“What Am I Doing Here?”

Another tale of the literary life, by Dan Leo

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

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Not for the first time in his life, and it wouldn’t be the last, Milford wondered, What am I doing here? Sitting here almost sober at this table in the San Remo Café with six drunken, jabbering and shouting fellows, including T.S. Eliot to his right, while the one guy Lucas Z. Billingsworth declaimed his extemporaneous poem, snatches of which entered Milford’s consciousness… “They call me the big beat daddy, and that’s what I am for real, zipping along in a ’32 Ford driven by my old pal Neal while I sing sad songs of the road and the simple wise fellaheen and the gals in gingham dresses just barely turned eighteen…” Nonetheless, it seemed that Milford had at last joined a literary movement, so there was that… Yes, all well and good, but what about the lovely Bubbles, still sitting over there at the bar, who had tentatively agreed to relieve him of his virginity this night, and at the very reasonable price of only ten dollars, which included the cost of a French letter? Should he excuse himself to his new comrades and rejoin her, even if she didn’t want to talk to him? And what about Polly, Polly Powell, with whom he was supposed to be having dinner, but who now seemed to be happily ensconced in conversation with that weirdo Addison? What to do? As usual, Milford did nothing while trying to decide what he should do, feeling, as usual, separate from all humanity and the universe, but then a large old man was standing looming behind him, between him and Mr. Eliot. “Hey, Eliot, I got a bone to pick with you, buddy.” “Oh, hello, Stevens, how are you?” said Mr. Eliot, turning around in his seat to look up at the big man. “I’m fine,” said the man. He wore a heavy tweed topcoat and a fedora. “I’m very fine. But you, my fine friend, are about to be not so fine.” “I do beg your pardon.” “Don’t give me that shit. Sitting here with your young epigones. I’ll bet they’re all kissing your lily-white narrow ass.” ”Hey, just wait a minute, Stevens, no need to be so hostile.” “Oh, no? After you called my collection, and I quote, ‘the usual impenetrable sentimental twaddle we have come to expect from Stevens’?” “Oh, that. Well, my dear fellow –” “Don’t give me that faux-British ‘my dear fellow’ crapola, pal. You Midwesterners are all the same. As soon as you leave the corn fields and go to Harvard you start to talk like Ronald Colman.” “I assure you I have never been in a corn field in my life.” “I’m gonna fuck you up, Eliot. And all your little boyfriends here are not gonna stop me.” “Now, look, Stevens, can’t we be civilized?” “Fuck you. I’m going over to the bar for a Rob Roy. In five minutes I want you to meet me outside on Bleecker, and we’ll settle this like men. If you’re not outside in five minutes I’m gonna come over here and drag you out to the street by your Savile Row rep necktie. Later, dipshit.” And with that the large old man lumbered away. No one else at the table seemed to have noticed the exchange. Lucas was still spouting his extemporaneous poem, and the other fellows were all babbling obliviously away at each other. Mr. Eliot and Milford both watched as the large man shoved himself into a place at the crowded bar. Mr. Eliot lifted his martini and took a sip. “Wow,” said Milford. “Who was that, Mr. Eliot?” “Stevens. Wallace Stevens. I gave one of his books a pan in Criterion about twenty years ago, and it seems he’s still a bit cheesed off about it.” “Gee, what are you going to do?” Mr. Eliot put down his drink and leaned toward Milford. “Listen, I want you to do me a favor, Melville.” Again Milford decided not to correct Mr. Eliot. What did it matter what he called him? “A small favor, but I should be ever so grateful.”  “What is it, Mr. Eliot?” “Tom.” “What is it, Tom?” “I want you to deal with him, Melville.” “With Wallace Stevens?” “Yes.” “What do mean?” “Go over to the bar and try to mollify him. Offer him the proverbial olive branch on my behalf. Tell him I’ll publish a belated retraction to my review.” “Will you?” “Of course not, but just tell him that.” "What if he doesn’t accept the, uh, olive branch?” “Then, you know, deal with him.” “What do you mean?” “Step outside with him if you have to.” “Me?” “Yes. He’s old and in bad condition, whereas you are young and vital. Give him a good thrashing. Nothing too serious, but give him the old one-two to the breadbasket, that should put him down. He’s got the reach, so what you should do is go inside and work on the midsection, and, as you saw, he’s got a lot of midsection. You can’t miss. Just put him down on the pavement, and then come back inside. He’ll behave after he gets his wind back.” “Wait a minute, you want me to beat up Wallace Stevens?” “You don’t have to knock him out or put him in the hospital. Just take the wind out of his sails.” “Mr. Eliot –” “Tom.” “Tom, I have never been in a fight in my life.” “There’s a first time for everything, my boy.” “But he’s enormous. I am not a strong person, Mr. Eliot –” “Tom.” “I am not a strong or athletic person, Tom. I’ve avoided strenuous exercise my entire life, and also he has about a hundred pounds and eight inches in height on me.” “This is all to your advantage. You are small but lithe, like a monkey, and you can duck under his wild roundhouse haymakers and plant those little fists of yours right into his fat gut.” “But besides being small I am weak.” “You don’t need strength or size to be a good fighter. Think of David and Goliath. Just move in quickly and try to land a shot to the solar plexus, if you can find it under those rolls of blubber on the fellow.” “Really, Mr. Eliot –” “Tom.” “Really, Tom –” “Listen, Melville, you do realize I am an editor at a prestigious publishing firm, do you not?” “Um, yeah, I think I heard that.” “Deal with Stevens for me and I’ll have my firm publish you.” “You will?” “Yes. I mean, if your stuff is at all good. Is it good?” “I’m not sure –” “I’ll be the judge of that.” “I actually brought the opening section of a long poem with me tonight. It’s still sitting on the bar, because I gave it to this young lady to read –” “Fine. Give me the poem, and if it’s any good, I’ll give you a contract. Now look, the five minutes are almost up, so before that brute comes back here and makes a scene, get up and go over there to him and try to, you know, smooth things over.” “Well –” “Go on, Melville. As you young fellows say, ‘Do a brother a solid.’” “Um –”  “Hurry.” “Well, okay.” Milford stood up. Mr. Eliot put his hand on his arm. “Oh, and Melville –” “Yes?” “Remember, if it comes to fisticuffs, and I pray it doesn’t, take note. Go inside. Keep your head down and pummel that breadbasket, short quick jabs, left-right, left-right. I guarantee he’ll go down like a ton of bricks.” “Well, I’m going to try to avoid fisticuffs, Mr. Eliot.” “Tom.” “I’m going to try to mollify him, Tom.” “Good,” said Mr. Eliot. “But if – and I say if, mind you – if it comes to a barney, remember, he’s got the reach, and the heighth, and the weight, and also the strength advantage, so slip inside and work that midsection.” “Okay, but –” “And when he goes down, just don’t let him fall on you, or else you’ll be the one going to hospital. Now go. And godspeed and good luck.” Milford didn’t feel good about it, but the prospect of being published (and with none other than T.S. Eliot as his editor!) gave him, if not courage, then determination, and off he headed on rubbery legs toward the bar where the large old poet stood glowering, Rob Roy in hand. next story

