"Hideaway"

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

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

This episode brought to you by Husky Boy™  cigarettes

"After another full day at the typewriter I look forward to stopping by my 'local' for a relaxing hour (or two) with good friends, good drinks - and a fresh pack of rich and flavorful Husky Boy cigarettes!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery, A Dame Called Mame.   

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As they walked towards the sound of the music, suddenly Mr. Whitman burst again into song. Oh hi ho, the merry-o, the four friends travel on, towards the sound of merriments and joys, of dancing the Black Bottom and the Charleston, girls and boys, girls and girls, and boys and boys! What awaits them in this so-called den of sin? Will they survive until the dawn of day, or will they be found, quite dead and frozen in some snow-choked dockside alleyway? "All right, Walt," said Jelly Roll, turning his head in its porkpie hat, "chill, my man, because we're almost there." "Oh, I will be 'chill', my friend," said Mr. Whitman, "verily like the silvery tops of the mighty Adirondacks in the bracing time of winter solstice –" Jelly Roll stopped, and turned around completely to face Mr. Whitman. "Okay, this is exactly what I'm talking about, Walt. Please do not embarrass my black ass when we get in this place, okay? That's all I'm asking." "But, Jelly Roll," expostulated Mr. Whitman, "am I not allowed to wax poetic – I, a poet?" "He's saying, Walter," said Miss Blackbourne, "just try not to act like a total nincompoop." "Oh," said Mr. Whitman. "Well." "I know it's hard for you, buddy," said Miss Blackbourne, "but make an effort." "That's all I'm asking," said Jelly Roll. "I don't think I'm asking a lot here." "Look at Milford," said Miss Blackbourne. "Who?" said Mr. Whitman. "The boy whose arm you're grappling." "Oh. Merford you mean," said Mr. Whitman. "His name is Milford," said Miss Blackbourne. "It is?" said Mr. Whitman. He turned his great head and looked down at Milford, who was looking at the floor, littered with cigar and cigarette butts, chewing gum wrappers, syringes and used condoms. "Merford, what's your name, my lad?" "Milford," said Milford, glancing up at Mr. Whitman's enormous bearded head in his dashing sweat-stained slouch hat. "But at this point I honestly don't care what you call me." "Well, if Melford really is your appellation, then indeed I should like to call you by your correct and rightful Christian name." "I'm not a Christian," said Milford. "Shall we say then your correct atheist, or theist name then?" "Look," said Miss Blackbourne, "all I'm saying is why can't you take a hint from Milford and just try to rein it in a little." "Just a little, Walt," said Jelly Roll. "Rein it in," said Mr. Whitman. "Yeah, just a little," said Jelly Roll. "Okay," said Mr. Whitman. "I shall try to learn from my friend Megford." "'Cause here's the thing, Walt," said Jelly Roll. "They know me in this place." "Oh, good," said Mr. Whitman. "They know me," said Jelly Roll, "and I got a rep here." "A rep. Like a rep tie?" said Mr. Whitman. "Oh, Christ," said Jelly Roll. "Look, let's go, and everybody just try to be cool, all right?' "And by everybody," said Miss Blackbourne, "he means you, Walter." "Me?" said