"The Ballad of the Sad Clowns”

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

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

This episode sponsored by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

“The Husky Boy patented steel-rolling process gives you a cigarette that burns smooth and slow, assuring you a longer and yet still more luxurious smoke!” – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Back Alley Babe: a Story of the Slums  

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Milford floated and swam and bobbed through the mob of drunken people. Where did they all come from? Why were they here? Why were they not somewhere else? Why was he here? Suddenly he stopped.  Was he heading in the right direction?  In a panic he looked ahead. Wasn’t there supposed to be an EXIT sign? Where was it? He swiveled his head on its narrow neck. Where was this supposed exit? Dear God (in whom he did not believe, now more than ever), he was lost again, lost, eternally, and he would never escape this place, and this was his hell, to be trapped here forever in this churning mass of presumed people, all of them shouting and laughing as a voice sang to a twanging and jangling banjo. I’m your candy man and I gots all that you wants I’m your candy man  but don’t you eats me all at once He turned in a circle, once, then twice, and he was halfway through a third turn when, thank God (in whom he now believed, if only for the moment) there it was, off to his left, just visible through the swirling thick clouds of smoke, an electric EXIT sign in red capital letters against a pale background. And so, setting forth again, he took a step and then another, but why were there so many people in here? What was so great about this bar? He decided he would make better time if he flew up above, and so by an act of sheer willpower he rose up into the fogged air, bending forward so as not to bump his head against the stained and cracked ceiling, with its ancient moldings of vines and leaves, and then, churning his feet and waving his arms in a breast-stroke he swam through the clouds of smoke towards the EXIT sign. At last he reached it and the door beneath it, and he lowered his feet down to the floor. He reached his hand toward the doorknob and realized that a cigarette was held between its index and middle fingers. He transferred the cigarette to his lips and then put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door opened, outward, and he stepped through, into a dim narrow corridor. Quickly he closed the door behind him, lest anyone should follow on his heels and perhaps try to drag him back inside.  Now what? He removed the cigarette from his mouth. The corridor went to the left but also to the right, and there was another corridor directly ahead, going straight forward into darkness. He should have asked Shorty for directions, but it was too late now, because one thing he was sure of, but only that one thing, he wouldn’t go back through that door again, through the wood of which he could still hear the muffled clamor of drunkenness and allegedly folk music. Right, left, or straight ahead?  What difference did it make? An imp of perversity in his brain said, “Go left, young man!” He headed to the left.  Where was he going, anyway? And then he remembered, he had agreed to meet Louisa May Alcott for a drink. But where? Had she said “the back bar”?  Sure enough, after only a minute, maybe two, the corridor made a turn to the right, and not too far ahead was another door, beneath a weak bare lightbulb above the lintel, and painted on the door was the face of a sad clown, and above the face were the words The Sad Clown.  Could this be the back room? He opened the door. It was another smoky barroom, but this one was shadowy and quiet, the only sounds the low murmuring of voices, the gentle tinkling of glassware, a jukebox playing a sad song. A big man in a clown’s tattered suit and make-up sat on a stool to the right of the door. He had a bulbous fake red nose and a squashed hat with no top to it. In his mouth was an enormous cigar. “First time here, buddy?” “Yes, but I’m not sure I’m in the right place.” “You look like you’re in the right place. You got I.D.?” “I.D.?” “Papers. I’m gonna have to see some identification before I let you in.” “Would a library card do?” “You in the union?” “I’m afraid not.” “An apprentice then.” “No, I’m not an apprentice.” “And yet you look like a clown.” “I do?” “Most assuredly. Look at you. The newsboy’s cap. The peacoat. The fisherman’s sweater. The dungarees and workman’s brogans. The milk-bottle thick eyeglasses. You look like a clown to me.” “I’m not a clown.” “You look like a sad clown to me, so I’ll let you in, provisionally. Just don’t make no trouble or I’ll have to throw you out.” “I don’t want to make any trouble.” “Then you’re welcome, my friend. To the fraternity of sad clowns.” “But I’m telling you I’m not a sad clown.” “You sure don’t look like a happy clown.” “I’m not any sort of clown.” A shorter and fatter man in a clown’s costume and maquillage came over. He didn’t have a  false nose, but he did have a huge red fright wig on, and a cigarette in a black holder in his white-gloved hands. “We got a problem here, Zoots?” “Feller says he ain’t neither a sad nor a happy clown.” The little clown looked at Milford, up and down and up again. “He looks like a sad clown to me.” “That’s what I said,” said the big clown on the stool. “So I reckon you work the vaudeville circuit?” the little clown said to Milford. “What? No,” said Milford. “My name’s Boots, by the way,” said the little clown. “And this big gorilla is called Zoots. What’s your moniker, pal?” “I don’t expect you to remember it, but my name is Marion Milford, and, yes, I prefer to be called Milford.” “Milford the Clown?” “No, just Milford.” “I ain’t one to give advice, but I ain’t so sure Milford is a great clown name. What about