"Look at That Kid Go"

Yet 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 Company

"The first thing I do when preparing to dream up a new novel or play is to light up a fine Husky Boy cigarette, and after a few languid puffs my fingers start dancing upon my typewriter's keyboard with the utmost abandon!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Father Mike" mystery The Questionable Demise of Sister Mary Frances

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"Oh my fucking God," said Miss Blackbourne, "will you look at that kid go." They were all looking at Milford, apparently dancing the Black Bottom. "Unbelievable," said Jelly Roll. "He certainly looks as if he's having a good time," said Walt. Milford had divested himself of his peacoat and his thick ribbed fisherman's sweater, and was down to his workman's chambray shirt and dungarees. He still wore his floppy newsboy's cap. He danced with the stub of Jelly Roll's "special" reefer smoking in his lips, and Miss Alcott danced with him, albeit less energetically. Milford had never known such ecstasy. "Of course you haven't," said the voice of Stoney, his alter ego, in the caverns of his head. "You've never known any sort of ecstasy." "But you forget masturbation," replied Milford, silently. "Good point," said Stoney, "but, let's face it, la petite mort of masturbatory orgasm is all-too-brief, whereas you have been in this current state of – shall we say – jouissance, for a good ten minutes now." "I want it never to end," said Milford to his invisible self. "Well, let's not get carried away now," said Stoney. Milford became aware that Miss Alcott had shouted something to him through the music. "What?" he shouted back. "I said what are you thinking about!" she shouted. "Oh!" shouted Milford in return. "I was thinking that I am in a state of ecstasy and I want it never to end!" She shouted something, but he couldn't catch it. "Pardon me?" he shouted. "I said you're an idiot!" she shouted back. John Henry had guided Addison to a small table where Mistress Bradstreet and Mrs. Stowe sat with another lady. "Well," said Mistress Bradstreet to Addison, "you finally found us." "Oh, I think you'll find I can be quite persistent," said Addison. "Oh, I'm sure you can be," said Mistress Bradstreet. "Hey, Emily," said Mrs. Stowe to the other lady at the table, "meet our new friend Hardiman." "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Harpyman," said Emily, putting down a cigarette and extending her hand over the table. Addison took her lily white hand in his, bending forward slightly. "Very pleased to meet you, Miss Emily," he said. "Harkerman is a passing unusual name," said Emily. "Alas, it is not in point of fact my name," said Addison, still lightly touching her fingers. "Not to be pedantic, but my friends call me Addison." "Whatever your name is," said Mistress Bradstreet, "if you're going to join us, then let go of Emily's delicate little paw and sit the hell down and stop hovering over the table." There was an empty fourth chair, opposite Miss Emily's chair, and in between Mistress Bradstreet on the left and Mrs. Stowe on the right, and Addison sat down in it. "Well," said John Henry, who was still standing there, and who had just lighted up an enormous cigar, "now that we got all that straightened out, you want a drink, man?" "Ah, yes, a drink," said Addison, "it's funny you should mention that, because I just left a strange little chap who gave me a certain large pill, and when I swallowed it all the alcohol disappeared from my corporeal host, and so, for the first time in almost two decades I am completely sober, except I had just smoked a rather large marijuana cigarette that Mistress Bradstreet gave me, and so I am indeed still rather what the 'hepcats' I believe call 'high'." "Hey, look, daddy-o," said John Henry, "I didn't ask you for your unabridged autobiography, all I asked you was do you want a drink. It's a yes or no question, and then we can proceed from there." "I wonder do you carry Rheingold beer?" said Addison. "We do indeed," said John Henry. "Draft or bottle, we got both." "I shall have a draft then," said Addison, "in the largest receptacle available, if you please." "I'll bring you a pitcher and an empty glass." "You are too kind, Mr. Henry. Also, bring the ladies a round of whatever they're drinking. Oh, wait. I only have ten dollars. Will that cover a round?" "A pitcher's only a dollar," said John Henry, "and the cocktails the ladies are drinking only cost two bits apiece. I'll send Polly Ann over with the beverages, and she can run down our food specials for you." "Thank you, Mr. Henry," said Addison, but the big man had already turned away, his enormous legs devouring a yard of space with each manly stride. It occurred to Addison that perhaps he had landed in heaven, or in some place very much like heaven, and, indeed, perhaps better. He took a drag of his Chesterfield. Off to his left dancers danced to a small but loud combo, and among them who should he see but his friend, or should he say "friend", Milford, the supposedly reformed young alcoholic. The fellow danced frenetically, even spastically, his face gleaming with sweat, and dancing with him, or at any rate near him, was a woman in 19th century garb. Milford looked like a jackass dancing that way, but, it occurred to Addison, the fellow looked like a jackass normally, and who was such a one as he to be judgmental anyway?  "Pray, Mr. Appletree," said the woman who had been introduced as Emily, "are you by chance a member of the noble fraternity of poets?" "Alas, no," said Addison, not bothering to inform her that his name was not Appletree, "I am rather a member of the perhaps not so noble fraternity of scribes of epic novels of the old west." "Oh, how fascinating," said Emily, and Addison thought, well, if things didn't work out with either Mistress Broadstreet or Mrs. Stowe, perhaps they would with this Emily. "And may I ask," he said, "are you a member of that noble, and, yes, sacred fraternity, or, I should say, sorority, of poetesses?" "In my humble way, I like to think so," she said. "I should love to read some samples of your work," said Addison. "That would be very kind of you, sir," said Emily, "and perhaps you could tell me if my verses breathe." "Oh, I'm sure they do," said Addison. "Oh my God," said Mistress Bradstreet. "In heaven," said Mrs. Stowe, "or, as the case may be, in hell." The music swelled and roared, the dancers stomped and whirled, and among them, in his euphoria, Milford caught a glimpse of his friend, or "friend", Addison, sitting at a table with three women. Strangely, his heart went out to the man, he knew not why.