Mr. Whitman. "Yes, you," said Miss Blackbourne. "Just be cool, Walt," said Jelly Roll. "Do you think you can manage that?" "That depends," said Mr. Whitman. "Define cool." "It means not acting like a jerkoff, Walter," said Miss Blackbourne." "Oh," said Mr. Whitman. "Wow." "Okay, then," said Jelly Roll. "Now that we got that settled, let's go." He turned and started walking down the dim corridor again, and Miss Blackbourne walked with him, slipping her arm into his. "Gee," said Mr. Whitman, in a low voice, to Milford. "Do I really act like a 'jerkoff', Mungford?" Milford sighed, his twelve-thousandth and thirtieth-first sigh since awakening with a sigh the previous morning. "Okay," said Mr. Whitman, "a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse, and sometimes a single sigh says as much as a weighty tome. I shall rely on you, my friend. If I get out of hand, please give me a nudge, a sharp elbow to the ribcage, or a stomp upon my instep with your stout workman's brogans. Will you do that for me?" "Sure, Mr. Whitman," said Milford. "Mr. Whitman was my father, may the great Buddha rest his soul. Please, call me Walt." "Okay, Walt." "Or Walter if you feel a touch of formality is appropriate." "Okay, Walter." "And may I call you Mel?" "What?" "May I call you Mel. Unless of course you prefer your full pantheistic prénom of Melvyn?" "No," said Milford, swallowing a sigh, "Mel is fine." "Splendid. And now let us hie ourselves hence and catch up with Margaret and Jelly Roll." The big poet dragged Milford quickly down the corridor towards the increasingly loud music, and soon they turned a corner and caught up to Miss Blackbourne and Jelly Roll, who had reached a wooden door on which hung a sign with the faded painted legend "THE HIDEAWAY" Leave your cares behind and your bullshit too. Ring the bell and wait. "Did you ring the bell?" said Mr. Whitman. "Yeah," said Jelly Roll. "Ring it again," said Mr. Whitman. "No, once is enough," said Jelly Roll. "I'll ring it again," said Mr. Whitman, and he stepped forward with his finger raised. Jelly Roll grabbed Mr. Whitman's wrist. "Listen, Walt," said Jelly Roll, "I respect you, man, and I consider you my friend. But if you don't cool it we're gonna have a problem." "Ow," said Mr. Whitman, "you really have quite the strong grip, my friend!" "Strong enough to snap your wrist like a twig, big guy." "Okay, okay! Now can I have my wrist back?" "I ain't gonna warn you again, Walt." "Okay, okay, I get it." "Nobody in this joint gives a shit if you're the great American troubadour." "No?" "Far as they're concerned you're just another loudmouthed honky." "Oh." "You get out of line in here, don't count on me to rescue your pasty white butt." "Um," said Mr. Whitman. "So you're gonna be cool?" "Okay, okay, I'll be cool, now please let go of my wrist, Jelly Roll!" Jelly Roll opened his hand and Mr. Whitman pulled his wrist away, rubbing it with his other hand. "Jeeze," he said. Just then the door opened and an enormous black man stood there, dressed in a railroad man's overalls and cap. Behind him swelled and roared music and shouting and laughter. "Jelly Roll," said the man, in a voice like thunder across the mountains and the plains. "John Henry," said Jelly Roll, and the two men shook hands as music and dark laughter and shouting poured and tumbled out into the corridor.

