"Through Dark Forests"

Another cautionary tale of  la vie de la bohème, by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq

This episode sponsored by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

"All of my work is produced in a fragrant and comforting cloud of Husky Boy tobacco smoke!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of The Creaking Stairwell, a "Maggie Muldoon" Mystery

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And so," said Miss Blackbourne, "this is it. Endless nights of smoking and drinking and wallowing in nonsense. And you grow older, unless of course you die first, your body and your mind become both more feeble, and then one day, suddenly, if you're lucky, you drop dead. Write me a poem about that, poet boy." "You mean right now?" said Milford. "You say you're a poet, write me a poem." "But, as I said I think, I am a bad poet." "Then compose me a bad poem." Go ahead, said the voice in his head. What do you have to lose? "Well, okay," said Milford. "I guess I'll need some paper –" "Bag that jive," she said. "Give me an extemporaneous poem, just the way the first poets did it, sitting around the campfire in their caves." Don't blow it, said Stoney his alter ego. Just let it rip, daddy-o. Milford took a drag of his Husky Boy. Cigarettes always helped. Well, no, they didn't always help, but they didn't hurt. But then how would he know what helped or hurt, since he had never written a single good line of poetry himself? Just start with one good line, said Stoney. Do you think you can manage that much? Milford remembered he still had his scotch-and-soda sitting right there, not even half empty, and, once again forgetting his drinking problem, he lifted the glass and drank, and when he set it down it was empty but for a few globules of ice at the bottom. "I'm waiting," said Miss Blackbourne. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry," said Milford. "I was just gathering my, uh, thoughts." "That's the worst thing you can do," she said. "Now begin." Milford, his mind devoid of ideas, began. "It's easy to waste your life, people do it all the time. You're born, you cry,  and before you know it,  it's time to die. And as you lie on your final bed you look back on the life you've led and you think, yes, perhaps indeed I am better off dead. Perhaps I should have gotten a dog, perhaps I should have made a friend, perhaps I should have loved and even been loved in return, not by a dog but by a female? Would it all then have been worthwhile? Would her aging frail body be lying  next to mine, not young and beautiful. but old and decrepit, like my own? Would there be grandchildren  standing there, wide-eyed, curious, waiting for me to expire, wondering if I would leave them  something in my will? Should I have sat on benches and fed pigeons peanuts from a paper sack? Should I have composed an epic  classic modernist poem, something to leave behind, not that it would matter to me after that final rattle  from my tobacco-ravaged lungs, after that final losing battle with existence?  These are the questions I ask now while I am young, and I will ask them still when I am old, about to die as I have lived,  a dunce, fifty million moments  allegedly experienced,  until this final one,  just once,  then done." Milford stopped. He had run out of words. "Is that it?" said Miss Blackbourne. "Yes," said Milford. "I'm afraid so." "Not bad," she said. "Really?" "Yes. Mind you, I didn't say good." "No, of course not." "But the first step towards being good is not being bad. There's only one thing now possibly standing in the way of your becoming a great poet, which is the only sort of poet worth being." "Yes," said Milford. "Do you know what that one thing is?" "A lack of talent?" "Precisely. Because all the study and dedication and hard work in the world mean nothing if you haven't got what it takes to begin with. How are you feeling with those mushrooms by the way?" Milford had forgotten about the mushrooms, but now he was reminded. "Now that you mention it," he said, "I feel as if my brains are pressing against the walls of my skull. I also feel that all my thoughts are made of Jell-O, and that my consciousness is made of mud. I just remembered that I also smoked hashish, which might have been a mistake. And I feel as if any moment I might fly away, through the ceiling and out into the dark interstellar reaches of outer space, for all eternity." "But other than that, you feel okay?" "Yes, I suppose so." "Then you'll just have to ride it out. Think of it as like a rollercoaster ride. Frightening while you're on the ride, but eventually it comes to an end." "I feel as if this might never end." "Don't worry, it will. Sooner or later. Just as your life will." Milford realized his cigarette had burned down and gone out. Was it worth the trouble to light up another one? The waitress named Ruthie was standing there. "Another round?" "Yes, Ruthie," said Miss Blackbourne. "Thank you." With a feeling akin to horror, Milford realized that he had to urinate, yet again. Why did people in movies and novels never urinate, when it seemed to him that his entire life was an unending roundelay of trips back and forth to bathrooms and public toilets, or, in a pinch, to dark alleyways. "Excuse me, miss," he said to the waitress, "where is the men's room?" "Go to the end of the bar, then turn right. You'll see a narrow hallway. Go in there and the second door you'll see on the left is the men's room." "The end of the bar?" "It wouldn't be the middle of the bar, would it?" "No, I suppose not." Milford stood up, almost knocking his chair over.  "I'll be right back," he said to Miss Blackbourne. "I've heard that before," she said. "Excuse me," he said to the waitress. "You sure you know the way now? Don't need me to lead you by the hand?" "No, I think I can make it on my own." "Famous last words," she said. Milford stepped around her and headed off into the smoke and the babble and the jukebox music.  How hard could it be to find a men's room? He didn't want to answer that, but forged ahead, just as his ancestors had, carrying their spears, over hill and dale and through dark forests.