" Fare Thee Well, Bold Traveler!"

Yet 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 Company

"Nine out of ten licensed physicians say that if one must smoke, one could do far worse than a Husky Boy!" – Horace P. Sternwall, your host of The Husky Boy Television Theatre; this week's episode: Mr. Sternwall's "Midnight Bus to Tuscaloosa", starring Ida Lupino and Robert Ryan

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At once Addison felt the great change within. Whereas a moment ago every cell in his body had been pickled in alcohol, every corpuscle and every ragged nerve, now all these elements comprising his physical being were in their millions and in their totality as pure as a newborn baby's. "Wow," he said. "Pretty nice, hey, my lad?" said the little man called Bowery Bert. "Well, it's certainly unusual," said Addison. "Normally to reach this state you'd have to spend a good solid month or two in one of them fancy upstate alcy farms that the rich souses go to." "I feel – how shall I put this – full of beans." "It ain't beans you're full of. It's all that alcohol you ain't full of." "I still feel slightly odd though." "Odd like how." "Like I'm floating, and as if my perception of both the inner and outer worlds is both magnified and yet somehow vague." "Was you smoking reefer?" "Why, yes, in fact I was! You see, that lady Anne gave me one, and –" "That explains it. That pill I give you is only good for the lush. Which means you ain't drunk anymore, but you're still stoned on the maryjane." "Oh, okay." "But I'll let you in on a little secret. The maryjane is quite harmless as long as you don't operate heavy machinery." "Well, with the exception of my trusty old Hermes Baby typewriter, I don't operate any sort of machinery, neither light or heavy." "This is good. But just be careful when you're crossing a street you don't have your head in cloud cuckoo land and walk in front of a bus." "I shall try not to." "Okay, well, you're on your own now, pal. This is the first second of the rest of your life, so what you do now is entirely up to you." "Um, okay." "I'll catch you later, my man. And if I don't see you round, I'll see you square." "Heh heh." "Fare thee well, bold traveler!" The little man touched his cap, turned, and walked briskly away back down the narrow dim corridor. How very odd. Had what happened actually happened? Or, had Addison imagined the entire episode?  What was he doing here, anyway, in this dim narrow corridor? And then he remembered. He had been on his way to have a drink with those two ladies, Anne and Hattie.  They had gone off in the opposite direction from the one Bowery Bert had taken. Addison turned, pricking up his ears. He couldn't see the ladies, but very faintly he heard the sound of their clacking heels, and the flute-like music of their voices. The call of womanhood. Oh, sure, he could follow in Bowery Bert's footsteps, find a way out of this strange place (but weren't all places strange?), make his way back to his room at Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern's tenement house at Bleecker and the Bowery, get undressed and go to bed, have his first sober sleep since he was seventeen years old, and wake up presumably fresh as a daisy, rested and refreshed, ready to dive into his epic novel of the old west, sure, he could do that, that could very easily be done…  But when had he ever taken the easy route? Since that first moment when he had been pulled, kicking and screaming from his mother's womb, when had he ever taken the easy way?  No, the easy way was not for such as he.  Let his way be the way he had always taken, the hard way, even if it led to a lonely death frozen in some alleyway, covered with piss-stained sooty snow; it might be the wrong way, but, hang it all, it was his way. And, besides, when it came right down to brass tacks, he really could go for a drink right now, even if it were only a glass of Rheingold.  