"King Size"

Another 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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Through the thickly falling snow Milford trudged, wondering what was now in store for him. Was his pathetic life perhaps about to blossom into something worth living? Or would he continue with his customary tedious gloom and ennui? He came to the corner of MacDougal and Bleecker, to the entrance of the San Remo Café, and he hesitated. Should he just go home after all? What was he doing, anyway, “hanging out” in bars – breaking one of the chief tenets of Alcoholics Anonymous, the one about “people, places, and things”? Yes, what he should do is just go home, go home and maybe try to write a poem with the Montblanc fountain pen that T.S. Eliot had given him, his first good poem, his first “true” poem. But what would he write about? About how he had not lost his virginity, due to his cowardice? No, that wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all… He opened the door, and all the smoky loud chaos of the bar burst upon him. He stepped inside, took out his glasses and put them on, and, yes, thank God, in whom he did not believe, but thank whomever or whatever – mere chance, the idle whims of an uncaring universe – Bubbles was still seated at the bar, and standing to her left was Addison, and seated to his left was Polly Powell. The door closed itself behind him, and Milford took off his newsboy’s cap and brushed the snow from the shoulders and breast of his peacoat, breathing in that all-too-familiar warm bar miasma of tobacco smoke, beer and alcoholic spirits – yes, this was indeed a “place”, filled with “people” and “things”, but, may the devil take the hindmost, he would plunge in regardless! Had not Milfords (and on his mother’s side, Crackstones) fought in nearly every war since the Revolution? 4-F as he was (poor vision, flat feet, a slight heart murmur) he would never fight in an actual war, but perhaps his war would be a different one, and, in its way, a more profound one. In a trice he was with his friends (if friends they were, and at any rate they were the closest thing to friends he had), standing awkwardly in the narrow space between Bubbles and Addison. Bubbles still stared at or in the direction of the bottles ranged glittering opposite, a cigarette in her slender but somehow strong-seeming hand. Addison was bent over toward Polly, and she to him, and they both also held cigarettes.  “Hi,” said Milford to Bubbles, “I’m back.” After a few seconds she turned and looked at him. “What?” “I said I’m back.” “Oh. Where were you?” “I, uh, went to the, uh, you know, to the, um, uh –” Now Addison turned to Milford. “Ah, the prodigal has returned,” he said. “Uh, yes,” said Milford. “Did you fall in?” “What? Fall in where?” “Into the bowl, old chap.” “What? Oh, no. But I, uh, got to talking to some people, and, well –” Now Polly leaned forward, her small face pointed at Milford. “Addison has been telling me all about his novel!” “Oh,” said Milford, “that’s, uh, swell –” “It sounds so utterly fascinating.” “Oh.” “Hey,” she said, “aren’t we going to have dinner?” “Dinner?” “Yes! I thought we were meant to have some spaghetti! I am absolutely famished, aren’t you?” “Um, well, I suppose I could eat, yes.” “Then let’s get a table!” “I, uh –” Dash it all, how could he lose his virginity with Bubbles if he got stuck having dinner with Polly?  “Addison,” said Polly, “would you and Miss Bubbles care to join Milford and me for some spaghetti and meatballs?” “I should love to join you,” said Addison, that past master at dodging tabs, and connoisseur of the free things of life. “Bubbles, what say you to joining our friends for some spaghetti?” “What?” she said. “Would you like to dine with Milford and Polly?” “Hell no,” said Bubbles. “I never eat after lunch.” “Oh, but you have to join us.” “I don’t ‘have to’ do anything, pal.” “Heh heh,” said Addison. Unknown to Milford, Addison was also thinking of losing his virginity this night, and if Polly was insistent upon eating spaghetti with young Milford, perhaps it would behoove him to forgo the opportunity of a free meal, and take his chances on the good humor and possible beneficence of Bubbles. “Well, on second thought,” he said, “maybe I’ll pass on the spaghetti, too.” Damn it all, and damn it again, thought