Simpy?” “What?” “Why don’t you call yourself Simpy. You look like a Simpy. Don’t he, Zoots?” “Simpy’s a good name for him,” said Zoots. “You want to be a good clown you got to have a good clown name,” said the little clown called Boots. “I don’t want to be a clown,” said Milford. “I’m looking for a lady.” “A lady clown?” “No, just a lady. Louisa May Alcott.” “Ain’t no ladies named Louisa May Alcott in here. Ain’t no ladies in here at all. Just clowns.” “Sad clowns,” said Zoots. “I didn’t know that,” said Milford. “Can’t you read?” said Boots the Clown. “Yes,” said Milford. “What’s the sign on the door out there say?” “The Sad Clown?” “Exactemundo.” “So it’s only sad clowns in here.” “Smart boy,” said Boots. “Real smart boy,” said Zoots. “I’m sorry,” said Milford. “I still say you look like a clown,” said Boots. “A sad clown,” said Zoots. “A very sad clown,” said Boots. “Well, I’m sad, and I might be a clown,” said Milford, “but not in the professional sense.” “Come on in, son,” said Boots. “Come join our glum brotherhood.” “Listen,” said Milford, “I mean no offense, but I’ve made a mistake.” “We all make mistakes,” said Boots. “Every clown in here has made mistakes.” “Well, regardless,” said Milford, “I don’t really think I belong here.” “Fair enough,” said Boots. “But let me ask you this. Where do you belong?” Milford paused just for a moment before answering. “Nowhere,” he said. “In that case,” said Boots, “you’ve come to the right place. Give him a membership card, Zoots.” If Milford had possessed the eye for detail of a true poet he would have noticed the small table next to the stool that Zoots sat on, which had a can of Rheingold on it, an ashtray, a long, heavy-looking flashlight, and a small stack of cards. Zoots picked up one of the cards and handed it to Milford. Milford looked at the card, which had a picture of a sad clown’s face on it, and under the picture the words: This is to certify that ___________________ is a member in good standing of   the Sad Clown Society.   “Just put your name in the blank space there when you get a chance” said Zoots. “Just ‘Simpy’ will do. Dues are ten dollars for a lifetime membership, but with that you get drinks and beers for a nickel, a dime for top-shelf liquors and imported beers, plus free hot dogs with complimentary potato chips and your choice of condiments and ‘fixin’s’; I can personally recommend the ‘fatback ‘n’ beans’ and our proprietary barrel-cured sauerkraut. Please feel free to try our all-day breakfast for only fifty cent, as well as our daily-changing table d’hôte dinner special for only one dollar.” “Well, that all seems very reasonable,” said Milford. “Also, we never close.” “Well, uh –” “So, you know, just ten bucks. Payable in advance.” Milford was afraid they wouldn’t let him leave unless he paid, so he put the card down on the little table while he dug out  his wallet, opened it, took out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Zoots. The big clown picked up the flashlight, clicked it on, held the bill up and examined it in the harsh glare of the flashlight. “It’s not counterfeit,” said Milford, putting his wallet away. “At least not to my knowledge it isn’t.” “Looks legit,“ said Zoots. He clicked off the flashlight, stood it upside-down on the table, then folded up the ten and stuck it in a pocket of his ragged suit. “We get a lot of jokers trying to pass fugazis here, so I got to check.” “Great,” said Boots. “Now that we got that all settled, let me escort you to the bar, Simpy. First drink’s on the house.” “Look, I appreciate it,” said Milford, “but I really can’t stay. You see, I have to find this lady.” “Why?” said Boots. “She’s only going to make you sad. Sadder, I should say.” “Nevertheless, I told her I would meet her, and so I feel it is incumbent upon me to try to do so.” “Okay then,” said Boots. “Go. Go find this ‘lady’. But listen. When she breaks your heart and then rips it out of your chest and throws it on the ground and dances the Black Bottom all over it, you come back here.” “Okay,” said Milford. “You come back here and join the rest of the sad clowns.” “Possibly,” said Milford. “He’ll be back,” said Zoots. “I think you’re right, Zoots,” said Boots. “He’ll be back all right.” Milford wondered if he should ask for directions to the back bar, but he decided not to. “Well, thanks anyway,” he said. “Good luck, Simpy,” said Boots. “He’s gonna need it,” said Zoots. “Goodnight,” said Milford. “Wait,” said Zoots. “Pardon me?” “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He pointed to the membership card that Milford had absent-mindedly laid on the table. “Oh, right,” said Milford. He picked up the card. “Thanks for reminding me.” “Hey, Simpy,” said Boots.  “Yes?” “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.” “What?” “It’s a joke,” said Boots. “Ha ha,” said Zoots. “Now that you’re one of us,” said Boots, “you got to get used to us clowning around.” “It’s what we do,” said Zoots. “Okay,” said Milford. “Well, uh –” He turned around, put his hand on the doorknob, turned it, and went out. He closed the door behind him. So, he had gone the wrong way. Unless it had really been the right way. He headed back down the corridor. A burning sensation in his fingers alerted him to the fact that his Husky Boy had burned down to a tiny nubbin, and so he dropped it to the floor, and then ground it out with his sturdy workman’s brogan. Perhaps that place had been the right one for him after all.  No matter, he could always go back. He sighed, for the twelve-thousandth and twenty-first time since he had crawled his way from slumber so many hours and seeming months ago, and he continued on down the corridor. He suddenly became aware that he was still holding the sad clowns membership card. Should he throw it away? No, just to be on the safe side, he decided to keep it, and he took out his wallet again and slid the card in next to his library card. next story

