"Your Life Starts Now"

Anothe true 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 the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"Need that little extra boost? Try the new Husky Boy Benzo-Tip™! Bet you can't smoke just one!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery The Dame Who Wouldn't Die  

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Miss Alcott pulled Milford along through the tables and to the bar, which was filled with laughing and chattering Negro people. Back on the stage Jelly Roll continued to play and sing. Yes I got a big bottomed mama and she ain't no prima donna. She gives me everything I need and she makes my poor heart bleed… There was one empty stool in all the bar and Miss Alcott dragged Milford over to it. She let go of his arm, climbed up onto the stool, and laid her purse on the bar. "Hope you don't mind standing." "No, not at all," said Milford. He was squeezed in quite close to her, the front of his torso touching her left arm. "You're probably wondering why I brought you over here." "I - yes, I suppose –" "Your reefer stub has gone out." "Oh," said Milford, looking at the brown stub in the fingers of his right hand. "You should light it." "I should?" "Might as well. I'm going to have a Lucky myself." She reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out her pack of Lucky Strikes, shook it so that the end of one cigarette protruded, and extracted it with her ruby red lips. Milford stared, and then remembered his manners as she clicked open her purse. "Oh, wait, let me light that," he said. He put the reefer stub in his own pale narrow lips, the only kind he had, but he realized that his lighter was somewhere in his peacoat, which he still carried over his left arm, along with his bulky Hemingwayesque fisherman's sweater. Awkwardly he fished within the folds of the peacoat, trying not to drop it or the sweater. "Milford," said Miss Alcott. "Yes?" said Milford. "Just one moment –" "Milford, look." He looked. She held up a slim elegant lighter. "Oh," he said. She clicked the lighter, a narrow flame emerged, and she lighted up her Lucky Strike. Slowly she allowed the smoke to leave her lips as she looked at Milford with her dark eyes, the only kind of eyes she had. "I think you are the most awkward person I have ever met," she said. "Would you like me to light your reefer butt?" She didn't wait for an awkward response, but put the flame to the butt. Milford felt the flame almost burning the tip of his nose, but he didn't complain. The large shaven-headed bartender was standing there on the other side of the bar. "Another Amontillado, Miss Lou?" "Why, yes, hello, Clyde, thank you, I think I would like one." "What about you, buddy," Clyde said to Milford. "Another sweet tea, or are you ready to join the big boys' club and have a real drink." "I, uh," said Milford, "nothing for me, thanks, I was just getting ready to go." "You got a fine looking gentlelady like Miss Lou here, and you're, and I quote, 'getting ready to go'?" "Well, you see, it's been a very long day, and night, and -" "No offense, man, and please don't take this the wrong way, but what the fuck is the matter with you?" "That's something I've been wondering all my life." "Your life starts now, motherfucker." Clyde turned to Miss Alcott. "Pardon my language, Miss Lou." "That's quite all right, Clyde," said Miss Alcott. "I just can't understand jive white motherfuckers like this." "To be honest, Clyde," said Miss Alcott, "neither can I." "All right," said Milford. "I'm sorry. I'll have a drink." "What?" said Clyde. "Another sweet tea?" "No, what the hell – pardon me, Miss Alcott–" "That's all right," said Miss Alcott. "I'll take a real drink," said Milford. "You should try the corn liquor," said Miss Alcott. "The spécialité de la maison." "Okay," said Milford, "I'll have one of those." "Now you're talking like a man," said Clyde. "Or, at least, a reasonable simulacrum of one. You want a shot, a small jar, or a regular jar?" "Um –" "Give him a small jar," said Miss Alcott. Milford sighed. He had lost count, but he would guess that this was possibly his twelve-thousandth and thirty-first sigh since he had reluctantly crawled out of the world of dreams into the supposed real world the previous morning, which seemed now at least two years ago. He realized that the stub of reefer was now starting to burn his lips, and so he took it out and placed it in a glass ashtray that was conveniently there on the bar top. He noticed that the ashtray bore on its beveled sides a gold-painted legend.  