas. “I’ll just go join them. They’re poets too. You should come over and I’ll introduce you.”
“Maybe later.”
“It’s very important for a poet to belong to a crowd of other poets. No one just wants to be a poet sitting alone in a room.”
“Maybe not.”
“It’s great. Everybody listens to everybody else’s poems and pretends they’re not crap.”
“Um –”
“You would fit right in, Buford.”
“Uh, well, have a good time,” said Milford.
“Oh, I will. I would say the same to you, but I fear my words would be otiose. Some people, alas, are not meant for good times. See ya, Bubbles.”
“Later, Lucas,” said Bubbles.
Finally the little man shuffled off.
“He’s all right,” said Bubbles. “For about five minutes at a time.”
“You were very kind to him,” said Milford.
“Yeah, I’m a saint,” said Bubbles.
Bubbles returned to gazing at the bottles of liquors ranged on the shelves opposite. Or was she gazing into the mirror there, at her own reflection gazing into the mirror? And next to her reflection was that of Milford himself, pale and insubstantial beneath his newsboy’s cap.
“Bubbles,” said Milford, “I am a fool.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“A minute ago I thought I was about to lose my mind.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No, because you spoke to me and told me I was about to burn myself with my cigarette.”
“That’s me,” she said. “Saint Bubbles.”
“Yes.”
Milford took out another Woodbine, put it in his lips, picked up his lighter, lighted the cigarette. At least he still had cigarettes. And, after a time, of course the cigarettes would kill him. But they helped to pass the time.
“I wonder,” he said, “if you might do me another good deed, Bubbles.”
“What?”
“I carry a burden. A great burden.”
“Get to the point.”
“I carry the burden of virginity.”
“Oh.”
“And so I wonder, I mean, I hate to be forward –”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “Okay.”
“You will?”
“Why not?”
“Oh, thank you so much. It will be such a relief.”
“Glad to oblige.”
“We don’t have to do it right away.”
“I wasn’t planning on doing it right away.”
“But some other time. At your convenience.”
“Sure. Maybe later tonight.”
“That would be swell.”
“It’s ten bucks. That includes the cost of a French letter.”
“That seems very reasonable.”
“I know I could probably get a lot more out of you, but that’s not the way I operate.”
“I would pay anything, Bubbles. Because you’re so beautiful. I would give you a thousand.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said.
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