"Requiem for a Snowman"

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

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

This episode brought to you by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

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Meanwhile, some dozen or so blocks easterly and at this very instant, Gerard "Gerry" Goldsmith (known to his friends as "the Brain") emerged from Bob's Bowery Bar into the heavy and blustering falling snow. The air was bitter and cold, and the fat flakes slapped wetly into his face, but Gerry felt no discomfort, having downed some dozen glasses of Bob's basement-brewed bock over the past few hours in the company of his fellow bibulous gentlemen of shabby leisure. Gerry looked up, at the oceans of snow tumbling down from the sky between the buildings and the tracks of the elevated train line, the snow falling as if God himself were emptying out the clouds of the heavens upon the earth and transforming the surrounding slum into a quaint small town in a glass globe. Fortunately for Gerry, he only had to walk down the block and around the corner to get home to Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern's tenement apartment building and to his tiny "studio" on the sixth floor, a former storage room, but quite suitable for a philosopher like himself. As well, Gerry was convinced that the six flights of stairs he had to climb up and down several times a day added five or ten years to his lifespan, as how else would he ever take exercise, never having been one for healthful walks to anywhere farther than the nearest bar. And this was New York City, thank God, and there was always a bar at least a block away.  Gerry plodded through the foot-high snow down the Bowery sidewalk, being especially careful not to fall, as who knew if he would be able to get get up again should he fall, when, suddenly, he saw the oddest sight up ahead in the pale glow of a street lamp. A snowman. A snowman built up against the pole of the corner light. How extraordinary!  Gerry forged closer, through the swirling thick snow.  And there stood the snowman, amazingly realistic, he even had a snow-covered hat on his round little head. The body was short and fat, and the funny thing was that the round face of the snowman seemed somehow to be smiling. Drunkenly Gerry extended an ungloved finger and touched the snowman's cheek. His finger went through an inch of snow and then touched something that did not feel like snow. It felt like frozen meat, like one of those big cuts of beef rump that Gerry's late mother kept packed in dry ice in the basement box for a tasty Sunday roast.  "Uh-oh," said Gerry, aloud, and quickly he began slapping at the head and shoulders and arms and torso of the snowman, and, yes, the snowman was none other than that fellow known as Smiling Jack, the reformed drunkard and zealot of sobriety, now frozen quite stiff.  Gerry would say this for poor Jack, he still had a smile on his rubicund face, even in death. Across his chest was the strap of the leather satchel he kept his tracts in, and in fact his frozen right hand, in its worn and ragged woolen glove, still held a copy of his famous self-written little book. Gerry pulled it loose and brushed it off, looked at the cover made of the cheapest paper stock, with the childish drawing of a drunk-looking man leaning against a lamp post and holding a bottle, and in large letters          ARE YOU A DRUNKARD?                         BY              “SMILING JACK”   How many times had Smiling Jack forced one of these pathetic booklets into Gerry's hands? Ten times? A dozen? And what had Gerry done with them? Used them for toilet paper, or to roll cigarettes with. He had tried to read a page now and then, but the prose was just too unbearably bad, no matter how noble the sentiments so clumsily expressed. Nonetheless you had to give Smiling Jack some credit, always earnestly and amiably trying to spread the good word despite his complete lack of literary talent. But still, you would think that even a moron like Smiling Jack would have known better than to stand out here in a blizzard trying to hand out alcoholism