"Four Friends, All Stout and True"

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

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by Husky Boy™  cigarettes

"Whenever I arrive at a moment in my writing when I have absolutely no idea what happens next, my solution is to light up a soothing Husky Boy (by personal preference, the unfiltered King Size), and to allow my mind to go completely blank. One minute later, at maximum ninety seconds, I invariably resume striking my typewriter keys with the most reckless abandon!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Father Mike" mystery, Murder at St Helena's Parish Carnival  

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They were walking down yet another long dim narrow corridor.  Mr. Whitman walked to Milford's left, his brawny arm in Milford's thin arm, pulling him along.  Ahead of them walked Miss Blackbourne and the Negro man called Jelly Roll, and they also walked arm in arm. Mr. Whitman was singing, and his song was thus: Four friends, all stout and true striding along through the hallways of life, they know not wherefore, nor where to, but on they stroll, through peace and strife. Will they find what they are looking for? And will they know it if and when they do? Will they find satori behind that final door, or will they find it leads to another one too? Will they sing yippy-yi-ki-yay, and whoopsie-do, or will they sigh and groan, oh no, not again, as they realize that it matters not what or who, and the time is not now, nor was it even then? Mr. Whitman stopped singing suddenly, and said, "Hey Jelly Roll, you sure you know where we're going?" "Yeah, man," said Jelly Roll, turning his head, "pretty sure. Keep singing, Walt." "I'm just wondering if we might have taken a wrong turning back there." "Maybe," said Jelly Roll, "but don't sweat it, buddy. We're bound to get somewheres sooner or later." "Walt gets nervous when he goes more than five minutes without a drink in his great hairy paw," said Miss Blackbourne. "Ha ha." "I'm not nervous, exactly," said Mr. Whitman, "but I could definitely go for a tankard of hot steaming and fragrant grog, as quaffed by the proud hearty sailors of the Royal Navy, or, alternatively, of a rich strong cold India pale ale, its head foaming over the brim like the waves of my beloved Brooklyn Harbor in a December nor'easter, flooding the quays where the brawny stevedores toil." "Keep your shirt on, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne. "Jelly Roll knows the way, don't you, Jelly Roll?" "Uh, yeah, sure, Miss Margaret," said Jelly Roll. "Okay, here we go." The corridor continued straight ahead, but they had come to another corridor crossing the one they were walking along. "All right," said Jelly Roll. "Let's hold up a minute." They all stopped. "Um," said Milford. "What is it, Mumphrey?" said Mr. Whitman. "It's Milford," said Milford.  "Sorry," said Mr. Whitman. "Milford or whatever, what is it?" "Why are we stopping?" said Milford. "Ask Jelly Roll," said Mr. Whitman. "Why are we stopping, Mr. Jelly Roll?" asked Milford. "I just want to light up another reefer, my man," said Jelly Roll. He showed Milford the fat brown cigarette he held in his brown hand, then he put it in his lips. Miss Blackbourne had just lighted up one of her silver-tipped black cigarettes, and she gave Jelly Roll a light with her slim ebony-enameled lighter. Mr. Whitman took the opportunity to take out his leather pouch and he proceeded to pack the bowl of his pipe. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em, Milford," he said. What could Milford do? He took out his pack of Husky Boys, and soon enough all four of our friends were standing at this shadowed windowless conjunction of corridors, smoking. "Okay," said Jelly Roll, exhaling a great lungful of thick smoke in Milford's direction. "I got a confession to make." "What's that, Jelly Roll?" said Mr. Whitman. "I got absolutely no fucking idea where we are," said Jelly Roll. "Oh, great," said Mr. Whitman. "I knew it." "You knew no such thing, Walter," said Miss Blackbourne. "Okay," said Mr. Whitman, "maybe I didn't know it, Margaret, but I suspected it." "Then why the fuck didn't you speak up when you first suspected it?" "I don't know," said Mr. Whitman. "I didn't want to presume. And, anyway –" "Anyway what?" she said. "I was busy singing my song," said Mr. Whitman. Milford sighed, a cigarette smoke through the nose sigh, his twelve-thousandth and thirtieth sigh since emerging from his dreams the previous morning, into the dream he called life. "You okay, Milford?" said Miss Blackbourne. In answer Milford only sighed again. "Relax, man," said Jelly Roll. "One of these corridors must be the right one." "Or the wrong one," said Miss Blackbourne. "Now, Margaret," said Mr. Whitman, "let's not be pessimistic." He was puffing on his pipe, holding the flame of one of his Blue Tip kitchen matches to the bowl. "I think we make a left here," said Jelly Roll. "You think," said Margaret. "Well, I can't be a hundred percent certain." "We can't be a hundred percent certain about anything in this life," said Mr. Whitman. "Or the next life." He was puffing away on his pipe. "If there is a next life." "This is the next life," said Miss Blackbourne. "Point taken," said Mr. Whitman, after holding in a lungful of smoke for a minute, and then letting it all out in an enormous cloud that enveloped all four friends from head to toe. "What point?" said Jelly Roll, emitting his own enormous cloud of thick sweet smoke. "I forget," said Mr. Whitman. "Fuck it," said Miss Blackbourne, "let's just go." "Which way?" said Mr. Whitman. Without a word Miss Blackbourne headed down the corridor to the left. "Well, I guess we're going that way then," said Jelly Roll, and he followed after Miss Blackbourne. "Let's go, Guilfoyle," said Mr. Whitman, and he took Milford's arm and pulled him along in the footsteps of Miss Blackbourne and Jelly Roll. Mr. Whitman began to sing again: Four friends, one named Walt, one called Jelly Roll, a lad named Gifford, and a lady, Margaret Blackbourne, embarked together on an endless midnight stroll; they knew not why they lived, or why they were born. But on they rambled, arm in arm, down a dim corridor, smoking and talking, together, yes, but also alone, knowing only that the journey led at last to a door behind which lay Kierkegaard's Great Unknown… They walked on.  Eventually Mr. Whitman stopped singing, and they walked in silence. Milford finished his cigarette, and he hated to throw his butts on floors, but there was nothing else to do, and so he flicked his Husky Boy stub away. He noticed that there were lots of other cigarette and cigar ends on the grey unvarnished wood of the flooring, and so he felt slightly less guilty. After several minutes more of silent walking, silent but for the  hollow footsteps of the four companions, Milford heard a faint distant sound. "I think I hear something," he said. "What?" said Mr. Whitman. "I don't know," said Milford. "Wait a minute," said Jelly Roll. "Let's stop."  He cocked his head. "I hear something too," said Miss Blackbourne. "What is it?" said Mr. Whitman. "It's music, man," said Jelly Roll. "I hear music." "Oh, my God," said Milford. "Let's go!" "I told you I knew where we was going," said Jelly Roll. "You didn't know shit, Jelly Roll," said Miss Blackbourne. "But, yes, let's go." "Oh, thank God!" said Mr. Whitman, "or the Buddha, Vishnu, or the Great Spirit of the noble indigenous red man!" And on they went, Miss Blackbourne and Jelly Roll, Mr. Whitman and Milford, down the dim corridor, towards the sounds and vibrations of music, echoing from who knew how far away, but growing louder with each step our four friends took.