Milford. Why had he given that twenty-dollar bill to Addison? This was what generosity got you. Polly had climbed down from her stool, and she came over and put her arm in Milford’s. “Come on, Milford, I see an empty table! Let’s grab it before someone else does!” “Um, uh,” said Milford. He turned to Bubbles. “Um, so, I guess we’re going to get a table then –” “What?” “Polly and I are going to get a table and have some spaghetti.” “Great. Maybe I’ll see you around, Wilbur.” “Um, uh –” “Come on, Milford,” said Polly, and she tugged on his arm. “Bon appétit,” said Addison. “You young people enjoy your simple but hearty meal all’italiana, and I shall attempt in my humble way to entertain the lovely Bubbles.”    The bastard, thought Milford, ready to move right in on Bubbles, and with that twenty dollars he had given him! Oh, well. Polly was still tugging on his arm, and he allowed her to pull him away, into the throng, and soon enough they were sat at a small table by the wall. Through the crowd, Milford could see Addison, sidled up to Bubbles, with that twenty-dollar bill burning a hole in his pocket… “I’m going to go with the spaghetti and meatballs,” said Polly, putting down the card. “What are you going to have, Milford?” “I suppose I’ll have that too,” he said, with a sigh. “Oh, the spaghetti and meatballs are so divine here. So authentic! Do you want some wine?” Yes, he wanted wine, and lots of it, but he told her he would just have mineral water. “I really shouldn’t, but I think I shall have a nice glass of Chianti,” said Polly. “I have to tell you, Milford, I think I am ever so slightly drunk, so it’s a good thing I’m going to be eating something.” “Yes,” said Milford. He patted his pockets for cigarettes, and realized he didn’t have any. “Look, I’m going to buy a pack of cigarettes, so if the waiter comes, just go ahead and order, okay?” “Splendid! Would you be a darling, Milford, and purchase me a packet of Chesterfields?” She was speaking in an English accent now, or at least in an American “stage” accent, reminiscent of Tallulah Bankhead or Katharine Cornell in one of those dreary “sophisticated” comedies Milford’s mother would sometimes drag him to. “I shall pay you back!” “No need,” said Milford, and he got up, in search of a cigarette machine. If he couldn’t drink wine, if he couldn’t lose his virginity with Bubbles, at least he could smoke. He spied a machine to the rear of the bar, between the jukebox and the hallway to the rest rooms, and he set forth, once again, unto the breach between boredom and madness. However, as he made his awkward way through the churning sea of drunkenness, it occurred to him that perhaps after all he might this night lose his virginity with Polly. She certainly seemed drunk enough that sex might be a reasonable possibility. However, would it be moral of him to have sexual relations with her while she was intoxicated, especially since she was most probably as virginal as he was? But, then, didn’t 99% of humanity lose its virginity while intoxicated? Perhaps she was getting drunk because she wanted to lose her virginity?  He halted in the crowd of laughing and shouting drinkers, turned and looked back at Polly. She saw him and waved, with what looked like enthusiasm. Yes, it was true that she lacked the round and lush womanly curves of Bubbles, that indefinable thing so regrettably called “sex appeal”, but nonetheless she might reasonably be called, “pretty”, in her bookish and earnest way, and she was indisputably female, for whatever that was worth. Who was Milford to be picky anyway?  He looked over to the bar, and now Addison was leaning in closer to Bubbles, no doubt jabbering about his novel or “the novel of today”, while Bubbles regally ignored him and smoked her cigarette.  Perhaps another night for Bubbles. Another night, when he, Milford, would actually have some experience of what Shakespeare’s Edgar had termed “the act of darkness”. Perhaps he might then have something of his own to bring to the party…  Someone bumped into him, almost knocking him over, and Milford forged on again towards the cigarette machine. He would buy some Philip Morrises for a change, the King Size. next story

"The Hope of Our Nation"

Another tale of the literary life, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq; a quinnmartinmarq™ production.

