"Over the Edge"

Another 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's Foundation for the Propagation of the Uncommercial Arts

"Whenever in my daily writing I find myself facing the metaphorical and seemingly unscalable 'brick wall' of thwarted creativity, I simply sit back, light up a Husky Boy, and, well before I have finished my smoke, I find myself again tapping merrily away on the old typewriter!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery The Dame With No Name 

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No one stopped them from leaving, no one cared if they left or if they stayed. "It's like life," said Milford, as they approached the door.  "What is?" said Addison, prepared to be bored. "No one cares if we live or die, and no one cares if we leave this place or if we stay until we're as old as all these old wrecks in here." Addison made no reply to this. His mind was still on the Falstaff beer and the shot of Cream of Kentucky he had never gotten. They came to the door, Milford opened it, waved Addison through, and followed.  Outside in the dim hallway they stood, smoking. "Okay, here's the plan," said Addison. "A plan?" "We pick a random direction, and the first bar we reach, we go in and have a shot and a beer." "What about getting back to that Negro bar and the ladies?" said Milford. "Oh, I assure you, mon pote, I haven't forgotten about that place, and of course those delightful ladies, heh heh. But I just think we should stop into the first bar we see even if it's not the Negro bar and have a beer, a beer and a shot. Sort of get our bearings and then set out anew, rested and refreshed." "Once again, Addison, you forget, or disregard the fact, that I am a recovering alcoholic." "Then just have a beer, old chap. A beer hardly counts. A beer is nothing." "I'll have a ginger ale." "Splendid," said Addison. "Ginger ale, a most noble beverage." "Although I suppose it doesn't really matter at this point," said Milford, "since I've already had whiskey, wine, and beer, and grog laced with rum, not to mention sarsaparilla infused with ambrosia – the supposedly legendary food of the ancient Greek gods – as well as having smoked marijuana and hashish and eaten the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians." "Then a beer is okay," said Addison. "In fact it might even be recommended at this point." "But what really put me over the edge were these hand-rolled cigarettes that this Negro fellow Jelly Roll gave me." "Do you have any left?" "I don't think so." "Would you mind checking?" "If you insist." "I'm only curious." Milford put his cigarette in his lips and put his hand in the side pocket of his pea coat. He came out with a fat hand-rolled cigarette. "I had no idea I still had one of these," he said. "I wonder if Jelly Roll stuck it in there surreptitiously?" "Perhaps he did," said Addison. "Giving you one in reserve, like a good fellow. Shall we smoke it?" "Addison, I just told you that it was one of these that put me over the edge." "And yet here you stand, hale and hearty." "That's only because I've been running around being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty douchebags, and the effect has been sweated out of me." "Can I smoke it?" "Be my guest, I don't want it." "Are you sure?" "Positively. But I warn you, if you smoke it, you too might go over the edge." "What's in it?" "if I recall correctly, it's Bull Durham tobacco, mixed with Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum." "I don't know what any of that is except for the laudanum, which quite frankly I've always wanted to try." "Here, help yourself." Milford proffered the fat hand-rolled cigarette, and Addison took it, and looked at it. "I feel rather like Keats's Cortez," he said, "staring with his eagle eyes at the Pacific with a wild surmise." He tossed away his Chesterfield, which he had smoked down to a stub anyway. Milford walked over to where the still-smoking butt lay and ground it out with the sole of his stout workman's brogan. Then he realized that he had smoked his own Husky Boy down almost to its end, and so he dropped it to the floor and ground it out also. When he looked up, Addison had just lighted up the hand-rolled cigarette with one of his paper matches.  "Rather an interesting flavor, and aroma," said Addison, exhaling, and flicking away his match. "Musky, with notes of old leather and dried apple." "I think you're supposed to hold the smoke in for a while," said Milford. "Indeed? For how long?" "For as long as you can stand." "Thanks for the tip, old boy." Addison took another drag and held it in, while Milford walked over and stepped on the match Addison had just tossed to the floor, even though the match was extinguished, but he couldn't help himself. And why? Was he not able to control these absurd compulsions? Was he not able to control anything in his life? He glanced over at Addison, who was holding his breath, and Milford didn't know why, but he walked over and took the cigarette from Addison's fingers and took a great drag on it himself, ignoring or not caring about the end moistened with Addison's spittle, and so the two companions stood there, eyes wide open, holding in the smoke, and after a minute Addison exhaled, followed shortly by Milford, their two clouds of smoke mingling and merging in the still indoor air. "Ah," said Addison. "Yes," said Milford. "Ah." "Shall we take another drag each?" "Why not?" What did it matter? What did anything matter? They stood there, passing the cigarette back and forth, luxuriating in the madness they were submitting themselves to, in the strange ecstasy of the madness, feeling if not happy then indifferent to everything but this moment which seemed to stretch on forever, and not only forever but into the past and into a present which existed both in the future and the past, in some realm beyond time. And, in time, if there was such a thing as time, five minutes later, or five years later, they had smoked the cigarette down to a nubbin, a red glowing nubbin in which was contained all the universe.  Addison stubbed out the nubbin on a button of his coat sleeve, and then dropped it into a side pocket of his top coat. It seemed somehow disrespectful just to toss the butt to the floor, and, besides, he thought, perhaps he could chew on it later, slowly, and then swallow it, and then this feeling he now felt would blossom forth from within himself to outside himself and he would become one with all the universe. Without a word the two friends then floated randomly in one direction down the hallway, and on they floated, saying nothing, there was nothing to say, there was everything to say, and they turned a corner and came to a dark passage which they entered into without fear, and they floated through the darkness until the darkness grew less dark and then was replaced by dimness and still onward they floated. Would they come to some sort of edge, or ledge, beyond which was a black and bottomless abyss, and if they did come to such an edge, or ledge, would they float over it, and then what would happen?  They didn't know.  And on they floated.

