"A Man Called Jelly Roll"

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

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode sponsored by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

"Many young aspiring writers ask me about my daily writing routine, to which I answer without fail: each morning I sit down at the typewriter with a fresh pack of Husky Boy cigarettes. When the pack is empty, I know my day's work is done!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "searing"* new novel Up the Long Ladder and Down the Short Rope: a Novel of the Slums.

*Flossie Flanagan, The New York Federal-Democrat

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But as his urine streamed from him like a gushing yellow river, Milford suddenly felt as if he himself were streaming out of himself, splattering against the stained porcelain of the urinal and down into the drain. So this is it, he thought, this is how it ends, swirling down into the drain of a men's room urinal. Or was it the end? Would his essence flow through the pipes and reassemble itself somewhere else? Where did the pipes lead to? The river? Which river was closest, the Hudson or the East? Not that it mattered. His being would flow into the river, and down through the harbor and thence into the ocean, where he would become part of the aquatic universe, insentient, uncaring, unknowing and unknown. Or would he become a fish? And like a tiny fish he swam through the dark green depths, through the ruins of sunken ancient cities, past the hulks of torpedoed ships, through valleys between mossy mountains higher than the Himalayas, yes, this was freedom, free at last, but then directly before him loomed an enormous white killer whale, its cavernous sawtoothed mouth agape and then the mighty jaws closed over him and all was darkness. "Hey, buddy, you all right?" The top of Milford's head in its newsboy's cap was pressed against the tiles above the urinal. He lifted his head and turned to see who had spoken, which was apparently a light-skinned Negro in a porkpie hat and with a large cigarette in his mouth. "What?" was all that Milford could bring himself to say. "You look like you's about to pass out, man." "I, yes, I'm afraid it's been a long night." "You're pissing like a champ, though." "Yes, I really had to go." "And you're still going." "Yes, I think I will be finished soon." The Negro man was also urinating, Milford could hear his urine splashing and gurgling, but he dared not look. "I hope you don't mind standing next to a Negro," said the man. "No, not at all." "Because I can move if it bothers you." "No, please!" "I'll button up my Johnson and move, posthaste." "No!" "Wouldn't want to offend your fine sensibilities." "Please, sir! I am a firm believer in the equality of races." "So I guess you have lots of black friends." "Well, no –" "Ha ha, I knew it." "But –" "But what?" "I don't have any friends." "Now that's not true, Montaine," said Mr. Whitman, standing at the urinal to Milford's left. He held his pipe in his left hand, and, presumably, his generative member in his right (although of course Milford didn't look to make sure). "I'd like to think we are friends, and good friends, my boy. By the way, hi there, Jelly Roll." "My man, Walter, how you doing, you old reprobate, you?" said the Negro man. "I'm doing great," said Mr. Whitman, and, transferring his pipe to his mouth, and apparently switching his left hand to the wielding of his male organ, he extended his great right hand past Milford's chest, and the Negro man took the hand in his own. "And how are you, Jelly?" "Never better, Walt, never better, been working on a new epic ballad called 'Whore House Hannah and the Butcher Boy from Baton Rouge', I think you'll like it." "I should love to hear it, my friend!" The two men continued to shake each other's hands right in front of Milford's chest. Milford's stream had stopped abruptly. "Um," said Milford. "Uh." "What's the matter, buddy?" said the Negro man.  "I don't mean to be rude," said Milford, "but I can't urinate with you two shaking hands right in front of me like this." "So you are prejudiced," said the Negro man. "No!" said Milford. "Not at all! It has nothing to do with your race, but it's just that I can't urinate while you two are shaking hands in front of me like this." "In other words you're prejudiced." "No! Look, I'll just find another urinal, and then you two can shake hands and talk all you want to." "Kid," said the Negro man. "Yes?" "Relax. I'm fucking with you." "Ha ha!" laughed Mr. Whitman. "Quite risible, Jelly Roll!" At last the brown-skinned man and Mr. Whitman disengaged their mutual hands. "Introduce me to your buddy, Walt," said the Negro man. "Of course!" said Mr. Whitman, who was still urinating, as was the Negro man. "Merlin, I'd like you to meet the distinguished musician and composer, Mr. Jelly Roll Morton." "Pleased to meet you, Merlin," said the man called Jelly Roll Morton. "Slip me some skin, son." He offered his powerful-looking hand. "Okay, uh, two things," said Milford. "One, my name is Milford, not Merlin. And two, I can't shake your hand." "Because I'm a Negro." "No, it has nothing to do with you being a Negro! It's just, as you can see, I'm trying to finish urinating." "So switch your johnson to your left hand the way me and Walt are doing and slide me five, Clive." "But, but –" "But what?" "It's unsanitary to shake someone's hand when you're trying to pee." "I don't have cooties, boy." "I'm not saying you do, but, can't you wait at least until we're all finished urinating, and we've washed our hands, at least?" "So you think you might have cooties?" "No!" "Well, you must think one of us has cooties. Perhaps me, because I am a Negro?" "Mondragoon," said Mr. Whitman. "Stop being such a tightass and shake the man's hand." "Oh, my God," said Milford. "Okay, look, Mr., uh –" "Call me Jelly Roll," said the Negro man. "Okay, look, 'Jelly Roll', if I shake your hand will you both just please allow me to finish urinating?" "No one's stopping you, Mel," said the man called Jelly Roll. "Look, me and Walt are both still pissing away with no complaints." "Jelly Roll's got a point, Melton," said Mr. Whitman. "Look at us, like two prize race horses, happily emptying our bladders on the rich verdant bluegrass of Kentucky." "Oh, my God," said Milford, again, "okay, here, Jelly Roll, here is my hand. Please, take it." He offered his pale weak hand and Jelly Roll took it in his strong brown hand. "You got a soft and delicate hand," said the man, "just like a lady's. But don't worry, I'm not going to crush it." "Thank you," said Milford. True to his word, the man did not crush Milford's hand in his, and after a brief squeeze, he freed it. "You know what you need?" said the man. "I need many things," said Milford.  "Maybe so, but what you need right now is a drag of this."  He took the cigarette out of his mouth and offered it to Milford. "No thank you," said Milford. "I have my own." "This is special," said the man. "My own special blend, hand-rolled." "Well, thank you," said Milford, "but I really prefer my own." "Oh, okay, I get it. You don't want your lips to touch something a Negro's lips have touched." "No!" "Then take it, sonny." "Go ahead, Mitchell," said Mr. Whitman. "You're gonna hurt Jelly Roll's feelings." Milford sighed. By his count this was his twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-seventh sigh since he had reluctantly dragged his corporeal host from his bed the previous forenoon. But he took the cigarette from the brown-skinned man called Jelly Roll and put it in his thin lips and drew in a smoke thick and sweet and filled with dreams of gentle glory.>