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Milford became aware that his cigarette had burned down to its last half-inch, and he stubbed it out in their shared tin ashtray.  “Have another one,” said Mr. Stevens, and he offered his Philip Morrises, giving the pack a shake so that exactly two cigarettes protruded. “No thanks,” said Milford, although he did want one. “Suit yourself,” said Mr. Stevens, and stuck one in his pendulous lips, the only kind of lips he had, and lighted himself up with his golden lighter. “God, I love cigarettes,” he said. “Not as much as I love Scotch, but pretty damn close to it. Sure you don’t want one?” “No, I’m okay,” said Milford. “Just help yourself if you change your mind.” “Okay, but, um, uh –” “What?” “Look, Mr. Stevens, I appreciate everything, but –” “Excuse me?” “I said I appreciate the good, uh, advice, and, um –” “What did you call me?” “Oh. I meant to say Wally.” “That’s better.” “So, anyway, Wally, I appreciate everything, but I really should be getting back to the San Remo –” “Oh. Okay.” “You know, it’s just that, well –” “I said okay. I get it, Wilford.” “You do?” “Of course I do. You’re young. You want to get your ashes hauled.” “Heh heh, well, uh, it’s not just that –” “Oh, isn’t it? Could it be that I bore you?” “No, not at all,” lied Milford, “but, really, I was sitting with my, you know, my friends, and, uh –” “Your friends.” “Yes.” “Young people.” “Well, yes –” “The hope of our nation.” “Uh –" “Whereas I, I am old. One foot in the grave. Who gives a shit if I have written some of the most original poetry of the century?” “It’s not that –” “Sure, you’d just really rather be with your ‘friends’. And quite rightly so. Please, go, don’t let me keep you.” “But –” “I’ll just sit here and drink my Rob Roys.” “Well –” “I’ll be fine.” “Okay. Um, thanks for the ginger ale.” “Don’t mention it.” “Okay, then –” Milford made as if to get off his bar stool, but Mr. Stevens said, “Wait.” “Yes?” said Milford. “I’m going to give you my card.” Mr. Stevens was digging under his topcoat, and he came out with a wallet, an old and very thick one. He opened it, riffled through it, brought out a card, and handed it to Milford. “This is my business card, so you’ll get my secretary, but just ask her to put you through. Tell her it’s Wilford, and that it’s a personal call.” Milford looked at the card, identifying Mr. Stevens as Vice President of the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company.  “Okay, thanks, Mr. Stevens, I mean, Wally, but, listen, my name isn’t actually Wilford.” “It isn’t? Then why did you tell me it was?” “I didn’t. My name is Milford, but you must have misheard me.” “Milford? Why did you allow me to continue calling you Wilford?” “I tried to correct you, but I guess you kept forgetting, so, after a while I just gave up.” “Oh. Well, I apologize, Wilford, I mean Milford.” “It’s okay,” said Milford. “Anyway, look,” said Mr. Stevens, “I said I’d give your book a good review, and I will, so when it comes out, just give me a buzz at the office.” “Okay, thanks, Wally.” “No skin off my nose. Just please don’t tell anybody you gave me this.” He pointed to the ever-growing and glowing bright purplish bruise on his jaw. “I won’t tell anyone,” said Milford. “And, look, maybe next time I’m in town we can ‘hang out’ again.” “Oh.” “What do you mean, ‘Oh’?” “Nothing. I suppose I’m just a little surprised, or, uh, flattered –” “Flattered that the great poet would want to hoist a few with a young buck like yourself?” “Well, yes, I suppose so –” “Do you have a telephone?” “What, yes, I mean, my mother has a telephone.” “Give me your number. You got something to write on?” “I have a card actually.” “Now I’m surprised.” “It’s my mother. She insists on having calling cards printed up for me.” “Old school dame, huh?” “Yes, I suppose so. Give me a second.” Milford put Mr. Stevens’s business card on the bar, then dug his old Boy Scout wallet out of his dungarees, opened it, took out a card, gave it to Mr. Stevens. Mr. Stevens looked at the card. “Marion Milford?” “Yes.” “Your first name is Marion?” “Yes.” “Your mother must really be a piece of work.” “Well, Marion is an old traditional name in our family, so –” “I don’t give a shit. It’s just a terrible thing to do to a boy.” “Yes, I suppose it was. Anyway, I prefer just to be called Milford.” “I don’t blame you.” He looked at the card again. “Milford. Not Wilford.” “Yes, sir, I mean Wally.” “I’m not sure I can get used to calling you Milford now.” “You can call me Wilford if you like.” “Do you mind?” “Not really.” “Then I’ll call you Wilford. But only if you call me Wally.” “Okay, Wally.” Mr. Stevens put Milford’s calling card in his wallet, closed it up, put it back into the depths of his topcoat and suit, and Milford in his turn put his Boy Scout wallet away in his dungarees. “Slide me five,” said Mr. Stevens. “Isn’t that what you young people say?” “Well, I suppose some of us do.” “Then gimme some skin, daddy-o.” Milford gave the great poet his hand, and the hand was swallowed up by the older man’s enormous hand, and squeezed, but not quite to a pulp. At last Mr. Stevens released