"The Meaning of Life"

Yet 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 the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Is there a feeling more sublime than that produced by the day's first luxurious drag of a cigarette? Not if it's a Husky Boy!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Annals of the Damned, Vol. V: The Little Cobbler's Shop on the Corner

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"Let us start with Mr. Charrington," the tiny old man said to Addison. "Me?" said Addison. "Yes, please. Tell me of your life, such as it has been, not forgetting your hopes, your dreams, and of course your accomplishments." "Well," said Addison, "for starters, I'm afraid my name isn't Charrington." "Then may I ask why you said that it was?" "Well, you see, I didn't actually say my name was Charrington, sir." "Please, call me Happy, Mr. 'Charrington'." "Happy," said Addison. "That's better. So, you say your name is not really Chaffington. But I gather that is the name which you are, as they say, 'operating under'." "Well, no, not actually –" "Oh, I get it now." "You do?" "There's just something about your demeanor, your manner of speaking and your mode of dress. Am I wrong in guessing that you are a literary man, sir?" "No," said Addison, "on that point I do plead guilty." "A novelist, I daresay!" "Yes, for my sins." "I knew it! As soon as I saw that rumpled and worn flannel suit and the fedora looking like it's been through a war, I said to myself, 'Happy,' I says, 'there is a novelist if there ever was one!'" "You have a most discerning eye, Happy," said Addison. "Bleary my eye may be," said the old fellow, "clouded and cataracted and occluded with glaucoma as well, but I can still tell a novelist from any common chancer or pool parlour jackanapes. Chalk it up to a long lifetime, rich with experience and the observation of and intercourse with – I speak of social intercourse, not sexual, not that I am prejudiced against chaps of a bent bent, mind you – mankind. And also, to an admittedly lesser extent, womankind." "Um," said Addison. "And so we have established then that you are indeed a novelist and that Chadsworth is the latter part of your nom de plume. But what is the first and perhaps also middle part of it? I ask so that I may look for your works at my favorite bookshop." "Um, uh, Bertram Collingswood," said Addison. "So your full pen name is Bennett Coleman Hapsworth?" "Yes," said Addison. "And is there any particular favorite of your novels that you would suggest that I read?" "Yes," said Addison. "You might want to try The Diary of an Illiterate, Volume One." "Diary of an Inveterate Anglican?" "Yes," said Addison. "So it is a religious work." "Somewhat, yes," said Addison. "Although I would call it more a philosophical work in its themes." "Theosophical you say! Splendid. It's good to know that the young scribes of today do not shy away from spiritual matters. That it's not all rutting and rioting."  The old fellow now cast his illegible gaze at Milford.  "What about you, Milbert?"  "I write poems," said Milford. "With neither reason, purpose, nor rhyme." "Poems of seasons, porpoises, and limes?" "Yes," said Addison. "And something tells me that they are quite good poems indeed." "No, they're all pretty bad, actually." "Of course your poems are sad. Life is sad. And then we die. You know, I think I can help you lads in your literary endeavors." Neither Addison nor Milford said anything to this. "Do you want to know how I can help you?" prodded the old man. "Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison. "Do I what?" "Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison, almost shouting. "Yes, of course I keep good company, although, alas, as you can see, it consists mostly of chaps with one foot – if not both of them – in their graves. It is such a delight to converse with two bright young fellows like yourselves, and so I am glad to impart my wisdom to you. Perhaps you will then avoid at least a modicum of the mistakes I have made, indeed that most men make. I mean if you want to hear it." "Please, Happy," said Addison, "in the words of the bard of Avon, 'Unmuzzle your wisdom.'"  "Well, I don't know who this Bart O'Mahon is, but I will gladly share my wisdom, and indeed I shall tell you lads the meaning of life." "Well, that's certainly a tall order, sir," said Addison. "You can order a tall water if and when Lucullus ever arrives with our drinks. But shall I tell you?" "What's that?" said Addison. "Shall I tell you the meaning of life?" "Oh, by all means, sir," said Addison. The old man looked at Milford, or at least turned his withered face in Milford's direction. "What about you, sonny? Want to know what it's all about, this whole dog and pony show we call life?" "Yes, thank you," said Milford. "Very well then," said Happy. "I will tell you. I will tell you both. No more fruitless searching, no more agonized midnight lucubrations, no more endless dark nights of the soul in the bright and harsh noonday sun. Save you both a lot of botheration and wasted time. Are you ready?" "Yes," said Addison. "What about you, my poetic young friend?" he said in Milford's direction. "I'm sorry, what?" said Milford, whose attention had wandered for some reason, or reasons. "Do you want to know the meaning of life?" said Happy. "Yes, please," said Milford. "Then bend an ear my friends, and I shall tell you." He paused. He looked at his pipe, which had gone out. In the background the room hummed with ancient conversations and monologues, and with the singing and playing of a forgotten song by the old piano player in the hazy blue light.  "The meaning of life," said the old man called Happy. "Yes?" said Addison. "The meaning," said the old man, again. Addison said nothing now, wary of leading the witness.  Milford also said nothing. There was nothing to say, not that there ever was. "Of life!" said Happy. He paused again, but this time the pause did not end. His little bald head bowed forward, and it was hard to tell, but it seemed that his eyes had closed. "Is he dead?" asked Milford. "Perhaps just asleep," said Addison. "He doesn't seem to be breathing." "Maybe he's so old that he doesn't need to breathe that much." "I think we should leave," said Milford. "But we have drinks coming," said Addison. "Addison," said Milford. "There are other things in life besides free drinks." "I know, but still," said Addison. "If he's dead, do you want to sit here and drink with a dead old man?" Addison paused. Was it so bad after all to drink with a dead old man? "Maybe he'll wake up and tell us the meaning of life," he said. "Maybe he won't wake up," said Milford. Addison paused again. "I can't believe I'm going to forfeit a free Falstaff and a shot of Cream of Kentucky." "Look," said Milford, "you can stay if you want to, but I'm leaving." "Oh, all right," said Addison. "If it will make you feel better, I will buy you a beer and a shot when we get to where we're going." "Really?" "Yes, now please, let's leave."  "Very well."  They both stood up from their chairs. The old man was still sitting there, his head slumped forward, his dead pipe still gripped in his tiny hand. Was it a death grip? "Come on, Addison," said Milford. "All right," said Addison, sadly, turning down free drinks for the first and no doubt last time in his life.  The two companions stepped away from the table and headed back in the direction of the door, breathing in the smells of smoke and old men and of wisdom unimparted, as the piano player sang and played his unknown song.