pamphlets until he froze to death. At least he could have taken a break now and then and just popped across Bleecker street to Ma's Diner for a cup of coffee or hot cocoa. Didn't he have the nickel for a cup of joe or cocoa? Curiously, almost as if he were a citizen policeman, Gerry went through Smiling Jack's pockets. He found not only a pack of Lucky Strikes, minus only two cigarettes, and a working Zippo lighter, but also seventy cents in loose change, and a wallet with nine dollars in it. So Jack had had the means to go into Ma's Diner, but he had not the desire or the common sense to do so. How very odd. Was it suicide? Was it an act of penance gone accidentally too far? No one would ever know. And who would care?  Gerry felt that he should care, and he did, in his way, and he imagined (or perhaps he actually heard) Smiling Jack's genial voice saying, "Hey, help yourself, pal, what was mine is now yours," and so, after only a moment's hesitation, Gerry put the seventy cents in coin in the pocket of his old tweed trousers, then took the nine dollars out of the wallet, and put the wallet back in Jack's pocket. He then extricated one of Jack's Lucky Strikes and rolled it between his palms to take the frost off of it, then he put it in his lips and, after a few tries, successfully lighted it up with Jack's Zippo. An automobile came trundling slowly down the Bowery through the thick falling snow, and it passed and continued on its way. "Well, here's to you, Smiling Jack," said Gerry, silently. "I'll say this for you, you went out just the way you came in, with a smile on your face and your pamphlet in your hand, a pamphlet filled with the hard-earned wisdom of your soul, and offered to the tosspots of the Bowery one and all, for free, gratis, and for nothing. God love you, Jack, if there is a God, and surely if there is a God, he must love such a man as you. I thank you for the cigarettes, and for the Zippo, and for the nine dollars and seventy cents in U.S. currency. Sleep well, Smiling Jack, and may you keep smiling through all eternity." Gerry shoved the little book back into Jack's frozen hand, and he pressed the fingers tight over it.  "Ta for now, Smiling Jack," said Gerry, aloud. "I'll see you soon enough, my friend." Gerry turned back, back toward Bob's Bowery Bar. His friends would all still be there, the noble poets.  Hector Phillips Stone, the doomed romantic poet. Seamas McSeamas, the Irish poet. Howard Paul Studebaker, the western Poet. Frank X Fagen, the nature poet. Scaramanga, the leftist poet.  And last but far from least, Lucius Pierrepont St. Clair III, the Negro poet. They would all still be there, as they were every night, at their poets' table. Gerry himself made no claims to being a poet, unless you could call the short philosophical observations he wrote poetry. For well over twenty years he had been writing ("working on") the first volume of these thoughts, currently called Pensées for a Rainy Day. But perhaps he should change the title to Snowflakes Upon a Windowpane? Or, maybe, Lucubrations of a Loon? No matter, he would decide later, when the book was finally ready to be released to an unsuspecting world. Gerry pushed open the door to Bob's. Here they all were, the doomed and the damned and the lost and the forgotten, in this foggy thick warmth rich with the odors of tobacco smoke, of whiskey, gin, and beer, of unwashed bodies and unlaundered woolens, and there to the left was the round table where the poets sat, declaiming and laughing and shouting as the jukebox played a happy song.    Gerry pulled up a chair and rejoined his comrades in drunkenness and blather.  This time the round would be on Smiling Jack, and the next one too, and the shout after that one as well, until the last of that nine dollars and seventy cents was drunk up, saving of course a nice little tip for Janet the waitress. Gerry had had the express intention of using the pay telephone to ring up the police to tell them of the frozen dead body at the corner of Bleecker and the Bowery, but, with one thing and another, with the laughter and the badinage, the shouting and the singing and the drinking, alas, he forgot.