And then there was the question of the women – not just one, but two women, and attractive ones to boot! Oh, sure, maybe they weren't on the level of the Betty Grables and Ann Sheridans of the world, but, let's face it, Addison himself was no John Payne or Dane Clark himself, so who was he to be choosy? Who knew when an opportunity like this should present itself again? Never? True, there was always Bubbles, dear Bubbles, who some hallowed day might possibly allow him to join with her in full sexual congress, for a modest fee of course, but Bubbles was presumably sleeping now, and any possible makings of the beast with two backs with her remained solidly in the future, whereas this moment was now. Suddenly he realized that he could no longer hear the clacking of the ladies' heels, nor the faint trilling of their voices. Enough dithering! Determined, he set forth down the dim narrow corridor in the direction the ladies had gone. If he hurried perhaps he could catch up to them. And if he did catch up to them, what then? No one knew the answer to that question, perhaps not even that great popular novelist in the sky. On he hurried, his feet barely touching the boards of the floor, and the corridor turned and went on in dimness, and on Addison went down it. He couldn't see where it led, and beyond was only increasing darkness, a darkness that greyed into dimness as he approached it, with yet more dimness and darkness beyond. He came after five minutes to a bare wall, with two corridors going to the right and to the left. Which one had the ladies taken? He stopped and sniffed, to the right, to the left, and it seemed to him that the corridor on the right bore the faintest scent of femininity. He went that way. Maybe it was the wrong way. There was only one way to find out. Addison floated down the dim narrow corridor, his feet now not even touching the floorboards, on he floated, being careful not to bump into the walls. After a minute or two he heard the faint sounds of music, and still he floated onward, the music growing less faint, and after another minute he heard beneath the music the faint babble of human voices.  He found himself standing before a door on which hung a sign with the faded hand-painted legend "THE HIDEAWAY" Leave your cares behind and your bullshit too. Ring the bell and wait. Well! He had no idea if this was where Hattie and Anne had gone, but he knew one thing, and that was that this looked like his kind of place. After less than half a minute he found a door button, and he pressed it.  He then realized that he couldn't even remember when he had last smoked a cigarette (a non-reefer cigarette anyway), and a quick patting of his pockets discovered a pack of Chesterfields and a book of Bob's Bowery Bar matches. He lighted up, fully enjoying that ecstasy one unfailingly experienced when lighting up a smoke after neglecting to do so for half an hour. He waited, enjoying his Chesterfield. Should he press the button again? No, no need to be importunate. Nevertheless, when the cigarette was halfway smoked he was mulling pressing the button again when the door opened and a huge Negro man stood there, dressed in faded denim overalls and a floppy cap. Behind him roared and swelled music and shouting and laughter. "What the fuck do you want, cracker?" "Good evening, sir," said Addison. "They call me Addison, and I am in search of two ladies, named Anne and Hattie." The huge man looked at Addison. "You ain't much, are you?" "No, sir," said Addison. "But what I am is indubitably me, with all my faults, and they are many. Nonetheless, I am doomed for a lifetime to this flawed personality and unprepossessing corporeal host, and I try to make the best of it, which is not saying much, but which is all I can and will say." The big man paused for a moment, as behind him the music and the babbling roared enticingly. "All right," he said, at last, "Miss Hattie and Miss Annie said some sad-ass looking son-of-bitch who talks like an idiot might come looking for them, and I thought they said his name was Harrington, but I guess it's you." "Yes, c'est moi," said Addison, "and what after all is a name? But may I know your name, good sir?" "They call me John Henry." "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Henry," said Addison, and he extended his hand. The large black man named John Henry looked at Addison's thin bony hand, and, after another pause, and sighing, he took it in his own enormous hand, taking care not to reduce the white man's hand to a bloody shapeless pulp.