"The League"

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 through the continuing support of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company Foundation for the Humanities 

"Need a respite from the hullabaloo of modern-day life? Do what I do and sit back and light up a refreshing Husky Boy cigarette, and watch your cares disappear!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Annals of the Damned, Vol. IV: Sally's Gals

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to begin series, click here

It was a tavern, another one, or a club of some sort, dim and thick with smoke, and in the shadows were stuffed chairs with what looked like nothing but old men sitting in them, and tables and booths with old men sitting at them, and over to the right a  long and crowded bar, and straight ahead on the other side of the room sat an old man in blue light at a grand piano singing a song from the turn of the century. The place smelled strongly of varieties of smoke, not only that of cigarettes, cigars and pipes, but also marijuana, hashish, and opium, but beneath these smells lay the odors of damp woolens, of galoshes in stuffy closets, of decaying lace in the dresser drawers of the houses of great-grandparents, of basements and attics filled with broken furniture and stacks of old newspapers and National Geographics. Milford and Addison panted and sweated, standing there, as the old man smiled and looked up at them. His head was as hairless as a skeleton's, and he was dressed in an old three-piece grey suit, in the height of the fashions of the Gilded Age. "Welcome to the League, gentlemen." "The League?" said Addison. "Yes, the League," said the little old man. "And what League is this?" asked Addison. "Guess," said the man. "The Justice League of America?" "Ha ha, no," chuckled the old fellow, taking out a pipe, and now looking at Milford, or presumably looking at him, as he wore glasses which seemed to be at least a half-inch thick, magnifying his eyes to the size of an elephant's and with the same inscrutable gaze. "How about you, young fellow?" "Pardon me?" said Milford, absorbed in the dull horror of the old man's massively wrinkled face and goggled eyes. "Guess what sort of League this is?" "The League of the Damned?" "Ha ha, quite risible, my youthful friend! Would you like to guess again?" "No, thank you," said Milford. The old man now swiveled his skull again towards Addison. "What about you, my good man? One more guess?" "Um, uh," said Addison. "Guess correctly and you get to drink free the rest of the night," said the old guy, packing his pipe with ragged leaves from a cracked leather pouch. "My friend too?" "But of course!" "Okay," said Addison. He looked from the old man to around the room, and then back again to the old fellow. "The League of Veterans of the Army of the Potomac?" "By George!" said the old guy, "Close! Very close!" "May I ignite your pipe, sir?" said Addison, drawing out his book of Bob's Bowery Bar matches. "How gentlemanly of you!" cried the old man, and he allowed Addison to light his pipe, drawing in the smoke with wet rattling slurping noises.  Addison waved the match out. "Is there an ashtray nearby?" he asked. "Oh, just toss it to the floor, my good chap, we don't stand on ceremony here at the League." Addison did as he had been urged, and noticed that the floor was already liberally littered with spent matches and butts of cigarettes and cigars. "Nice place you've got here," he said, with a perfectly straight face. "Don't you think so, Milford?" "Yeah, sure," said Milford.  "We really want to thank you for letting us in, mister," said Addison, taking out his pack of Chesterfields. "Don't we, Milford?" "Yes," said Milford. "We appreciate it, sir." "Think nothing of it," said the old man, puffing away on his pipe. "Who was it that was chasing you, anyway?" "You should pardon the expression," said Addison, lighting up his Chesterfield, "but they were douchebags." "Douchebags you say! From that douchebag bar round the way?" "Yes, I suppose it was them," said Addison, flicking his match away. "Nasty brutes. I suppose they tried to recruit you into their unholy ranks." "Yes, they did," said Addison, exhaling his Chesterfield smoke with a resigned-seeming expression on his face. "Damn their impudence! The most cursory glance could tell the discerning eye that you fellows are not douchebags." "Well, thank you for saying that," said Addison. "Not douchebags, nor cunts neither." "Again, thank you," said Addison. "But if you be not douchebags, or cunts, may I ask what you are?" "That is a good question," said Addison. The old guy turned his face of wrinkles toward Milford. "What are you, young man?" "Idiots," said Milford. At this the old man took his pipe from his mouth and sputtered and hacked, his