"All He Had"

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 brought to you by Husky Boy™ cigarettes, now available in the new "Ladies' Ultra Slim Cork Tip" in your choice of Passionate Pink, Marvelous Mauve, or Vibrant Violet 

"Husky Boys are not just for boys!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of the new Husky Boy Television Playhouse production of Horace P. Sternwall's Threnody for a Thoroughbred (co-starring Monty Wooley), airing Friday night, 10 PM (EST), exclusively on the DuMont Network

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That thing happened that so often happened when Milford was in the company of more than one other person, that thing which happened only slightly less often when he was with one other person, in other words the words of the other person or persons became only a distant unintelligible murmuring like the sound of the ocean when you're three blocks from the beach while his tender brain followed its own winding path to nowhere. The three women were talking, their lips were moving, but what were they saying? Who knew? Who cared?  Look, said the voice in his brain, the voice of his alter ego, "Stoney", sure, these are famous women, brilliant women, especially Emily Dickinson, even if her poetry never did appeal to you, and, let's face it, you've never even read a word that Louisa May Alcott or Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote – "I saw the movie of Little Women," said Milford to the voice, "the one with Katharine Hepburn, although I didn't see that more recent one –" The one with June Allyson, said Stoney. "Yeah, I didn't see that one. Was it any good?" How should I know? said Stoney. I'm you, remember? Which means I didn't see it either. "Oh, right," said Milford. But, as I was saying, said Stoney, sure, these are famous and accomplished women, but, look, they're still women, and, let's face it, when they're with other women they're going to talk about "women" stuff, so why pay attention? "Your point is well taken," said Milford, "but let's not forget that I find 'man talk' just as boring as 'women's talk', if not infinitely more so." And now to you I must say, "Point taken," said Stoney. Let's face it, people are boring no matter what their gender. "As am I," said Milford. "Let's be fair." That goes without saying, my friend, said Stoney. After all, are you not a member of that benighted tribe we call "people"? "Yes, nominally," said Milford. So, relax, said Stoney. Accept the situation for what it is. They'll stop talking eventually, and then, and then – "Then what?" said Milford. Then, maybe, the other two will go away, and you and Miss Alcott will be alone again, and then, after some more more-or-less meaningless chitchat, perhaps – "perhaps" I say! – she will take you someplace – "Where?" asked Milford. How should I know where? said Stoney. But someplace. She must live somewhere, right? "So one would think. But then she is, what did she say, one of the 'immortals'. Do immortals have places where they live? Maybe she lives here, in this bar?" That would be really weird, said Stoney. "Any more weird than what is already transpiring, than what has been transpiring these past several hours? Or, come to think of it, any more weird than what has transpired every second of my life ever since I was yanked, unwilling and screaming, from my mother's womb?" Okay, I catch your drift, but let's assume – just for the sake of trying to avoid total despair – let us assume that Miss Alcott does have somewhere that she lives, and then, let us hope if not assume that if you play your cards right – "if" I say – it is within the realm of possibility that she might – "might" I say! – take you to this place, and then, at long last, you might finally know what it is to make love with a woman. "I only hope I am able to perform." Well, I hope so too. But, hey, remember that terrific erection you had not so long ago? "Oh, right," said Milford, "how could I ever forget? I felt as if my entire body had become an erect penis!" Well, that was the mushrooms, but, look, the thing was, you did have an erection, and quite an impressive one, so what you want to do is to get alone with Miss Alcott, hope the erection returns, and then, you know – "Okay, no need to spell it out. I have seen pornographic French postcards, you know." Of course I know. So just do what they do in those postcards. How difficult can that be? "In theory, not too difficult. But, remember, we're talking about me here. I'm the guy who has difficulty getting out of bed on my best days." Getting out of bed is overrated. You've done some of your best thinking lying in bed. "This is true, but you can't just lie in bed all your life." Says who? "Um," said Milford, and he wondered whose side his alter ego was on. I heard that, said Stoney, and I assure you I am on your side. Remember, I am you. Or at least a far less drippy version of you. "Okay," said Milford. "I meant no offense." But, look, said Stoney, we're getting off the subject. What you have to do is to keep your eye on the goal. Which is to lose your virginity. "But is it even worth it?" There's no way of knowing that, my friend. "Yes, I suppose you're right." I know I'm right, said Stoney. Now listen, Miss Dickinson and Mrs. Stowe look like they're getting ready to take off finally, so try to pay attention. "All right, I'll try," said Milford. "It was so nice to meet you," said Emily Dickinson to Milford, and she offered her hand. "Oh, you too, Miss, uh –" "Emily, please." "You too, Emily," said Milford, shaking her hand, or her fingers, since she had presented them in that horizontal way old-fashioned women did. "Be nice to Lou," said Harriet Beecher Stowe, also offering her ladylike hand. "I'll try," said Milford, dropping Emily's hand and taking Harriet's. "Ta for now," said Harriet, "we're going to grab a table near the bandstand." "Do please join us if you wish," said Emily. "There is a crackerjack ensemble performing here tonight!" "Well, maybe," said Milford. "Do you favor minstrel music, Mr. Milford?" "I don't know if I've ever heard it," said Milford. "It's Negro music, but played by white fellows wearing charcoal on their faces." "Oh, well, uh –" "Have a good time, Emily," said Lou. "You too, Harriet." "Please join us, Lou," said Emily. "We can dance the Black Bottom!" "All right, Miss Emily," said Harriet, "learn to take a hint. Come on." And she took Emily's arm. "What do you mean, 'take a hint'?" said Miss Emily. "I'll explain in due course," said Harriet. "Now let's go grab that table before the band comes on." And off they went, Harriet pulling Emily by the arm. "You were very patient," said Miss Alcott to Milford. "I was?" "Listening so politely to their chatter. It was very gentlemanly of you." Don't tell her you weren't listening to a word they said, said Stoney. "I didn't mind," said Milford. Miss Alcott put her hand, again, on his thigh. Okay, here we go, said Stoney. "You can go away now," said Milford, and he felt a stirring down below. "Pardon me?" said Miss Alcott. "Oh, I'm sorry," said Milford, "I wasn't talking to you." "Were you talking to the voice in your head?" "Yes." "And so you have dismissed him?" "I hope so," said Milford. I'm still here, said the voice in Milford's head, but he chose to ignore it, or at least to try to ignore it, at least for the time being, as Miss Alcott's delicate but strong fingers caressed his thigh, and he felt his sluggish blood flowing down to what served as the physical representation of his manhood, such as it was, which might not be much, but it was all he had.