"The Old Order Changeth"

Anothe tale of la vie de la bohème, by Dan Leo

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

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As young as Milford was, and as naive and obtuse as he was, one thing he had learned was that it was impossible to have anything even resembling a conversation with more than one person at a time. And yet here he was, at this round table at the San Remo Café, surrounded by jukebox music and by shouting and laughing people, sitting with six other men, all of them apparently drunk, all of them speaking at once.  Oh, why had he ever quit drinking? He had never worried about social awkwardness when he was drunk. He had blathered with the best and the worst of them, argued as passionately and as meaninglessly as he had full-heartedly agreed, paid as little attention to what anyone else said as anyone else paid to what he said, and had forgotten it all almost as soon as it happened… “Hey, Beowulf, I ‘dig’ your friends,” said T.S. Eliot. “What?” said Milford. “Your chums. Reminds me of my own young days, banging the tables with our fists at the Café de Flore, swilling vin ordinaire and marc like it was water, smoking Gauloises like chimneys, churning out manifestos on a nightly basis, ah, those were the days!” “Oh?” said Milford. “To be young. It’s a blessing, Halford. Someday you’ll be like me. Old and in the way. And I only hope that when that time comes you’ll be willing to step aside for the newer generation of café table-pounders.” Mr. Eliot was holding a half-drunk martini in his hand, he had generously bought a round of drinks for the table – a pitcher of beer and various accompanying shots of liquor, and, yes, a pathetic ginger ale (with ice) for Milford. Mr. Eliot may have been a tiresome old drunk, but at least he wasn’t cheap. “But,” said Milford, shouted actually, because of the ambient clamor, “is this all really that great? Sitting in bars and cafés, shouting and pontificating?” “Wow, ain’t you just a little ray of sunshine?” said Mr. Eliot. His voice had assumed a cockney intonation. “Next thing you’ll be telling me that those great times we had forty years ago weren’t so great after all!” “But –” “Get the poker out of your arse, Elfreth!” “What?” “I said get the poker out of your –” “Yes, but what did you call me this time?” “Eldridge. That’s your ‘andle, innit?” “No, Mr. Eliot, it’s not Eldridge, or Elfreth, or Beowulf. My name is Milford. Why can’t you remember that?” “Call me Tom.” “Okay, ‘Tom’. My name is Milford, okay?” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m sure. I know my own name!” “Are you sure you know your own name?” “Yes!” “On accounta I’m pretty sure you told me your name was Argyle.” “Oh, my God, listen, Mr. Eliot –” “Tom.” “Listen, Mr. Eliot, I mean Tom, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you’re drunk.” “I know I’m drunk.” “And you’re making no sense. I know my name and it’s Milford.” “Lighten up, kid.” “Well, it just gets annoying when people keep calling you some other name all the time.” “If you had a normal name like Tom maybe they would call you by your right name.” “Oh, Christ –” “Don’t bring Christ into this. The big fella has plenty of other concerns without worrying about your nonexistent problems.” “Okay, you’re right, Mister –” “Tom.” “You’re right, Tom. Call me whatever you like, I don’t care.” “So your real name is – Melville?” “Yeah, sure, Melville.” “Bet your parents named you after Herman, am I right?” “You guessed it, ‘Tom’.” “Just be glad they didn’t name you Herman.” “I am glad.” “So, Melville,” said the guy with glasses sitting on the other side of Milford, “you will join our movement?” “What?” “Our movement!” “Oh, yeah,” said Milford. “Okay, sure.” “Attaboy,” said T.S. Eliot, clapping Milford on his narrow shoulder, the only kind of shoulder he had. “You gotta join a movement if you want to get anywhere in the literary game!” Oddly enough, or maybe not so oddly, Mr. Eliot had slipped into a midwestern sort of American accent now. “But, listen, Albert is it?” said Mr. Eliot to the young guy with glasses. “Allen, actually, Tom,” said the guy with glasses. “Listen, Allen, you gotta think up a good name for your movement. In my day we had the Modernists, and the Surrealists, and the Dadaists, and before that there was the Symbolists, the Naturalists, the Aesthetes and whatnot, so first thing you gotta do is think up a catchy name.” “We were thinking of the Greenwich Village People,” said Allen. “Well, that, and you should pardon my language,” said Mr. Eliot, “sucks donkey dick.” Everybody at the table was listening for a change and now they all laughed. “Yes,” said Allen, “I suppose it is a little lame –” “Oh, I thought of a name,” said Milford. “The Beaten Generation.” “Wow,” said Allen. “The Beaten Generation. I like that.” “Yeah,” said the square-jawed guy, Jack his name was. “Beaten before we even start.” “Beaten from the word go,” said the thin blond guy, the only one besides Mr. Eliot who was wearing a suit, Milford thought his name was Bill something. “Beaten from the womb to the grave,” said the little curly-haired guy, Gregory was it? “I been beaten from pillar to post,” said Lucas Z. Billingsworth, “from boxcar to breadline to hobo jungle, from Bangor, Maine to Baton Rouge to Frisco Bay, yes, sir, from Salt Chunk Mary’s stolen-goods house in Pocatello, Idaho to the rugged logging camps of Escanaba, Michigan, I been run out of towns from one end of this land o’ so-called liberty to the other! Say, I think I feel another extemporaneous poem coming on –”  “The Beaten Generation,” said Mr. Eliot, blatantly interrupting Lucas, to no one’s regret, including possibly even Lucas. “It’s good. It’s catchy. Like that name my good friend Gertie Stein gave those young fellers back in the 20s: ‘The Lost Generation’. But may I make just one small editorial suggestion?” “Please do, Tom,” said Allen. “Pace my good friend Melville here, might I suggest losing the e-n, and just make it ‘The Beat Generation’.” “Oh, that is better, I think,” said Allen. “Punchier,” said Mr. Eliot. “Catchier,” said Bill. “Shorter,” said Gregory. “Beat. I like it,” said Jack. “Yep, it’s a good one,” said Lucas. “Like, boom. Beat. Boom. Bam. Beat.” Milford had to admit it was an improvement. And so, on that historic night, with some help from one of the foremost leaders of the old guard, a new literary movement was born. “Can I recite my new extemporaneous poem now?” asked Lucas Z. Billingsworth. No one demurred, and Lucas launched forth, although, as was always the case when people recited extemporaneous poems in bars, no one listened beyond the first few lines, not that Lucas cared, swept up as he was in the ecstasy of creation.  next story