"The Pill"

Yet another true tale of  la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

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

This episode made possible by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"I should like to draw your attention to the newest addition to the Husky Boy family of fine tobacco products: Husky Boy's 'Big Boy' Super King Size cigarettes, now available unfiltered or with our patented Cork Tip!" – Horace P. Sternwall, your host of The Husky Boy 'Big Boy' Radio Hour; this week's episode, Mr. Sternwall's "Cast Not Aspersions Upon the Damned", starring Dane Clark and Hyacinth Wilde 

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And so they drifted along between dull brown distempered walls, arms in arms, what was left of Addison's reefer still hanging on his lips, while the two ladies continued to pass back and forth what was left of their own reefer. Addison had the distinct impression that he was floating, and that the ladies too were floating. His feet not only felt far away, they felt as if they belonged to someone else, or to no one. The ladies were talking, but Addison heard only words with no meaning; so often in his life had it been thus, and did it really matter after all what anyone said? So many billions, trillions of words, trillions upon trillions since the day when man first spoke, and what was that first word?   He experienced a burning sensation on his lips, and felt compelled to say, the words oozing like honey from his lips, "I wonder, dear ladies, if I might free one of my arms?" "What did you say?" said Anne. "Sounded like he said, 'Muh muh, muh muh, muh muh,'" said Hattie. "Mm, mm," said Addison. "Oh, he wants to remove the muggles from his lips," said Anne, and she let go of his arm. Addison brought his freed right hand up to his lips and removed the stub of cigarette before he could be seriously burned. "Ah, thank you," he said, feeling his feet rise six inches higher from the floor.  "Here, give me that roach," said Anne, and when Addison stared at her blankly, she elucidated, "the butt of your reefer, you square." Addison did as he was enjoined and watched, fascinated, as the lady opened the embroidered purse hanging from her shoulder, brought out an old Bayer aspirin tin, rubbed out the end of the reefer on its lid, opened the tin, and dropped the end into it, in which he saw many other crumpled butts, or "roaches" if you will. "Waste not want not," said the lady Anne. "Such a thrifty puritan you are, Annie," said Hattie.  "Yeah," said Anne. "Better give me that roach too, Hattie, if you're done with it." Hattie gave Anne the stub of the reefer the ladies had been sharing, and Anne put it into the aspirin tin as Addison continued to float in mid-air. "How are you feeling, Pattison?" she said, clicking the tin shut with a dithering snapping sound that struck Addison to the core of his being. "I feel," said Addison, as the aspirin tin's snapping-shut sound reverberated through his being, and then he said nothing. "Take your time," said Anne. "I feel like," he said, and then said nothing, if one can be said to say nothing. "Don't rush it, Polkington," said Hattie. "I thought his name was Pattinson," said Anne. "What's your name, pal?" said Hattie. "It begins with a P, doesn't it?" Once again no words escaped Addison's lips. "He's really high," said Anne. "Hey, man, we just want to know your name," said Hattie. "It can't be that difficult a question." "I think he's one of these guys for whom all of life is a difficult question," said Hattie. "May I be of some assistance, ladies?" said a tiny man who came abreast of them from behind. He was shabbily dressed, with thick round eyeglasses, a newsboy's cap, and a furled torn umbrella. He carried a smoking butt of a cigarillo in his tiny hand. "We're okay," said Anne. "It's just that our friend here is really high and can't remember his name." "His name is something no one knows," said the small man. "But he is known as Addison." Addison looked down at the little man, who now stood before him. At last, someone he knew! Or sort of knew, in that vague way one drunkard knew other drunkards. How many times had he seen this fellow perched on a stool at Bob's Bowery Bar with all the other usual degenerates? "Hello," said Addison. "Good to see ya, Addison," said the little man, and he extended his small grubby hand, which Addison graciously took, bending forward slightly because of the twelve-inch difference in their respective heights. "And you, too, uh, Bill? Biff? Bud?" "Keep going, Addison, my boy, you've almost got it –" "Bert?" "Bingo!" "Sorry I didn't get it on the first try." "I don't blame you, my boy. It is my lot on this planet to be one of the amorphous nameless masses. But, Addison, would you do me the honor of introducing me to your attractive lady friends?" "Yes, of course, Bill, I mean Bert, this is –" after only the briefest delay the names tumbled forth from the chaos of his mind, "Mistress Bradstreet, and Mrs. Stowe. Mistress Bradstreet and Mrs. Stowe, please meet my friend, uh –"  "Bert," said the little fellow. "Bert," repeated Addison. The little man bowed to the ladies in turn.  "It is my great pleasure, Mistress Bradstreet and Mrs. Stowe," said Bert. "Just call me Anne," said Mistress Bradstreet. "And you may call me Hattie," said Mrs. Stowe. "And, please, call me Bert," said Bert. "My full appellation is 'Bowery Bert', but for brevity's sake Bert will do." "No last name, Bert?" said Anne. "No, just Bowery Bert, the first name being a descriptive, and the second being my Christian name." "So your second name is your first name?" said Hattie. "In a very real sense, yes," said Bowery Bert. "You see, I am called Bowery Bert because for many years the environs on either side of a mile-long stretch of that noble thoroughfare have been my bailiwick, my stomping grounds so to speak." "How many years?" asked Anne. "This coming February it will be one hundred and twenty-one years." "My goodness! You must be quite old!" "I am, in fact, in earthly years, three thousand years, three months, three weeks, and three days young." "You don't look a day over a hundred," said Anne. "Thank you for the compliment," said the little man. "I try and stay in good shape. Every morning I do a complex series of oriental abdominal exercises, and every day I walk no less than twenty-five miles up and down the Bowery." "So you're quite the fixture over there," said Hattie. "Indeed," said Bert. "The inhabitants of those wretched streets and alleyways may not know me by name, but they know me by sight." "So what brings you way out to this part of town?" asked Anne. The little man pointed to Addison with his thumb. "This guy," he said. "Atkinson?" "Addison, actually," said Bert. "Sorry, Addison," said Anne. She addressed Addison. "Sorry, Hatcherman." "But, but," Addison managed to blurt. "Just kidding," said Anne. "Addison." Addison suddenly felt a desire to lie down somewhere and sleep. "Time enough for that, my boy," said Bert. "You'll get all the sleep you want when you're dead. Which, from the way you've been going, could be any day now, perhaps even any minute." "Reading his thoughts, eh, Bowery Bert?" said Hattie. "Yes, ha ha," said Bert. "Of course as a novelist yourself you are well acquainted with the practice." "Yeah, you couldn't fool me, my man," said Hattie. "Well, look," said Anne, "not to break up this happy confabulation, but are we going to get those drinks, or what? If there's one thing I've never been able to handle too much of, it's these random conversations when you run into someone when you're on the way to somewhere and you stand around talking absolute shite for a half hour for no good reason." "It does get tedious," said Hattie. "I mean, I realize that the conversations you're bound to get when you get where you're going tend not to be anything to write home about either, but I'd rather be sitting comfortably with a drink in front of me than standing here in this dim narrow corridor with the spiderwebs hanging from the cracked ceilings." "Yeah, so, nice meeting you, Bert," said Hattie. "But we're going to be moving along. You coming, Alderman?" "I, uh," said Addison, he looked down at the little man. What could he say, he wanted to go with the women. "Yes." "But first may I have the briefest of words with friend Addison?" said Bowery Bert. "Okay, look," said Anne, "you two stand here and chat all you like, but Hattie and I are going to go." "I shall only detain Addison for half a minute," said Bowery Bert. "Great," said Anne. "Then he should easily be able to catch up." "Yeah, just follow the clacking sound of our wooden heels," said Hattie. And with that the two women joined arms and headed down the corridor, their wooden heels clacking as advertised. "I know you want to join them, Addison, and I don't blame you," said Bert. "So I shall make this brief. Take this pill." He held out a large off-white pill in the palm of his small hand. "What is it?" said Addison. "It's a special pill. Swallow it right down and for probably the first time in your adult life all the alcohol will be voided from your corporeal host." "Gee."  "In other words you will be sober." "Wow." "This is your chance to start from scratch again. Continue to live in sobriety, to a ripe old age, or keep up the way you're going and wake up tomorrow frozen dead under a pile of freshly fallen snow in some alleyway. Go ahead, take it. Not every dipso gets a second chance like this, but I like you." Addison picked up the pill out of Bert's hand, which did not look very clean. He looked at the pill. "So I just swallow it?" "Yes, just swallow it down." "I wish I had a glass of water." "Well, you don't, so just toss it back. Pretend it's a shot of cheap whiskey." "Well, okay." This is me, thought Addison, I've never been able to say no, to either the good or the bad in life, and he popped the big pill into his mouth and managed to gulp it down.