"Let's Get Drunk"

Yet another 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 brought to you by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

"Girls like boys who smoke Husky Boys!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of Horace P. Sternwall's smash new stage comedy Take Off Your Coat and Stay Awhile  

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Miss Alcott stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray that was on the bar in front of her, next to her pack of Lucky Strikes and a blank book of matches. "Would you like another Amontillado?" she said. "No, I shouldn't," said Milford. "I think I mentioned that I'm an alcoholic." "But you're so young!" "Yes, but you can be young and still be an alcoholic." "My dear father used to say, 'Anyone can be a drunk. That's no great accomplishment.'" "Thus far it's the only thing I've accomplished in life." "Milford, I like you." "Really?" "Yes. At least so far I do." "Maybe I should leave now while I'm still ahead." She lifted her small glass of sherry, took a gentle sip, and then put the glass down again. Then she turned and looked at him. "I should prefer it if you stayed," she said. Don't blow it, said that familiar voice in Milford's head. Don't blow it now. "You want another Amontillado, buddy?" This was the bartender, a man dressed in 19th century fashion, with decorative arm bands on his sleeves, an enormous moustache and mutton-chop sideburns. "No, thank you," said Milford. "I wonder, do you have ginger ale?" "We do have ginger ale, but if I may make a suggestion, we've got a mighty fine sarsaparilla. I brew it myself down in the sub-basement." "Does it have alcohol in it?" "No, sir, we brew it up specially for the temperance union folks." "Okay, I'll have one of those then, please." "Coming right up. What about you, Miss Lou? Another Amontillado?" "Thank you, no, Bret, I'm still working on this one." The man went away. "Miss Alcott," said Milford, "may I ask you a question?" "By all means, dear boy." "What is this place?" "Mr. Whitman didn't tell you?" "Oh, Mr. Whitman. I'd forgotten about him. Yes, he said something about taking me to, to, what did he say, to Valhalla?" "Well, that's the answer to your question." "You mean," said Milford, "this, all this, this place, all these strange people, these endless corridors and strange men's rooms and barrooms full of sad clowns, all this, all this –" "Yes, you have passed into the next world. Or should I say rather, another world." "Does this mean I'm dead?" "No, you're merely visiting." "But then, everyone here, you, the bartender, that Nathaniel Hawthorne guy –" "Here's your sarsaparilla, buddy," said the bartender, and he placed a metal tankard on the bar in front of Milford. "Put it on my tab, Bret," said Miss Alcott. "Sure thing, Miss Lou," said the man, and he went away again.  Milford picked up the tankard and took a good long drink. It was actually delicious, and quite refreshing, not cloyingly sweet the way ginger ale tended to be, especially after drinking the first four or five glasses in a desperate attempt not to gulp whiskey or gin. "Wow, that's really good," he said. "Trade secret," said Miss Alcott, "Bret puts just the tiniest smidgeon of ambrosia into the brew." "Ambrosia," said Milford. "Yes. Food of the gods." "Oh." Milford decided to let that go for the nonce. "So," he said, "to get back to what we were talking about, what you're saying is that everyone in here is dead?" "No, we're not dead. We're immortal." Milford sighed, a shallow sigh, but a sigh. Miss Alcott picked up her pack of Luckies, gave it a shake, plucked one out and put it in her lips. Milford remembered his manners, dug out his lighter, and gave her a light after only five or six unsuccessful clicks. Her gentle fingers touched his hand as she drew on the flame. She exhaled slowly and looked at him through the smoke. "I'm guessing you're the sort of chap who sighs a lot," she said. "You guess correctly," said Milford. "You know, Milford," she said, "once you've worked in a military hospital as a nurse, as I have done, albeit briefly, you realize there are far worse torments than spiritual ones." "I know," said Milford. "Or, rather, in theory I know, as I have led a very coddled life." "Far worse torments," repeated Miss Alcott. It was all Milford could do to stifle another sigh. "Listen, Miss Alcott, I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but I wonder if you would care to, to –" "What?" He wanted to ask her to relieve him of his virginity. Why was it so hard just to say it?  