“A Man Called Slacks”

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

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

This episode brough to you by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

“Gals like boys who smoke Husky Boys!” - Hyacinth Wilde, star of the The Husky Boy Television Playhouse production of Horace P. Sternwall’s ‘laff riot’ I’m Not Smiling, I’m Grimacing 

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“Ain’t seen you in here before, son,” said a voice. Was it the voice in his head again? Why must it torment him so? “Go away!” yelped Milford. “What?” said the voice, and suddenly Milford realized that the voice came not from within him but from without, specifically from his left, and he turned and saw a very thin man sitting on a barstool in a worn-out black frock coat and a crushed stovepipe hat.  “Oh, I’m very sorry,” said Milford. “I thought yours was a voice in my head.” “I see,” said the man. His face was pale and unshaven and his eyes were hollow. “So may I take it that you suffer from lunacy?” “Perhaps, but, you see I foolishly ate some mushrooms not long ago, and so now I am hearing voices.” “Ah, mushrooms! Well, then, unbodied voices are to expected! Tell me, if it’s not too personal, have you had visual as well as auditory hallucinations?” “Yes, when I first came in here a few minutes ago it seemed to me that all the people in here were made of vegetative matter.” “I cured him of that,” butted in Shorty, from Milford’s right. “Got him to close his eyes and stare deeply into the abyss of existence and non-existence for a minute, and then when he opened his eyes again, he was all good, wasn’t you, Bumstead?” “Well, I wouldn’t say I was ‘all’ good,” said Milford. “But better,” said Shorty. “Okay, yes, I was better,” said Milford. “My name is Caesar Augustus McQuaid,” said the thin man, and he proffered a thin long hand to be shaken. “Put ‘er there, Bumstead.” br> Milford looked at the hand. He didn’t want to shake it. It looked like one of the hands of his great-uncle Woolford Milford as he lay in his white velvet cushioned coffin, another victim of the bibulousness that ran rampant through both sides of his family. The nine-year-old Milford had reached in and curiously pressed a finger on the flesh of the white thin bony hand of his dead great uncle and it had felt cold and yet slightly spongey, and that night he had experienced nightmares which had recurred regularly ever since.  “Take the man’s hand,” said Shorty. “Don’t be a asshole, Grumley.” “Oh, sorry,” said Milford, and he took the man’s hand, and the hand squeezed his, hard. “Ow,” said Milford. “Very pleased to meet you,” said the man, continuing to squeeze Milford’s hand in his, in what the authors of the mysteries Milford’s mother read (and which Milford himself sometimes surreptitiously read, in attempts to forget his life, albeit briefly) would call a vise-like grip.  “Ow,” said Milford again. “Can you feel the supernal strength of my hand?” said the man. “Ow, yes, ow,” said Milford. “Not bad for a skinny guy, huh?” “No, not bad, now will you let my own hand go? Ow.” “Call me Slacks. My friends call me Slacks.” “Okay, Slacks, now let my hand go, please, you’re hurting me.” “Pain is good. It reminds you that you exist, even if you’re not alive in any profound sense.” “I don’t care, now let go of my hand.” “Say please. Don’t be rude.” “Please let go of my hand.” “Please let go of my hand, Slacks.” “What?” “You have to say, ‘Please let go of my hand, Slacks.’” “Okay, please let go of my hand, Slacks.” “Because my friends call me Slacks, and I’d like to think we could be friends.” “Please let go of my hand, Slacks, Jesus Christ!” At last the man released Milford’s hand, and Milford raised his own now-paralyzed hand and stared at it, trying to will its fingers to move. “You say your name is Rumpstead?” “No,” said Milford, blowing on his hand, feeling the blood slowly return to its veins. “My name is Milford, actually, not that I expect you to remember it.” “Of course I’ll remember it, Milbourne.” “His name ain’t Milbourne, Slacks,” Shorty