“The Cavemen Had No Names"

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

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

This series made possible through the generous support of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company Foundation for the Furtherance of the Arts

"People always ask me, how do I write so prolifically, and I tell them it's quite simple: I sit down every morning at the typewriter with a cup of joe, light up a Husky Boy, and my mind is off to the races!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "gripping"* new novel Pool Hall Polly

* Flossie Flanagan, The Federal Democrat

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

She was gazing off, through the smoke, gazing out at the babble and the jukebox music. "There's still a chance," said the voice in his head. "She didn't exactly say no. Maybe she's thinking it over. Just don't say anything stupid now and spoil the moment." "Is there really a chance?" said Milford, aloud. "Oh, great," said Stoney, his alter ego, as Miss Blackbourne turned her regal gaze upon Milford. "What?" she said. "Um," said Milford, desperately, "I said is there really a chance." "A chance for what? That I'll decide to make the beast with two backs with you?" "Lie," said Stoney. "Lie, and be quick about it." "No," said Milford, as quickly as he could. "I meant is there really a chance that I might find some, uh, meaning in life, some purpose, even if it's not as a poet, although of course I would prefer it to be. As a poet I mean. Or –" He trailed off into silence, thank God, if there was a God, and this whole long day and night, not to mention his whole life, was proof that there was no God.  She took a drag of her ebony and silver cigarette, slowly exhaled a great fragrant cloud in Milford's direction, and just when Milford thought she wasn't going to deign to say a word, she spoke: "Y'know, if you're going to continue to be an utter bore I'm going to have to ask you to get up and leave right now." "Wow," said Stoney. "I don't know about you, Milford, but I am totally in love with this woman." "I lied," said Milford, after sighing for the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-fifth time since he had unwillingly risen from the oblivion of slumber some sixteen hours ago, although it felt like at least sixteen months. "I was really responding to something my alter ego –" "Bucky?" "Stoney, actually, I was, uh, responding to something he said." "Which was what?" "That, uh, he thought there might still be a chance that you would, um – it was him saying this, not me –" "Out with it. No woman can abide a man who beats about the bush, and please forgive the pun." "He said," said Milford, "that there was still a chance that you would, uh –" "Commit the act of darkness with you?" "Yes, but, again, it was Bucky who said it –" "Stoney, idiot," said Stoney. "I mean, Stoney," said Milford. "But Stoney, or Bucky, or whoever the hell he is," said Miss Blackbourne, "is you, is he not?" Now it was Milford's turn to pause. Even Stoney was silent. And after thirty-nine seconds he, or possibly Stoney, said: "In a sense, yes." "Let me pose a question," said Miss Blackbourne. She took a drink of her highball before continuing, and Milford, forgetting again his alcoholism, took advantage of the moment to take a drink of his own highball. "If I agreed to take you to my narrow bed," she continued, "whom would I be taking? You, Mervin, or Bucky?" "You mean Stoney," said Milford. "Stoney then." "Also, I don't mean to keep harping on it, but my name is Milford." "What did I say?" "I think you said Mervin." "I beg your pardon." "It's okay. No one ever gets my name right." "But you haven't answered my question." "What was it again?" "If I were to allow you to – what's the phrase – hide your salami in my most private of parts, who would be the man wielding the soppressata shall we say, you, or this Chucky fellow?" "I don't think I'm capable of answering that question." "And who is saying that, you or Hucky?" "His name is Stoney, and we're both saying it," said Milford's voice. She gazed off into the smoke and the babble and