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
"Ring it again," said Mr. Whitman.
"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."
"You get out of line in here, don't count on me to rescue your pasty white butt."
"Um," said Mr. Whitman.
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.
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