“Shake a Leg, Blanchard”

Another tale of the poetic life, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

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In the little hallway outside the men’s room door Milford stopped and looked at the fountain pen he still held in his hand, the pen that had just been given to him by none other than T.S. Eliot, the most acclaimed poet (thus far) of the 20th century. And now the pen was Milford’s – it was his, to write the works that would make him the voice of his generation!  Or, rather, would it be just one great, massive, all-encompassing work? A sprawling epic that would take years, perhaps decades to write? Yes, that was the ticket! No half-measures. Let it be a thousand, two thousand pages long, whatever it took, full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes!  However, he would publish it in installments. What would be the point of laboring alone in obscurity through the long years, only to achieve his destiny when he was middle-aged or old and teetering on the edge of the grave? No, the serial route would be best. Burst onto the scene with Part One (Canto One? Chapter One? Book One? He would decide what to call it later), taking the literary world by storm, and leave the bastards clamoring for more! But let them wait, he would publish the succeeding cantos, chapters, or books on his own timetable, and let the publishers with their entreaties and blandishments be damned! “Hey, buddy, you waiting to get in the men’s room?” “What?” said Milford. It was a slender man with a thin moustache, a snap-brim hat, and a worn brown leather workman’s jacket. “I said and I repeat, you waiting to get in the men’s room?” “What? No.” “Just standing here looking at your pen, huh?” “Yes.” “So there ain’t a line to get into the gent’s.” “No. There’s only one person in there, and there’s two urinals, and also a toilet stall.” “So I can go in.” “Yes,” said Milford. “If you’re standing here trying to turn a trick, I ain’t judgmental, Jack.” “What do you mean, turn a trick?” “If you got to ask, then you probably ain’t trying to turn one.” “Well, anyway, as I say, there’s only one man in there, so you’re free to go in.” “Can I just ask you one question before I do go in?” “What?” “Why were you standing here staring at that pen?” “I’d rather not say.” “I think I know why.” “Really?” “Yes. You’re a poet, and you’re thinking of all the great poems – or, perhaps, one great epic masterwork – that you’re going to write with it.” “How did you know?” “Because I too am a poet.” “Oh.” “And a poet always knows another poet.” “Oh.” “Also, every other cat in this joint is a poet.” “Oh.” “I don’t mean that in the sense of every single cat in here, but rather in the sense of every other cat, in other words, approximately half of them. The other half are a mix of experimental novelists, jazz musicians, and abstract painters.” “Well, anyway, as I say, the rest room is free, or free enough.” “But you say there’s one guy still in there.” “Yes.” “He ain’t a fairy, is he?” “He says he isn’t.” “Oh, so you talked to him.” “Well, he talked to me.” “So he might be a fairy. Not that I mind, mind you. Fairies gotta live too, y’know.” “Of course.” “Slick’s my name. They call me Detroit Slick.” “Your name is Slick?” “That’s half my name. Full name, Detroit Slick. What’s your moniker?” “Milford.” “First or last name?” “Listen, sir, don’t you have to go to the bathroom?” “Don’t rush me, pal. Let me tell you something, you’ll never get to be a real poet if you don’t learn to have random conversations with strangers.” “I want to rejoin my friends.” “But are they really your friends?” Milford sighed, and put the pen away inside his peacoat. “Oh,” said the guy. “I get it.” “Get what?” “I’ve touched a nerve.” “You’re getting on my nerves, if that’s what you mean.” “Oh. Okay. I can take a hint. You want to take it outside?” “What? No, why would I want to take it outside?” “So we can fight it out like real men. And then after I beat you to a gibbering pulp, maybe I’ll bring you back inside, and we can get drunk together, like real poets.” “I don’t drink.” “You what?” “I don’t drink.” “You sure you ain’t a fairy?” “Yes, I’m sure I’m not a fairy.” “You don’t sound too sure.” “Well, it’s none of your business anyway.” “You ever made the beast with