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.
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