“A Man Called Milford"

Another 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

If one must smoke, and apparently one must, one could do far worse than choosing a Husky Boy!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Dame Called Daisy; a Johnny Legato Mystery 

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

Milford lifted the cup of sweet fragrant tea again, and drank, and then he drank again, and once more, and the cup was now empty.  He sighed, his twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-ninth sigh since awakening from a troubled nightmarish sleep the previous morning into a troubled and nightmarish long day and seemingly endless night.  "Walter," said Miss Blackbourne, apparently in response to something Mr. Whitman had said, something Milford hadn't caught because he had a bad habit of not listening to people, "don't you ever get tired of pontificating?" "Ouch!" cried Walt. "Burn!" said the Negro man called Jelly Roll. "Burn, baby, burn!" Milford wondered if he should pour himself another cup of tea from the blue and white teapot.  "Ah, dear Margaret," said Mr. Whitman, "it is an occupational hazard of the poetic sage, this urge to spout wisdom and platitudes." "Spout bullshit you mean," said Miss Blackbourne. "Heh heh," said Mr. Whitman, lifting his tankard to his wet-whiskered lips. "Look at Jelly Roll there," said Miss Blackbourne, "you don't see him going on with all this godhead and brotherhood of man baloney." "Thank you, ma'am," said Jelly Roll. "Murder ballads and cat house cantos are more my style." "That's because you're not full of crap like Walt," said Miss Blackbourne. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Walter, you're a great poet and all that, but Jesus Christ, man, give the fucking pomposity a rest now and then." "I shall try, dear Margaret," said Mr. Whitman, tilting his great hairy head under that slouch hat of his. "It's hard for me, but it's just that I am so overflowing with what the Greeks called agape, that is to say brotherly love, although I suppose there is something to be said for sisterly love as well–" "Can it," she said. "Look at Milford there, he knows how to keep his trap shut." "You mean Mulgrew?" said Mr. Whitman. "I thought it was Milford," said Miss Blackbourne. "I think it's Milltowne," said Jelly Roll. "What's your name, pal?" said Miss Blackbourne, addressing Milford. "What?" said Milford. He was still wondering if he should pour himself some more tea.  "I asked you what your name is," said Miss Blackbourne. Milford wanted more tea, but on the other hand he knew that if he kept on drinking the delicious and restorative tea he would have to go to the men's room again, and he was afraid of going back to that men's room, he was afraid of going to any men's room ever again. "Milford?" said Miss Blackbourne. "Yes?" Milford managed to say. "I asked you a question." "What was it?" "Miss Margaret wants to know what your name is, man," said Jelly Roll. "It's Mulvaney, right?" said Mr. Whitman. "Tell her, Mahoney." "It's not Mulvaney," said Miss Blackbourne. "Nor Mahoney. Milford, if that really is your name, tell us what your name is." "My name?" "Yes," said Miss Blackbourne. "It's a simple question. What's your name?" "I'm pretty sure it's Moxton," said Mr. Whitman. "Or Moxley." "What's your name, man?" said Jelly Roll. Suddenly Milford realized that he couldn't remember his name. What was his name?  "Um," he said. "Uh-oh," said Jelly Roll. "I seen this before." "Um, uh," elaborated Milford. "It's Mulgrave, right?" said Mr. Whitman. "It's not God damned Mulgrave, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne. "Milford, didn't you tell me your name was Milford?" "I, uh," said Milford. "He's too high," said Jelly Roll. "Can't remember his own name. Too much muggles and hash, too many magic mushrooms, too much jimson weed and John the Conqueroo and ayahuasca and laudanum, and probably too much good old-fashioned lush, and now it looks like your special tea just sent him right over the edge. What'd you put in that tea anyway, Miss Margaret?" "It's just plain ordinary Assam tea," she said. "I would never dose someone I'd just met." (Milford suddenly remembered that he had also drunk some sarsaparilla supposedly spiked with ambrosia, the mystical viaticum of the gods, but it seemed too much effort to share this memory with his companions.) Miss Blackbourne reached across the table and touched Milford's hand with the fingers of her hand, the nails of which were long and sharp and painted the color of fresh glistening blood.  "Darling, just tell us your name." "His name is Murgatroyd I think," said Mr. Whitman. "Still thy tongue, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne, and now she touched Milford's cheek, which had grown even more pallid than usual. "What's your name, buddy?" "My name is," said Milford, but then he stopped.  He stood up, almost knocking his chair over, but Jelly Roll grabbed it. "Hey, where you going, McGraw?" said Mr. Whitman. "Sit down, my good man," said Miss Blackbourne. "We only want to know what your name is." "It starts with an M, I'm pretty sure of that," said Jelly Roll. "What about Mulligan?" Milford reached under his peacoat and into the side pocket of his dungarees, brought out his old Boy Scout wallet, and opened it up. "Now what are you doing?" said Miss Blackbourne.  Milford looked into the wallet's compartment where he kept a few cards and scraps of paper, ideas for poems, drafts of suicide notes and such, and there was his library card. He took it out and looked at it. "'Marion Milford,'" he read, aloud. "See, I told you guys," said Miss Blackbourne. "Marion Milford, but he goes by Milford because Marion is a girl's name." Milford sat down again. "Can I see that card?" said Mr. Whitman. Milford handed him the library card, and Mr. Whitman took a pair of wire-rimmed glasses from inside his workman's jacket and put them on, then looked at the card. "Yes, it does say 'Marion Milford'," he said. He looked at Milford over the rims of his glasses. "Is this your library card?" "Um," said Milford. "I mean," said Mr. Whitman, "is it your card and not someone else's, or a forgery perhaps?" "I, I –" said Milford. "Of course it's the boy's card," said Miss Blackbourne. "Why else would he have it in his wallet?" "That's what I'm trying to find out, Margaret," said Mr. Whitman. "Take your time, Mulliford. All we want to know is if this is actually and in truth your own and proper library card." "Yes," said Milford, after only a brief pause. "I think so." "You think so." "Yes. Unless –" "Unless what?" "Unless I dreamt that it's my library card. Unless my whole life has been a dream. Unless I'm in someone else's dream. Unless I'm dreaming what's happening now." "Wow," said Jelly Roll. "That's some heavy ass shit right there." "It's his fucking library card, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne, "now give it back to him before the poor boy loses whatever of his mind he has left." Mr. Whitman looked at the card one more time then proffered it across the table to Milford, who took it and put it back in his wallet. Then he stood up again, almost knocking his chair over again (Jelly Roll grabbing it again), and he put the wallet back into the side pocket of his jeans, and sat down, again. "Milford," said Mr. Whitman, and he took off his glasses. "I told you, Walt," said Miss Blackbourne. "My man Milford," said Jelly Roll. "He knows his own name." "I guess he does, Jelly Roll," said Mr. Whitman. "I'll warrant he does." He folded up his glasses and put them away. "Don't you, Mugford?" "Walter!" said Miss Blackbourne. "Aw, I'm just fucking with the kid, Margaret," said Mr. Whitman. "Come on, let's finish our drinks and blow this popsicle stand." "I'm down with that," said Miss Blackbourne. "Do you want to go somewhere else, Milford?" "Yes," said Milford, because he always wanted to be somewhere else, except when he was in bed. "Do you want another cup of tea first?" "No," he said, and he felt as if he were emerging from a thick fog, out of a dark cobbled alleyway, into a street where there were lights and motors and people and the sounds of laughter and music, a living and sparkling city of night. "Let's just go." "Right, let's roll," said Jelly Roll. "And I know just the place to go." And soon enough our four friends got up from the table and left. And where to?  To another bar, of course.