“Five-and-Dime Daisy"

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

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq, through exclusive arrangement with quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode sponsored by Husky Boy™ cigarettes

"The absolutely last thing I do before making my first entrance of the night is to enjoy a Husky Boy Ladies' Ultra Slim Cork Tip – I find it ever so soothing and relaxing!" – Hyacinth Wilde, currently starring in the Demotic Theatre production of Horace P. Sternwall's Punch My Ticket for Tomorrow

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On they marched, following the tiny man singing his song Oh, I knowed a dark haired lady way down in Saskatchewan, and such a dose she gave me I thought I couldn't go on, but a croaker named Doc Benway shot me full of penicillin and soon I was up and back in play with any old gal that was willin'… Look, Mr. Whitman," said Milford, "if you don't mind, I'm just going to grab one of these empty urinals, because –" "Wait, Millard, what did you call me?" "Mr. Whitman?" "Yes. And what did I ask you to call me?" "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot – 'Walt' –" "Walt," said Mr. Whitman, taking his pipe out of the thicket of his beard. "Now don't make me tell you again, Martin, or you're gonna hurt my feelings, because I thought we were buddies." "Okay, Walt, then," said Milford, "and, by the way, I know it's not important, but my name is not Martin, or Millard, or Mumford, or Mervyn, or Melvoin –" "It's not?" "No." "Then what is it?" "Again, and for the hundredth time, it's Milford, okay? Milford. Why is that so hard to remember?" Mr. Whitman stopped, and turned to look down at his young friend. "Say it again for me." "Milford," said Milford. "You're sure?" "Of course I'm sure. Why wouldn't I know my own name?" "I don't know. I suppose you might have your reasons, and who am I, a humble poetaster, to question them?" "Well, I am pretty sure that I know my own name." "Okay, well, now it's my turn to say I'm sorry." "All right," said Milford. "Anyway –" "But there's no need to get upset, my friend." The tiny man, who was now ten yards ahead, stopped singing his song and turned around. "Hey, what's the hold-up back there?" "Sorry, Benny!" called Mr. Whitman, and he touched Milford's arm. "Come on, we're lagging behind." "It wasn't I who stopped, Mr. Whit-, um, I mean, Walt –" "Let's not play the blame game, Milfred," said Mr. Whitman. "We're both better than that. At least I'd like to think we are." "I'm waiting," yelled the tiny man.  "Come on, buddy, let's not keep Benny waiting," said Mr. Whitman. "Look," said Milford, "I'm just going to take this urinal right here," and he pointed to an unoccupied urinal immediately to his right. "No!" said Mr. Whitman, and his mighty hand tightened on Milford's not mighty biceps muscle. "But, Mr. Wh-, I mean Walt, I have to go!" said Milford, his voice breaking. "But you'll get Benny upset, Mimfern," said Mr. Whitman, in a loud stage whisper. "His instructions were, specifically, to find us two adjoining urinals, and, I don't know if you noticed it, but he takes his job very seriously." "I don't care!" "Wow," said Mr. Whitman. "Just – 'wow' is all I can say to that. Because that's no way to be. Where would we be if none of us cared about what other people cared about?" "We'd be exactly where we are, in a living hell." "That's a little extreme." "Hey, youse two!" yelled Benny. "Get the lead out. I got two adjoining urinals for yez right up here." "Coming!" said Mr. Whitman, and he turned to Milford. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?" Milford said nothing, rather than screaming, and allowed Mr. Whitman to pull him forward until they closed the distance to the tiny man. "There yez go," said the tiny man, pointing with his tiny thumb in its white glove. "Two urinals, adjoining." "Thanks so much, Benny," said Mr. Whitman, and, putting his pipe in his teeth, he took his change purse out of his baggy workman's trousers and opened it. "Shit, all the coin I got is a nickel and some pennies." "That's okay, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man. "You can catch me the next time." "Nonsense," said Mr. Whitman. "Melphries, do you have, oh, I don't know, fifty cents or so?" Milford started to check his pockets, but then stopped.  "No, sorry," he said, "I just remembered I'm all out of small change, because when I went to buy some cigarettes from the machine –" "Look, it's okay," said Benny. "Next time." "Benny," said Mr. Whitman, "I wouldn't hear of it. Here, just give me a second." He put the change purse away and dug his hand in his back pocket and brought out a wallet, old and worn, and almost as large as a woman's purse. He opened it and peered within. "I don't believe it," he said, thumbing through the thick wad of bills inside the wallet. "All's I have is twenties. Mungford, you wouldn't have a single on you, would you?" In desperation Milford brought out his own old wallet, fashioned by himself during his brief tenure as a Cub Scout, and opened it. "No, I don't have any singles, sorry –" "What do you have?" said Mr. Whitman, peering down into the wallet. "Just, uh, a couple of fives, tens –" "Okay, give Benny a five then, and I'll pay you back." "Mr. Whitman," said Benny, "that ain't necessary." "Nonsense," said Mr. Whitman, and, taking charge, he dipped his thumb and finger into Milford's wallet, picked out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the tiny man. "Gee, thanks, Mr. Whitman," said the little fellow. "Don't mention it, Benny. Spend it well, my friend!" "You bet I will!" said the tiny man, folding up the bill. "I knows a little lady who will appreciate this fin, that's for sure. And I will appreciate what she gives me for it, if ya know what I mean." "Oh, I think I do, you scamp," said Mr. Whitman. "I'm talking about what they call a Baltimore handshake, Mr. Whitman. And from one of the prettiest little midget gals you ever seen." "I'm sure she is, Benny," said Mr. Whitman. "They calls her Five-and-Dime Daisy, on accounta she charges five for a Baltimore handshake, and ten for a –" "Okay, look," said Milford, putting away his wallet, "if it's all right, I'm just going to take one of these urinals." "Well, that was kind of rude," said the little man. "Just interrupting me like that." "I'm sorry," said Milford, "but I have to go!" "Oh, okay," said the small man. "Don't let me stop you." He stuck the bill, folded into eighths, into the breast pocket of his red jacket. Mr. Whitman once again put his great hand on Milford's arm. "Milphrum, aren't we forgetting something?" "What?" said Milford, through a film of tears. "Shouldn't we thank Benny?" "That ain't necessary, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man. "Yes it is," said Mr. Whitman. "Okay, thank you!" cried Milford. "You're very welcome," said the tiny man, and he turned to Mr. Whitman. "See ya on the way out, Mr. Whitman." He set off in the opposite direction, back towards the entrance of the men's room, which was so far away it was barely visible. "I think you hurt his feelings," said Mr. Whitman. Milford said nothing to this, but he realized that Mr. Whitman still held onto his arm.  "Mr. Whitman, could you let go of my arm? I really have to pee now, or I'm going to burst." "Oh, of course," said Mr. Whitman, and he loosened his grip. "Which urinal do you want?" "I don't care. At this point I would gladly pee on the floor, or against the wall." "I would prefer the one on the left. Is that okay with you?" "Yes, fine." "Very well then," said Mr. Whitman, and without another word, Milford staggered the few steps over to the urinal on the right, unbuttoning the fly of his dungarees with desperate fingers as he did so. Just barely in time he disinterred his allegedly virile member and soon he knew an ecstasy he had never known before, and the likes of which he was fated never to know again.