the jukebox music again, and then she said, "Oh, Christ." "What?" said Milford. Had he said the wrong thing? Was it possible ever to say the right thing? "This fucking guy," said Miss Blackbourne. "You should pardon my fucking French." And yet another man emerged from the swirling clouds of smoke. This one was a tall thin fellow dressed in overalls like a farmer, with a tattered straw hat on his head, and he carried a guitar on a strap over his shoulder. "Hi, Margaret," he said. "I've written a new song, and I wonder if I could get some 'feedback' from you." "Okay, Chet," she said. "How's this? I don't like it. Now scram, we're having a private conversation here." "Hi, fella," said the man to Milford. "Ain't seen you round here before. My name's Chet Maliszewski." He extended his hand, which was thin and white. "Hello," said Milford. Reluctantly he took the man's hand and shook it, it felt strangely inanimate, like the hand of a department store dummy, not that Milford had ever shaken hands with a department store dummy, but at any rate the handshake was brief, which was always a good thing, or a less bad thing. "What's your moniker?" said the man, wiping his hand on his overalls. "Milford," said Milford. "Jes' Milford?" "Yes, just Milford." "I been a-thinkin' of changing my name to just Chet, on accounta people are prejudiced against Polish people – quite unfairly, you ask me – so maybe I should just go simply by Chet after all. What do you think?" "I don't care," said Milford. "If it was up to me I wouldn't have any name at all." "So you could be just Anonymous." "Even Anonymous is too much of a name for me." "I like your style, pard. So, anyways, I'm gonna play y'all this new little ditty I just wrote, and it goes something like this."  He struck a chord on his guitar, and began to sing, in a gruff, southern-sounding voice: There's a notion  of an ocean of emotion deep inside and I just can't hide it and I just can't abide it 'cause it's tearing me apart and eating up my heart and the cause of it all is a lady  called sweet Margaret 'cause she's got something I  just can't get. O sweet Margaret I'll make you mine yet. O sweet Margaret I just can't forget that time you said hello and after talking to me you told me just to go and not come back but here I am again just a-singin' alas alack. O sweet Margaret I'll make you mine yet. He struck a chord and then stopped singing. "That's all I got so far, but I'm thinking I might add a few dozen more verses, kind of like one of the traditional Child ballads, like 'Tam Lin', say, or another favorite of mine, "The Midnight Ploughboy of Swampoodle", which in one variant has fifty-six verses. What do y'all think?" "I think you should drop dead while you're still ahead," said Miss Blackbourne. "Ha ha, you're such a card, Margaret," said Chet. He turned to Milford. "What do you think, Milbert? Be honest now, I can take it." "I think it's great, Chad," said Milford, because he knew that no artist wanted honest criticism, but only praise, and lots of it. "Thanks, Mulgrew," said Chet, "although my name is actually Chet, but, who knows, maybe I should change it to Chad. Chad something more Anglo Saxon maybe. Chad Mitchell?" "Why don't you go away and work on your song now, Chad," said Margaret. "Yes, ma'am, I reckon I'll do that," said Chet. "Nice meeting you, Milton." "You too, Thad," said Milford. "Thad, Chad, Chet, what's in a name?" said Chet. "The cavemen had no names," said Milford.  "Yes, sir, I like your style, Melvin," said Chet. "See ya, Margaret. I'll sing you the rest of the song after I finish it." "I can't wait," said Margaret. The fellow turned away and walked off into the smoke and the babble. "Do you see what I have to deal with here?" said Miss Blackbourne. "With this crowd even an ill-favored chap like yourself doesn't look too terribly dreadful." Yes, said Stoney, yes, there is still a chance!  And this time Milford had the momentary good sense not to say anything, at least not aloud anyway, and it occurred to him (why had he never realized this before?) that the only sure way not to say something stupid was to say nothing, nothing at all.