butted in again. “It’s Milbert.” “Sorry,” said Slacks. “Milfort it is then. You’re probably wondering how I acquired such strength in my grip.” “Not really,” said Milford, patting his pockets in search of cigarettes. “What I do is I squeeze tennis a tennis ball for an hour each day. You should try it.” “Why?” “So that you can have a manly grip like mine.” “Millstone don’t care about shit like that,” said Shorty. “He’s a poet.” “Ah, I thought so,” said the man called Slacks. “As soon as I saw that peacoat and that newsboy’s cap, not to mention the hearty ribbed fisherman’s sweater, the dungarees, and, yes, the workman’s brogans, I said to myself, here is a poet!” Milford found the cigarettes in his inside peacoat pocket and brought them out.  “Might I have one of those Husky Boys.” Milford offered him the pack and the man fingered out a  cigarette. “I’ll take one of them Husky Boys too if you can spare it, Milvern,” said Shorty. Milford turned and offered the pack to Shorty, and Shorty’s stubby fingers pulled one out. Milford finally took out a cigarette for himself. Maybe it would help, it certainly wouldn’t hurt. At least not yet. He was still young after all, and cancer and emphysema might be years away in the future. “Got a light?” said Slacks. Milford put away the pack of Husky Boys, and with only minor difficulties he found his lighter, brought it out, and after six or seven clicks he got it to produce a flame, and he ignited the cigarette in the thin lips of Slacks and the one in the more protuberant lips of Shorty, and at last the one in his own relatively normal-sized lips. “Ah,” said Slacks, “tobacco, ale, good fellowship. For what more can one ask? Tell me about your poetry, Quilford.” “Pardon me?” Milford had been occupied with putting his lighter safely away in right-hand pocket of his dungarees. “Your poetry," said the thin man. "I’m guessing you are a lyric poet.” “I am a bad poet.” “Ha ha. You jest.” “No, I’m quite serious.” “False modesty will get you nowhere, Pequod.” “My name is Milford, and my modesty is not false. I have never written a decent line of poetry in my life.” “Okay, fine, be like that. But I look at you, Rillford, and behind those milk-bottle glasses of yours I see the eyes of a great poet.” “I’m afraid your own eyes deceive you,” said Milford. “Spoken like a true poet. Finish that glass of ale and I shall buy you another.” “I’ll take one too, Slacks,” said Shorty, “long as you’re buying.” Milford picked up his stubby glass, put it to his lips, and poured its remaining contents into his mouth. Swallowing, he thought of the AA meeting he would go to tomorrow, if he were still alive tomorrow. What a tale he would tell to those boring fools in the basement of Old Saint Pat’s! He laid the empty glass on the bar. He must get out of here. “Good lad,” said the man called Slacks, and he quickly lifted the stubby glass in front of him and sucked the inch of yellow liquid in it into his own mouth. “I say, Joe!” he called to the fat bartender, putting his emptied glass on the bar top and shoving it forward. “Three more of the same over here!” “Wait,” said Milford. “I don’t want one.” “Why the fuck not?” “Because I am an alcoholic, for one thing, because I am bored for another, because I am tired of no one remembering my name even one second after I’ve told them my name, which is Milford, not Rillford, or Milthorne, or Millstone, or Milfort, or Milbert, or Milbourne –” “Jeeze,” said Slacks. “Yeah, jeeze,” said Shorty, “lighten up, Milborg, we’re all trying just to have a civilized good time here.” “Also,” said Milford, “I fear that if I stay here at this bar any longer I will lose my mind.” “You got to face those kinds of fears,” said Slacks. “Yeah, Slacks is right, Millstone,” said Shorty. “You don’t get nowhere by running away from your fears. You got to meet ‘em head on.” “Crush them,” said Slacks.  “’Cause no matter where you go, you ain’t gonna escape yourself,” said Shorty.  “Nor yourselves, if’n you be one of them what they call schizos,” said Slacks. “Three ales,” said the fat bartender, laying down three more of the stubby glasses. “Who’s buying.” “That’s all right,” said Slacks, to Milford. “I insist.” “What?” said Milford. “You don’t have to buy this round.” “I didn’t offer to.” “I really insist.” “I’m waiting,” said the bartender. “I ain’t got all night and I got other customers.” “Just hold on a second here, Joe,” said Slacks. “Really, Quilboyne, you needn’t get this round. You can have the next shout.” “Fifteen cent,” said the bartender. “Take it out of there, Joe,” said Shorty, tapping the pile of bills and change in front of Milford. The bartender picked up a dime and a nickel and went away. “Wow, thanks, Quillman,” said Slacks. “You didn’t have to do that.” “I didn’t do anything,” said Milford. “And you know what? I’m leaving.” “You can’t leave. You have a full glass of ale there.” “You can have it.” “I’ll take it,” said Shorty. “How about if we share it,” said Slacks. “Okay,” said Shorty. “That’s fair. But I get the first half, ‘cause I brung Milburton in here, and also so’s I don’t got to drink your backwash, no offense.” “How do I get out of here?” said Milford. “That’s a very good question,” said Slacks. “Please answer it.” “It depends on what you mean by out of here.” “I just want to get out of this barroom.” “Don’t we all?” “Oh, Christ,” said Milford. “You can go out the way we come in,” said Shorty, “through that door back there and back through that long dark corridor and back into the Pointers room and out the door there.” “Oh, God,” said Milford. “Isn’t there a quicker way out?” “Sure, just go down beyond the end of the bar there to the right and you’ll see a door that’s got a electric EXIT sign over it. Just go through that door.” “Oh, thank God.” “Don’t leave, Milliburton,” said Slacks, in a half-hearted sounding voice. “He’s got a hot date with Lou Alcott,” said Shorty. “That bitch?” said Slacks. “Ain’t she a dyke?” “Apparently not,” said Shorty. “Or at least not a hunnert percent. Anyways, you know what these young bucks are like. They just want to get they ends wet and it don’t matter to them if a frail is a dyke or not.” “Yeah,” said Slacks. “I remember them wild days of young manhood. Vaguely, but I remember. And I got my share. Maybe more than my share.” “How many, Slacks?” said Shorty. “Oh, I’d say at least a baker’s dozen, maybe nigh on to nineteen or twenty if you’re counting the stray dark alley gobbler or Baltimore handshake.” “God love ya,” said Shorty.  “How many you reckon you’ve had, Shorty?” asked Slacks, politely. “Seven hunnert and twenty-two, and that ain’t counting stray gobblers and Baltimore handshakes.” “Holy shit.” “What can I say, Slacks. Chicks dig me.” “I should say so!” “They think I’m cute. I just burrow on in there like a little puppy dog and they love it.” “I’m sure they do, Shorty, I warrant they do. How many you had, Burgoyne?” “What?” said Milford. “How many babes you shared the act of darkness with?” “I’m leaving now,” said Milford. “So the answer is none?” “Goodbye,” said Milford. “Well, all I can do is wish you good luck, Quillman, and if I know Miss Louisa May Alcott, you’re going to need it.” “Milford,” said Milford. “Say what?” “My name is Milford.” “I know it is. Put ‘er there, Gilford,” said Slacks, and he offered his long thin hand again. Milford ignored it. He turned to Shorty. “Thank you for talking me back from the abyss,” he said. “Don’t mention it, Guilfoyle,” said Shorty. “And I hope you achieve la petite mort with Missy Lou.” The tiny man offered his tiny pink hand hand, pink and hairless, the only kind of hand he had, and Milford hesitated for just a moment in revulsion, but then took it, gave it a brief shake, pulled his own hand away and turned and moved away from the bar, into the churning mass of shouting and laughing people. He realized as he did so that he was leaving nine dollars and change on the bar, but this was a small price to pay to get out of here, if he got out of here. Above and through the noise of the barroom a man was still singing, to the accompaniment of a jangling banjo: Well I went to the river  but I couldn’t get across singing polly wolly doodle  all the day… next story