two backs with a chick?” “I refuse to answer that question.” “In other words, no,” said the guy. “You’re a virgin. And possibly a fairy.” “Okay, look,” said Milford, “excuse me, but I’m going to rejoin my friends now.” “Your so-called friends.” “Fine, my so-called friends.” “I think we should be friends.” “Why, in God’s name?” “There is no God.” “Okay, I agree – then, simply, why? Why should I want to be your friend?” “You really know how to hurt a guy.” “But you’re annoying. You know what, you should quickly go in the men’s room because the man in there is just as annoying as you are. You can have an annoying contest.” “He’s been in there a long time. He ain’t making a number two, is he?” “I haven’t the faintest idea.” “He probably is a fairy then.” “Again, he says not.” “Okay, I guess I’ll go in then. But when I come out I’d like to buy you a drink.” “I told you, I don’t drink.” “Then what the hell are you doing here?” “I came in here supposedly to have dinner with a young lady, but – oh, why am I telling you this?” “Because I asked you. I’m gonna tell you again, Jeffrey –” “Milford.” “I’m gonna tell you again, Milford, if you don’t open up yourself to all of life, with all its glories and horrors – and, yes, annoyances – you will never be a great poet.” “Okay.” “You know I’m right.” “Yes, I suppose you are.” “No man is an island, Howard.” “Milford. My name is Milford.” “No man is an island, Milford. We are more like one great vast continent.” “That makes no sense.” “One great vast ocean?” “Why do we have to be anything, islands or whatever? Can’t we just be what we are – people?” “You got something against metaphor?” “Look, I’m going to go now, nice talking to you, Mister –” “Slick, Detroit Slick.” “Mr. Slick.” “Just Slick will do.” “Okay, nice talking to you, Slick.” “Put ‘er there, Alfred.” Milford decided on the spot not to correct the man again. What did it matter? He extended his hand, and the man took it in his, which, like Milford’s, was uncallused and devoid of obvious strength, although it was slightly sticky. “Two poets,” said the man. “Pledging friendship and unanimity, for life.” Milford bit his lower lip, choosing to say nothing. The man released Milford’s hand, and Milford immediately wiped the palm of his hand on the side of his dungarees. “Okay,” said the guy, “I’m gonna piss myself if I don’t go in there right now. Later.” He opened the door and T.S. Eliot was just coming out, cigarette in hand. “’Scuse me, Pops,” said the man calling himself Detroit Slick, and he held the door to let T.S. Eliot go past. The door closed, and Mr. Eliot looked at Milford. “You still here?” said T.S. Eliot. “Yes, I got caught up in conversation with that guy.” “A poofter?” “What?” “Is he a homosexual?” “I don’t think so. He said he was a poet.” “Another one,” said T.S. Eliot. “This joint is seething with them. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.” “I don’t drink.” “Don’t fuck with me, Fordham.” “Milford. My name is Milford.” “Don’t fuck with me, Milford.” “I’m not fucking with you. I don’t drink.” “And you call yourself a poet? I should ask for my pen back.” For one-tenth of a second, Milford was on the verge of taking the pen out and giving it back, but he didn’t. He really wanted that pen, to write his great epic with. “Listen, Mr. Eliot,” he said, “I don’t drink because I’m an alcoholic. What I mean is, I can’t drink.” “If you don’t want to have a drink with me, just say so.” “Can I just have a ginger ale?” “You can have anything you want to have, I assure you it’s a matter of complete indifference to me.” “I’ll have a ginger ale then.” “All right, let’s go squeeze into the bar.” “I can’t right now.” “May I ask why?” “I have to rejoin some guys at a table.” “Oh. Okay. ‘Some guys.’” “No, really, they’re forming a new movement and they want me to join them.” “Splendid! I’d like to meet these soi-disant ‘guys’ of yours. May I accompany you?” “Well, I don’t know, I guess so –” “Come on then, shake a leg, Blanchard.” Mr. Eliot put his arm in Milford’s, and together the young poet and the old poet forged forth like two ships of war, one seasoned but battle-hardened, the other newly-commissioned but eager, through that churning sea of humanity, shouting men and laughing women, poets, experimental novelists, and abstract painters. next story