"Phil the Pill"

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

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

Sponsored in part by Husky Boy™ cigarettes, now available in "Regular" and "King Size", with or without our patented "Cork Tip", and our line of special "Husky Boys for Ladies" cigarettes in six attractive colorways

"My morning is not complete without a cup of 'joe' at my favorite diner, the daily Federal-Democrat crossword, and a smooth and refreshing Husky Boy King Size!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author Further Lucubrations of a Loon: Essays on Sundry Topics

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

Just then someone else emerged from the smoke, from the babble and the jukebox music, and stood at their table. Why was there always someone else? When, at long last, would there be no one else? Maybe when you're dead, buddy, said the voice in his head, but I wouldn't count on it. It was a little fat man, with one of those little beards that fat men grow to hide the fat under their chins. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat, and he had a black leather motorcycle jacket on, but he didn't have it zipped up because his stomach was too huge. "I hate to interrupt," he said.  "Then don't," said Miss Blackbourne, "and fuck off back to where you came from." "Now don't be like that, Margaret," said the little fat man. He had a whiny voice, like Peter Lorre's but with an American accent. "You know I have a job to do." "I'll do a job on you," she said, "with this." And she pulled a silvery pin out of her hat. It was about eight inches long with an ebony scarab at one end and a glistening sharp point at the other. "Heh heh, you kill me, Margaret," said the fat man. "Damned straight I'll kill you," she said. "If I can only puncture a vital organ through those thick layers of whale blubber you're encased in." "You shouldn't make fun of me just because I'm a little overweight. You know I have a glandular condition." Nevertheless he stepped back a pace or two away from the point of the hatpin, so as not to make an easy target. He addressed Milford. "Hi," he said. "My name is Philip Waterbury." "Phil the Pill," said Miss Blackbourne. "You can just call me Phil," said the fat man, to Milford. "May I know your name?" "Milford," said Milford. "Just Milford?" "Just Milford," said Milford. "Okay, that's cool," said the fat man called Phil. Milford now noticed that the man carried a clipboard with some papers on it, and he wrote something with a ballpoint pen attached to the clipboard with a thin chain. "It's actually really pretty neat just to have one name. Look at Homer, no one ever asked him what his last name was. So, lookit, I take it you are a lost poet?" "Yes," said Milford. "Good, great," said the man, and he checked something off with his pen. "Quick quiz, but remember, there aren't necessarily any wrong answers, but which is preferable, life or death?" "Are you joking?" said Milford. "Okay, I'll put down death then. Next, is it better never to have been born, or to be born, just so you can know how meaningless everything is?" "Can I answer neither?" said Milford. "You can answer whatever you want to, but please bear in mind that –" "I would prefer never having to answer any questions ever again," said Milford. "I would prefer also never to have to talk to anybody again." "Does that include attractive females?" said Phil, with a glance at Miss Blackbourne, who still held her hatpin at the ready. "Okay, not attractive females," said Milford, "but everyone else I would prefer not to talk to, and more important, not to have them talk to me." The little man was writing rapidly on the clipboard. "Did you get all that?" asked Milford. "Yes, got it," said Phil. "So," he said, looking up from his clipboard. "I guess all's we really need now is your John Hancock on here, and ten dollars." "What's the ten dollars for?" said Milford. "Your official membership in the Society of Lost Poets. You're probably wondering what that entails. Well, first off, you get all drinks half-price, as well as access at half-price to our daily table d'hôte, and also our bar menu featuring hot dogs with or without baked beans or sauerkraut, and our award-winning proprietary burger, with your choice of American or Cheez Whiz, bacon at your request." "What award did your burger win?" said Milford, but really it was the voice of his alter ego, Stoney. "The Award for Best Burger for Lost Poets," said Phil. "By the way, I should be unforgivably remiss if I didn't mention that membership also includes your own private 'garret' room upstairs, so you can have some privacy to knock out a quick lyric poem or canto of an epic as the case may be, with each room supplied with a Hermes Baby typewriter, a box of #2 pencils, and, for the traditionalist, a quill pen with a dozen nibs and a jar of high quality India ink. A replaceable ream of 20-pound paper is provided gratis, and prime vellum, if you prefer, is available at cost." "Okay, whatever," said Stoney, speaking through Milford's mouth. "If I give you ten dollars, will you go away?" "Of course," said Phil, and he held out the clipboard and the pen. "Just sign your name down there at the bottom where it says Name." "Don't sign it," said Miss Blackbourne.  "Pardon me?" said Milford, speaking now for himself. "If you value your soul, don't sign it." "Oh, be still, Margaret," said the little fat man. "Why should –" he glanced at his clipboard, "why should Milfort –" "Milford," said Milford, "with a d at the end." "Really?" said the fat man. "Yes," said Milford. "Oh, okay, Milford with a d then." He scrawled something on the clipboard, then looked up. "What was I saying?" "No one cares," said Miss Blackbourne. "Oh, now I remember," said the man. "My question to you, Margaret, and also to, uh –" he glanced again at the clipboard, "to Milford – is simply, why would he not want to sign it? What more could a lost poet ask for?" "How about nothing?" said Miss Blackbourne. "Nothing is always a good thing to ask for." "Ha ha, quite risible, Margaret." He proffered the clipboard and pen to Milford. "Here ya go, Milbert, just scratch your mark there, slide me a sawbuck, and we're good to go." "Don't do it, Milford," said Miss Blackbourne. Milford's heart was touched that she actually called him by his correct name. "Yeah," said Milford, "I think I'll pass." "Well, you don't know what you're missing," said Phil. "No, I don't," said Milford, "but I also don't want to know." "Which only proves you are a true lost poet. Come on, pal, if you don't have the ten bucks on you, we can put you on a payment plan." "I have the money, but I just don't want to join." "Okay, well, how about our special trial membership then? Just give me a dollar, and I'll put you down for a month with full privileges. If you decide you want to cancel, you're under no obligation to –" "No," said Milford. "All right, look, I very rarely do this, but I'm prepared to offer you a six months' trial membership absolutely free, gratis and for nothing, and if at the end of that time –" "I don't think so," said Milford, and then his alter ego Stoney added, "in fact I'm sure of it." "Sure of what?" "I'm sure I don't want to join," said Milford and Stoney in unison. "Y'know, I forgot to mention, we have poetry 'slams' every Monday night, and any member can take part. Wednesday nights are 'hootenanny night' if folk music is your thing. Fridays are folk dancing. Do you like to clog?" "I don't want to join," said Milford. "And this is your final answer?" "Yes," said Milford. "Yes you want to join?" "No," said Milford. "Yes I don't want to join." "Oh," said the fat man. "Well, if you're sure." "Yes, I'm sure," said Milford and Stoney. Now the fat man paused for a moment before speaking. "Well, I hate to have to say this," he said, "but, you can finish your drink, but then you're going to have to leave. The Island of Lost Poets is for members only." "Milford is my guest," said Miss Blackbourne, and she brandished her hatpin. "Now hop it before I stick you like the little swine you are." "Oh, okay, I'll go," said Phil, taking another step back. He addressed Milford again. "If you change your mind I'll be across the room there by the shuffleboard table." Both Milford and Stoney said nothing, and after another short pause the little fat man shrugged and turned and waddled away into the smoke. Milford realized that his latest cigarette had gone out, and so he shook out another Husky Boy. "Thanks for allowing me to be your guest," he said to Miss Blackbourne.  "My pleasure," she said, finally sticking her long sharp pin back into her black pillbox hat. Milford lighted up his cigarette. Miss Blackbourne must be a member here. Therefore she must have one of those garret rooms that the fat fellow had mentioned. Was there even a slight chance she would – "I know what you're thinking," she said. "But what would be the point? A few minutes of thrashing about in my narrow bed, and then the awkwardness ensuing? Is that really what you want?" Say yes, said the voice in Milford's head, the voice of his alter ego Stoney. "Yes?" said Milford. She said nothing.  Another sad song was playing on the jukebox.