"The Enormous Men's Room"

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

Illustrations by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Corporation.

"At my speaking engagements I am often asked if I have any tips for the budding young scribes of today, to which I answer, yes, sit down at the typewriter with a fresh pot of 'joe' and a carton of Husky Boy cigarettes, and then let it rip!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the smash new bestseller The Man Who Woke Up Dead 

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Inside was an enormous and cavernous men's room, with a long row of urinals on the right side and a long row of sinks on the left, and a few paces inside the doorway was a wooden podium with a tall gaunt man in a dark suit standing behind it. "Welcome," he said. "Oh, and Mr. Whitman! So good to see you again, sir!" "Good to see you, Charles," said Mr. Whitman, continuing to guide Milford forward with his hand on the young fellow's back. "How's it hanging, my friend?" "It is hanging well, sir. And yourself?" "No use complaining, Charlie, no use complaining, and, anyway, who gives a shit?" "I do, sir." "Well, that's very nice of you to say, Charlie. And the wife, the kids?" "All very well, sir, or no worse than might be expected. My wife's lumbago still pains her in the cold and rainy weather, and my son is due to be released from the reformatory in the spring, his good behavior willing. My daughter's pregnancy was unfortunate but we have resigned ourselves. My youngest son's polio is being treated by the best doctors we can afford." "And your angina?" "No better, but little worse, which at my age is something to be thankful for." "Indeed, Charlie. We pass from one vale of tears to another, first skipping merrily, then trudging dutifully, finally crawling, but someday our troubles end." "Only to begin again, sir." "And so the great wheel of life turns," said Mr. Whitman. "You know, there's a very great Hindu epic called the Mahabarata, and–" "Um," said Milford. "Yes, Wilfrid?" said Mr. Whitman. "Look, Mr., uh, Whitman, I, um, I really have to, um, you know, so if I could just go ahead, you and this gentleman can continue chatting –" "Wow, you really do have to go, don't you, stepping from one foot to another as if you're dancing the Black Bottom." "Yes, I really have to go," said Milford. "I take it you two gentleman are together?" said the thin man at the podium. "Yes, Charles," said Mr. Whitman. "Young Master Williford is with me." "Hello, Mr. Williford," said the man.  "It's Milford, actually," said Milford, "and, look, I really don't mind just going ahead, I see lots of empty urinals in here, so if I could just –" "So would that be one or two urinals?" said the man, glancing from Milford to Mr. Whitman. "Or perhaps a urinal and a stall?" "Make it two urinals, Charlie," said Mr. Whitman, "Adjoining if at all possible." "Of course, Mr. Whitman." There was an engraved service bell on the podium, and the man struck its button smartly with the heel of his hand, the ring echoing through the huge long room. A tiny man in a bellboy's red and black costume with white gloves and cocked cap with a chin strap sauntered up from somewhere. "What's up, boss? Oh, hey, Mr. Whitman, whaddya say, whaddya know?" "As usual I say too much despite knowing too little, Benny," said Mr. Whitman. "And how are you?" "Not too bad, Mr. Whitman, considering I am a midget who works in a men's room reeking with the stench of piss and shit." "Benny!" said the man at the podium. "Language, please!" "Aw, Mr. Whitman don't mind, do ya, Mr. Whitman?" "Not at all," said Mr. Whitman, who was knocking the bowl of his pipe against his knuckles, and letting the ash fall to the tiled floor. "That's what I like about you, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man. "You're a man of the people. Who's your buddy?" "Mumfort, meet Benny." "Hiya, Mumfort," said Benny. "Hi," said Milford, "but, okay, look, everybody, I really have to go, so if you guys don't mind, I think I'll just jump ahead, and –" "Hold your horses, pal," said Benny. He turned to the thin man. "What's the call, boss?" "Two urinals, please, Benny," said the thin man. "Adjoining, if possible," added Mr. Whitman. "Adjoining, Benny," said the thin man. "Two adjoining urinals, coming up!" said the tiny man. Then he turned to Mr. Whitman again. "But how are you, Mr. Whitman? Everything okay?" "Never better," said Mr. Whitman, who had taken his pouch out and was filling his pipe again. "You want to finish packing your pipe first?" "Yes, just give me a moment here," said Mr. Whitman, tamping the gummy mixture with his big index finger. "Take your time, Mr. Whitman," said the tiny man, "I'm here all night." "Really?" said Mr. Whitman. "You like the overnight shift?" "Love it," said the tiny man. "Me, I'm a night owl. Nothing I like better than getting off at seven in the morning, then going down the bar for some scrapple and eggs and home fries, maybe a stack of johnny cakes just the way I like 'em, with a half-dozen thick rashers of extra crisp bacon laid on top and slathered in butter and blackstrap molasses, wash it all down with a schooner or three of cold beer, then go to my trap and sleep like a baby." "Sounds good to me," said Mr. Whitman. He had taken his box of Blue Tip kitchen matches out, but the thin man at the podium beat him to it, taking