little body convulsing like a marionette whose puppeteer had gone mad. "Are you all right, sir?" said Addison. The old guy sputtered and spluttered and hacked some more, but then said, "Oh. Oh my. Oh dear." "Would you like to sit down?" asked Milford. "Sit down? Why?" "In case you're having an attack of some sort." "I wasn't having an attack," said the old guy. "I was merely laughing at your bon mot." "Oh." "'Idiots,' he says! Idiots! Oh my word. You are quite the scamp, my lad," he said to Milford. "I was only speaking the truth," said Milford. "Idiots!" "Yes, unfortunately." "I'll give you one more guess." "Pardon me?" said Milford. "One more guess as to what we are the League of." "The League of People Banned From Other Leagues?" Once again the old fellow fell victim to a fit of spluttering and coughing, to such an extent that a set of dentures flew from his mouth and fell clattering on the floor. Milford took his handkerchief from his jeans pocket, bent down and picked up the dentures with it, and offered them to the man, who was breathing heavily and snorting. "Oh, thank you, my good chap," he mumbled toothlessly, and shoved the dentures back into his mouth without bothering to wipe them off. "I swear your witticisms will be the death of me, my boy." "I will try to keep them to a minimum," said Milford. "Oh dear, perhaps you better had. Very well. I will tell you lads where you have found yourselves. Welcome, I say to you young gentlemen, to the League of Little Old Men! Would you care for a libation?" "Yes, thank you," said Addison. "What about you, pal?" the man asked Milford. "I don't drink." "You don't? Why in heaven's name not?" "I am an alcoholic." "But you're a mere stripling!" "Yes, but I started young," said Milford. "What about a sody pop then?" "Sure, that would be nice, thank you." "Splendid," said the old guy. "Please accompany me, if you will." The old guy turned and walked, slowly, one step at a time, past three or four tables at which elderly men sat, some of them playing cards, others just sitting drinking and smoking, past a smaller table at which two old geezers played chess, or at any rate stared at a chess board, then finally to an arrangement of three cushioned arm chairs ranged around a low round table. He climbed up on one chair, and looked at Addison and Milford, waving a tiny hand. "Please, gentlemen, be seated." Our friends sat, Milford to the right of the old man, Addison to the left. Milford took out his pack of Husky Boys. If ever there was a time to smoke, and a necessity to smoke, this was it. "My name, by the way," said the old guy, "is William Henry Harrison Happington. But, please, call me Happy." "Pleased to meet you, uh, Happy," said Addison. There were three ashtrays on the table, all of them with ashes and the stubs of cigars and cigarettes in them, and he drew one closer and tapped his Chesterfield ash into it. "This is my good friend Milford," he said, nodding to Milford, "and my name is –" "Mildred you say?" said the old guy. "No, Happy," said Addison. "Not Mildred, but Milford." "I did not think he was a member of the female persuasion," said Happy, "but one can never be quite sure, can one?" "No, I suppose not," said Addison. "At least not until you get him or her into the bedroom, ha ha!" "Uh, yes, I suppose that's true," said Addison. "Not that I've gotten anyone into a bedroom for many years myself." "Well, uh," said Addison. "And what is your name, if I may be so bold as to ask?" "Well, all my friends call me Addison, but –" "Happington, you say? I wonder if we are related. Are you by any chance the great grandson of my nephew James Buchanan Happington?" "Um, no, you see I said Addison, not Happington, sir." "Please, call me Happy." "Sure, 'Happy'." "So you say your name is Farrington? Any relation to the Farringtons of Grosse Pointe?" "Uh, no, I don't think so –" "Thank God. A most unfortunately decadent clan, if I do say so. Ah! Our noble manservant." Another tiny old man was standing there, in a tuxedo, holding a tray, and with a dirty towel over one arm. "Drinks, gentlemen?" "Yes, Lucullus," said Happy. "Bring us three glasses of Falstaff lager, please, and a round of Creams of Kentucky." "Coming right up, Happy," said the old man apparently called Lucullus, and he turned and hobbled slowly away. Happy smiled at Addison and Milford, or at any rate stretched out the ends of his thin pale lips. "With any luck," he said, "we will have our libations within the hour. But in the meantime, let us smoke, and get to know one another, and talk." Milford lighted up a Husky Boy with his Ronson. Somehow the old man had forgotten, or neglected, or chosen not to order him a soft drink. It had been very hard to be an alcoholic, and it was proving just as hard, if not infinitely more so, to be a recovering one.