Just ask her, said the voice, the voice of his bold alter ego, known as "Stoney". "I wonder," continued our hero, "if we could go somewhere, somewhere private, where we could, uh –" "Make love?" "Thank you," he said. "Well, yes, we could," said Miss Alcott. "But we don't have to leave quite this second, do we?" "Oh, no, not at all –" "I should like at least to finish my cigarette, and my Amontillado." "Yes, of course, please." "So I can take my time?" "Certainly. I didn't intend to, uh –" "So you're not in any great hurry?" "Oh, no, um, uh, by all means –" He'd waited this long, what was another quarter century or so? "Because here's the thing about experience," she said. "Once you've had it, that's it. You've had it. And you might even find that you were thinking of something else while you were having the experience. And then you're back to looking forward to the next experience, during which you will be perhaps thinking of something else, possibly even anticipating yet another experience that you won't appreciate while it's happening. Until at last comes that final experience. Your life flickering away, and as it flickers you will be thinking of all the experiences you had in your brief sojourn in your so-called life when you were thinking of something else, even as you're about to experience the ultimate experience of all. And maybe then you will realize that the something else itself is the experience." "Hello, Lou," said a young woman, who was suddenly standing there. "Hi, Lou," said another young woman, who was holding a cigarette. Like Miss Alcott, they were both dressed in 19th century fashion. "Introduce us to your new gentleman friend," said the first woman. "Of course," said Miss Alcott. "Milford, allow me to introduce Miss Dickinson and Mrs. Stowe." "Call me Emily," said the first woman. "And please call me Harriet," said the other one. Milford climbed off of his stool, not falling, and shook hands in turn with the two ladies. Say something, said the voice in his head. "Very, uh, pleased to meet you," he said. "And shall we call you Milford?" said the one called Emily. "Yes, please." "An unusual prénom," said the one named Harriet. Here we go again, thought Milford, But just get it over with, said the subcranial voice. "My actual first if not Christian name is Marion," said Milford. "My middle name is even worse, Crackstone. Therefore I prefer to be called simply by my last name, which is the aforementioned Milford." "You should I pray pardon me for saying so," said Emily, "but you have a passing strange way of speaking," "That might be because I am an idiot," said Milford, "lacking in the social or any other sort of graces." "Milford's a poet," said Miss Alcott. "That explains it, then," said Emily. "I too have been accused of strangeness. And does the strangeness come from my avocation of scribbling cryptic lines of verse, or, did the oddness inherent in my character cause me to become just such a scribbler?" "Um," said Milford. "Good answer, Milford," said Harriet. "And, please, resume your seat. We didn't want to crash your little party." "Just wanted to say hello," said Emily. Awkwardly Milford climbed back onto his stool. Be a gentleman, said the internal voice. Offer to buy them a drink. Show some breeding. "May I get you ladies something to drink?" said Milford. "Thought you'd never ask," said Harriet. "Thanks, Milford," said Emily. "I'll take a martini." "Make that two," said Harriet. "And thank you, kind sir." Milford lifted his narrow hindquarters from his seat, the better to extricate his old Boy Scout wallet.  Look, said Stoney the alter ego, so far you haven't totally fucked things up yet, so take my advice, if you have something stupid to say, don't say it. Milford raised a finger in an attempt to gain the bartender's attention.  And just then, as if they were all in a movie, Milford became aware of the song playing on the jukebox, the likes of which would never be allowed by the Production Code, a woman singing: You know my other man is out of town, your other woman she's not around. Now is the time to break 'em down, let's get drunk and truck... next story