a wooden match from a small wooden box on the podium, striking it on his thumb, and leaning forward and giving Mr. Whitman a light. "Oh, my God," said Milford. "What's eating you, pal?" said the tiny man. "I just really have to urinate," said Milford. "I'm sorry, but can't I just go ahead and –" "Look, sonny, can't you wait just two seconds till Mr. Whitman gets his pipe lit?" "Okay," said Milford, "fine, I'll wait." "Sheesh," said the tiny man. "Hey, Mr. Whitman, where'd you dig this guy up, anyways, Bellevue or the Tombs?" "Ha ha, neither, my friend, neither," said Mr. Whitman, puffing on his pipe. "He's okay, just a little impatient." "Patience is a virtue," said the tiny man. "So it is," said Mr. Whitman, "so it is." He took the pipe out of his mouth and gazed fondly at it, while slowly exhaling an enormous cloud of sweet thick smoke. "Y'know, Benny, sometimes the old sayings have a lot of truth in them, like for instance, 'All good things come to those who wait.'" "And bad things too, Mr. Whitman," said the little man. "This is true," said Mr. Whitman. "You wait long enough, and not just the good will come, but, yes, the bad as well." "And, if I may dare to interpose," said the tall thin man, who seemed eager to re-enter the conversation, "also the indifferent." "Yes, the indifferent too," said Mr. Whitman. "That too. There's no denying it." "And, again, not that I would claim to be a philosopher," the thin man went on, "but is not the preponderance of life nothing but the indifferent? The humdrum, the repetitive, the dull plodding forward into the great unknown?" "You got something there, boss," said the tiny man. "Like, how many times have I done just what I'm doing now? Walking back and forth to and from this podium, escorting gentlemen to urinals and terlet stalls, whilst passing the time of day with the same old pleasantries and platitudes?" "The same actions, repeated," said the thin man, "the same words spoken, the same thoughts thought, ad infinitum." "Hey, Charles," said Mr. Whitman, with a smile, "I thought you said you were no philosopher!" "Oh, my goodness, Mr. Whitman," said the thin man, "I am just a simple man, but I have plenty of time to think in my profession, to think and to observe, and to ponder." "Um," said Milford. "Look –" "Oh, by the way, Muggles," said Mr. Whitman, "how rude of me. Would you care for another puff or two from the old peace pipe?" "No, thank you." "I think you'll find that the first bowl is good, the second one better, the third, better still, but it is not until the fourth that we begin to reach that state our Buddhist friends call satori." He proffered the pipe to Milford, stem first. "Go ahead, take a good long hit. Take two!" "No thanks, Mr. Whitman –" "'Walt', please," said Mr. Whitman. "I thought we had well gotten beyond this 'mister' honorific." "No, thanks, Walt," said Milford. "It'll always be Mr. Whitman for me," said the tiny man. "I know my place, and I'm happy in it." "So also I," said the thin man. "We all have our places in life." "But I wonder," said Mr. Whitman, "must those places remain set, as in stone?" "That is a question not for such as I to attempt to answer," said the thin man. "Like I said," said the tiny man, "I'm happy in my place." "Oh, my God!" said Milford, again, but this time with an exclamation point. "Don't you want a drag, Mookford?" said Mr. Whitman, who was still proffering the pipe to Milford. "No, thank you," said Milford, "because the thing is, at the risk of sounding tediously repetitive, the thing is, I really, really, really –" "What?" said Mr. Whitman, "because now you 'really' are getting repetitive, with all these reallys, ha ha –" "I just really have to go. Like right now." "Oh," said Mr. Whitman. "Okay." "So can we go now?" said Milford. "Because I really need to pee." "Christ, buddy," said the tiny man. "Don't wet yourself already." "Ha ha. All righty then," said Mr. Whitman. "What do you say, Benny? My friend Mimsley does seem anxious to get going, so shall we set forth?" "I'm ready if you are, Mr. Whitman." "Right then, let's go!" said Mr. Whitman. "Thank God!" said Milford. "God ain't got nothing to do with it," said the little tiny man. Mr. Whitman pursed his lips at this remark, nodding as if thoughtfully, then turned and addressed the thin man at the podium, "Well, on that stoic note, Charles, we will catch you on the return trip." "Right you are, Mr. Whitman," said the thin man at the podium. "Enjoy!" "I'm sure we will," said Mr. Whitman, and to the tiny man, "lead on, Benny, lead on!" The tiny man did a smart about-face, and looking over his shoulder, cried, "Once more unto the breech, fellas!" "Ha ha," said Mr. Whitman again, as if heartily, and, putting his great hand on the small of Milford's back, gave him a shove, and Milford stumbled forward in the footsteps of the tiny man, who was singing  Oh I been a wild rover and I been a bold romancer, and I have wandered all over from Maine to Port-au-Prince, sir! So don't you give me no lip when I leap and cock my hip 'cause I ain't no common chancer but a jolly good buck dancer… The row of urinals seemed endless in this enormous room, and most of them were occupied, but not all, and it seemed the little fellow was attempting to obey his injunction to find two adjoining urinals; Milford decided not to complain for the time being, and concentrated on trying to hold it in.