Milford’s throbbing appendage, and the young poet climbed down from his stool. “Don’t forget,” said Mr. Stevens, “call me. Even if you just want to get together sometime.” “Okay.” “We’ll get a nice load on.” “But, Wally, as I told you, I don’t drink.” “Oh. Right.” “I mean, I’d like to be able to drink, I do sort of miss it, but it’s just that I –” “Okay.” “I’m an alcoholic.” “Right.” “I’m just not able to, you know –” “Sure.” “So, uh, I can’t, um, each day I have to, well, walk the straight and narrow, and take it one day at a time, and –” “Listen.” “Yes?” “What you’re talking about. All this straight and narrow stuff, all this one-day-at-a-time bullshit. This is no way to live, Wilford. No way for a man. So just call me. One beer won’t kill you. And neither will two. For Christ’s fucking sake, kid.” “But –” “Look, you told me you were going to stop being a c**t, didn’t you?” “Um, yes –” “Well, it’s no use not being a c**t if you’re just gonna turn around and be a pussy all your life.” “Wow.” “So give me a ring when you’re ready to go out and behave like a man, okay?” “Okay.” “Good. Now go, Wilford. I hate long goodbyes.” “All right. Goodbye, Wally.” “Oh, but wait.” Mr. Stevens put his great hand on Milford’s arm. “Yes?” “You do hope to get your weezer wozzled tonight, right?” “Um, uh, if that means –” “You know what it means.” “Yes, sir, I mean Wally.” “Good, very good. Well, there’s just one thing I want you to do, Wilford. One small favor.” “Okay.” “It won’t cost you anything, but it would mean a lot to me. Will you do it?” “Sure, I guess –” “Don’t guess, just say you will.” “All right, I will.” “Good. Here’s what I want you to do for me. Are you listening?” “Yes.” “Put it in once for me.” Mr. Stevens’s bleary eyes looked into Milford’s eyes, through the thick lenses of the younger man’s round glasses. “Okay,” said Milford. “Put it in just one time for me, Wilford. Will you do that?” “Yes, sir, I mean, Wally.” “You promise now?’ “I promise.” “Thank you. Now go. Go and fuck well, my lad. Fuck as if your very life depended on it. Or at least try. Now go. Go now.” Milford was about to say something, but he could think of nothing to say, so he nodded, turned and headed for the door, through the noise of the laughing and shouting people, the thick swirling smoke, the cacophonous wailing and crashing of the jazz combo. He opened the door and the cold night air assaulted him on thick falling curtains of snow. The headlights of an automobile approached, and then the huge car drove past, almost silently. The world was white and cold, beautiful, and alive. Across the street the neon word Rheingold glowed blurrily red and gold, beneath it in blue the words Extra Dry. Snowflakes plopped on and smeared Milford’s glasses, turning the world into a vague and cold wet living cloud. He removed the glasses, folded them and put them away in his peacoat. Snowflakes flopped against his face, and he breathed deeply, breathing in the icy air, then he shoved his hands in his peacoat pockets, and headed down MacDougal Street.  It suddenly occurred to Milford that he had left Mr. Stevens’s business card on the bar at the Kettle of Fish, but he decided against going back for it. next story

"A Night in Tunisia"

Another tale of the literary life, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, a quinnmartinmarq™ production.

Be sure to look for the new line of affordable quinnmartinmarq™ ‘2-for-1’ paperbacks at your local drugstore or newsagent’s!” – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Teacup for Miss Tipton (a Professor Greengrass Mystery)/Requiem for a Wisenheimer (a Cholly Steubens Mystery), available exclusively from quinnmartinmarq™ productions 

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Mr. Stevens took a good drag on his Philip Morris and then stared down at Milford from under his fedora. The bruise on the great man’s face had grown in size and deepened in color to a rich purplish ruby, glowing somehow nobly in the dim and dappled lights of the bar. Even sitting on a barstool he towered like a great living mountain over the younger man, and Milford knew that even the old poet’s most casual nudge would probably send him sprawling to the sawdust on the floor. “Okay,” said Mr. Stevens, “first thing you’ve got to do. Are you listening? Because this one is important.” “Yes, sir, I mean Wally.” “Good.” “Stop trying to write like anyone else.” “Oh. Okay.” “You say okay, but are you going to do it?” “Yes.” “There already is a Dylan fucking Thomas, and he’s bad enough. So cut it out. Same thing with Auden, with Robinson Jeffers, and especially with that prig Eliot.” “Okay.” “Just stop copying other people. Nobody wants to read imitations, especially imitations of crap.” “Okay,” said Milford, knowing now that he had to throw out every page he had ever written. Mr. Stevens picked up his Rob Roy, took a good drink, sighed, as if appreciatively, and laid his glass back down on the bartop. A few seconds ticked by, amidst the noise of laughing and shouting people, and the clamor of the jazz combo in the back of the bar. “So, uh,” said Milford, “is that all?” Quickly