"Ode to Joy"

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

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by Husky Boy™  cigarettes

"People often ask me how I can write so prolifically, and the answer is quite simple: I light up a Husky Boy, and out of that rich fragrant smoke come dreams, and all I need do is transcribe these dreams to paper." – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Let Us Now Praise Unknown Men: 23 Stories of the Streets

for previous story, click here

to begin series, click here

Out of the thickly falling midnight snow and into Ma's Diner came Gerry "the Brain" Goldsmith, the gentleman philosopher.  The usual assortment of stumblebums and bindlestiffs sat at the booths and the counter, and down there in the middle perched on a stool was Smiling Jack. Gerry brushed some snow off his old camel's hair chesterfield, took off his twenty-eight-year-old fedora and flapped it against his side, loosened his frayed and worn Andover rowing-team muffler, and then went over to where Smiling Jack sat. "Hello, Jack, anyone sitting here?" "Why, no," said Jack, smiling, "take a seat, my friend!" Gerry took the seat. Yes, Smiling Jack was alive, hale and hearty as ever. The remains of what looked like corned beef hash and eggs were on a plate before him, and Jack had just lighted up a cigarette with a match torn from a book on which were printed the words  MA'S DINER Where the Food Could Not Be Finer The matchbook reminded Gerry of the Zippo lighter in his pocket, the lighter he had taken from one of Smiling Jack's pockets, along with a pack of Luckies and nine dollars and seventy cents, when, less than an hour ago, he had found Jack's frozen body leaning up against a streetlight pole, Smiling Jack lifeless but still smiling, the blank eyes slightly open, the eyelashes crusted with ice.  Gerry reached into his coat pocket and brought out the Zippo. "I say, Jack, look what I found just inside the doorway." "A lighter?" "Yes. A Zippo." "So it is –" "Don't you own a Zippo?" "I do, yes, but somehow I lost it tonight." "Maybe this is your lighter, Jack." "I suppose it might be." "Here, take it." "Oh, but it could be anyone's lighter." "Most likely it's yours." "But you found it, Gerry. You should keep it." "I want you to have it, Jack. Something tells me it's yours." "What do you mean by something?" said Smiling Jack, who believed as a matter of principle in a higher power. "It's just a feeling," said Gerry. "Ah, but one thing we learn in the program, Gerry, is that feelings are not facts." "In this case I think my feeling is a fact, Jack." "But how can you be sure?" Ma was standing there behind the counter listening to all this. "Oh, hello, Ma," said Gerry. "I wonder if I could have a cup of your most excellent chicory coffee, and as well I think I'll go for–" he glanced at the bill of fare posted on the blackboard up on the facing tiled wall, "oh, I suppose I'll go for the All Day Deluxe Breakfast, with eggs sunny side, scrapple and home fries, please." "You got it, Mr. Goldsmith," said Ma, and she went away. Gerry turned back to Smiling Jack, and held out the Zippo. "Please take the lighter, Jack." Jack took the lighter and examined it. "Y'know, it does somehow look like my lighter." Ma came back with a cup and saucer in one hand and a coffee pot in the other. She filled the cup for Gerry, and topped off Smiling Jack's cup. "Finished with your breakfast, Mr. Jack?"  "Yes, Ma," said Smiling Jack, "thank you very much, it was excellent. Ma took away the plate, and Jack flicked back the cap of the lighter and thumbed the wheel, and a vibrant blue and yellow flame emerged. "Strange," he said, shutting the cap, "but it even feels like my lighter."  "I want you to have it," said Gerry. "Well, only if you insist," said Jack. "It's funny, but not only did I somehow lose my lighter tonight, but I thought I had some money in my wallet, and some change in my pocket, but when I came in here it was all gone. I also had somehow lost a pack of Luckies I was sure I had. Fortunately for me, Ma let me have a meal on credit, and she even lent me a quarter for a pack of Luckies." "Ma is a very good person," said Gerry. "She is indeed," said Smiling Jack. "A living saint." "Yes," said Gerry.  Ma would never go through the pockets of a man she found frozen to death leaning up against a light pole in a raging blizzard. And then head directly to the nearest bar. Gerry added sugar to his coffee from the dispenser, and milk from the little metal pitcher, then stirred it all up, and sipped. He still owed Smiling Jack nine dollars and seventy cents, as well as a pack of Lucky Strikes, but all in good time, if the universe granted him the time. But here's what he would do, what he should do. As usual he had blown through his monthly remittance before the end of the month, but what he would do, tomorrow he would look for a transit authority token in the little tray where he kept pennies and nickels and sometimes even dimes on the little table by the door of his room, and he would go out into the cold and the snow and take the subway up to 52nd Street and the offices of Goldstein, Goldberg and Gold, and he would ask Mr. Goldstein for a modest advance, fifteen or twenty dollars. Then he would just have to find a subtle way to get the nine dollars and seventy cents to Smiling Jack, without admitting of course that he had lifted that amount from the frozen Jack's pockets. No, make it an even ten dollars, because he had also taken that pack of Luckies… In the meantime all he could do was to sit here and talk with Smiling Jack, as insanely boring as the man was. This would be his penance, and when Jack inevitably offered him one of his anti-alcoholism pamphlets (Are You a Drunkard?) from his leather satchel, he would say yes, thank you very much, Jack. Which wasn't to say he would actually read the thing, but he would take it, because it was the least he could do, the very least.  Jack had been talking, but what was he saying? It didn't matter, people had to talk, some more than others, and Jack seemed to love to talk more than most, perhaps it was his way of proving to himself that he was still alive, or at any rate not dead and in the ground, not yet anyway.  And then Ma was there, laying down that great warmed plate of food, the eggs glistening with butter like two suns, the smells of the spiced potatoes and the scrapple and the eggs and butter uniting in a symphony, or, if not a symphony, an ode, an ode to joy.