Mr. Stevens turned his head, glowering. “No, that’s not fucking all. Jesus Christ, kid, can’t a man take a dramatic pause?” “Sorry.” “Don’t be sorry. Just keep your shirt on.” “Okay.” “Where was I?” “You said I shouldn’t imitate anybody else.” “Oh, right. That’s important. Second thing you gotta do. You know what that is?” “No.” “Write like yourself.” “Oh, okay.” “I know, I know, you’re thinking you’re not not much, and you’re probably right, but still you’re the only self you have, so write like yourself and not like somebody you wish you were.” “Um –” “You think you can handle that, Wilford?” “I don’t know.” “May I ask why?” “I just don’t know if I’m able, I mean, wow –” “Look, Wilford. I know you’re a punk. A weakling. A spoiled brat. And probably by nature completely devoid of originality, without a spark of creativity anywhere in your being. In fact you are very likely mediocre to your mushy core.” “Oh boy.” “And one thing’s for damn sure, and that is there is no cure for a lack of talent, son.” “Uh-huh.” “And, if I may speak frankly, you don’t exactly exude an aura of genius. More a faint odor of day-old sliced white bread.” “That’s very harsh, Mr. Stevens.” “Wally.” “That’s very harsh, Wally.” “Life is harsh. And then you grow old and die. Unless you die young.” “Wow.” “I don’t make the rules, kid.” “Okay,” said Milford. “So, what you’re really saying is there’s no hope for me to ever, you know, be a great poet?” “There probably is no hope, kid, I’m sorry to tell you.” “Gee.” “You can spend all the hours you want scribbling, go to all the writer’s retreats in the world, none of that matters.” “It doesn’t?” “No.” “But I thought you were going to give me advice.” “That’s what I’m doing.” “But advice on how to become a good poet.” “Yes, and your point is?” “Well, how can I become a good poet if I am mediocre, and without originality, or –” “Or genius.” “Yes, or genius.” “Because nobody wants to read poetry written by some ham-and-egger, Wilford. They only want the genius stuff. Shakespeare knew that. Even in his day he knew the people in the back rows wanted genius, and that’s what he gave them, in spades.” “Okay, so I’m probably not a genius –” “Probably?” “Most likely?” “Yeah, that’s more like it. Most likely – almost certainly – you are not a genius, or anything close to it. Pretty far fucking from it, if we’re being honest.” “Mr. Stevens –” “Wally.” “Wally, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but I don’t see how anything you’re saying is any sort of encouragement to me –” “I’m not here to encourage you, kid. I’m here to tell you to cut the shit.” “You mean I should stop trying?” “I don’t give a shit what you do. If you want to waste your life trying to write poetry that doesn’t suck donkey dick, then be my guest.” “Wow.” “Go ahead. Write crap. Who cares?” “Gee.” “Let me ask you a question, Wilford. Have you ever written a single line that’s any good?” Now it was Milford who paused. But then he spoke. “No,” he said. “I’ve never written a single good line.” “Good,” said Mr. Stevens. “Good? What’s good about it?” “What’s good about it is you’re not kidding yourself anymore.” “So I should give up?” “That’s up to you.” Milford felt a great depression settling over him, over the depression that he already felt, the depression that was always there. He took a drink of his ginger ale. It had grown flat. “But don’t be depressed,” said Mr. Stevens. “No?” said Milford. “And how do I manage that?” “I’ll tell you how. Because there’s still a chance you might write something good.” “There is?” “A small chance.” “Really?” “A tiny, almost infinitesimal chance. Are you willing to take that chance?” “Yes, sir, I mean Wally.” “Because it is your only chance.” “Okay.” “All right, then, I’m gonna tell you what you need to do.” “Thank you.” “Are you listening?” “Yes.” “Okay, then. Listen up, and listen tight, because I’m not going to repeat myself. What I am about to tell you is the most invaluable advice you will ever receive. And it’s up to you what you do with it. Are you ready?” “Yes, sir.” “What?” “I mean, yes, Wally.” “All right, then.” Mr. Stevens picked up his Rob Roy, took another drink, sighed, laid the glass down. The combo was playing very loud now. What was the song? It was “A Night in Tunisia”. There was a saxophone player, and his long screaming notes seemed to wash through Milford’s tender brain, exploding like a succession of deafening crashing waves over Mr. Stevens’s great face, with its moving lips out of which presumably came words, and then with one last sad descending cry the saxophone subsided and the drums rattled and pounded and the cymbals shimmered and the pianist took over. Mr. Stevens took a drag on his Philip Morris, exhaled the smoke in Milford’s face. What had he been saying? He stubbed out the cigarette. “So that’s it,” he said. “That’s the secret. Do you understand now?” Milford considered asking the great poet to repeat himself, because he hadn’t heard a word of what the man had said, but on second thought he decided not to. “Yes,” said Milford. “I understand now.” He understood nothing, and he understood that it didn’t matter. next story