The Hideaway: Leave your cares behind and your bullshit too "Just didn't want you to walk out before we could say a proper goodbye," said Miss Alcott. "After all, it has been –" she paused, and as she paused Milford could hear the surrounding chatter, the shouting and laughter, and the voice of Jelly Roll back there on the stage, singing. Yeah, I got a big bottomed mama and she sure is a charmer. She sure knows how to please  and she brings me inner peace. The bartender Clyde was there, and he put a small glass of tawny liquid in front of Miss Alcott and a small jar of clear liquid in front of Milford. "Amontillado and a small jar of corn," he said. "Thank you, dear Clyde," said Miss Alcott. "Put it on my tab, please." "Sure thing, Miss Lou," said Clyde, and he went away. Miss Alcott picked up the little glass of yellow liquid. "What was I saying?" "I can't remember," said Milford. "I feel as if, each passing second, all of reality disappears down a swirling whirlpool into oblivion, leaving only the vaguest of traces, both visual and auditory, and, yes, olfactory, and –" "I remember," she said. "I was about to define our brief relationship in a word, and that word, I've now decided, is: 'amusing'." She took a sip of her Amontillado. Milford reached for the jar of white liquid, brought it to his lips, took a great gulp, and a fire descended into his throat, causing him to gasp. "Are you quite all right?" said Miss Alcott. "Dear God," Milford managed to say. "A bit strong, is it?" "Oh my God," he said. "Do you believe in God?" "No, he said," after another deep gasp. "And now less than ever." He put the jar back on the bar top. "I can't drink that," he said. "I thought you were an alcoholic." "Yes," I am, he said, panting, "but even I have my limits." "Ha ha," she said. "You really are amusing, Milford." "Thank you," he said. "For what? For simply stating the truth? You are amusing." "I meant thank you for calling me by my correct name." "So it actually is, what – Milford?" "Yes." "Good, I'd been just on the verge of saying Woolford, or Dumford, or maybe Gifford." "Well, I'm glad you didn't. It means something to me. To have someone remember my name." "It's my pleasure, Gilford." "Oh." "Just jesting!" she said, with a smile. "Milford – there!" "Oh, heh heh," he said. She gazed at him, as if kindly. "Oh, all right, I give you leave to go now, dear boy. Your instinct telling you to go home is probably a wise one. And so I shall say, no, not goodbye, but au revoir." "Thank you, Miss Alcott, for being understanding. It's just that I fear that if I don't go now that I will regret it, if I even live to regret it." "Quite all right." "Do you mind if I don't finish this jar?" "Not at all. Maybe I'll give it to your friend Addison." "Yes, he'll probably like it." "Go on, there's a good chap." "I hope we meet again sometime," said Milford. "So also I." "All right, I'm going now." "I won't kiss you, because we've had one good kiss, and that should be more than enough." "It will be for me." She raised an eyebrow, and then turned away. Milford wondered for a fraction of a moment if he should ask for Miss Alcott's phone number, if she even had a phone, or if perhaps he should try to arrange for some sort of future meeting, maybe at the automat across the alley from the Hotel St Crispian, but then he felt, no, enough was enough, learn when to leave, he really should just go now, and so he did, his legs carrying him away towards where he hoped there would be an exit from this place, walking through the laughing and chattering people and through the swirling clouds of smoke, his feet seeming not to touch the floor, as Jelly Roll played his piano and sang. I got a big bottomed mama, she's my one and only dharma. When night falls upon the world she's my one and only girl… Milford felt faint, and his breath grew short. He shouldn't have drunk that clear liquor in the jar, he really shouldn't have. He stopped, swaying, backward and forward.  Someone took his arm. "Hey, buddy." It was Addison. "You okay, Milford?" "I, um –" "You were staggering all over the place like you were about to pass out." "I – I –" "Gee, I think you really do need to go home, don't you?" "Yes." "Okay. Look, stand here and don't move. I'm just going to go back and tell the ladies I'm going to walk you home." "You're going to walk me home?" "Sure, it's not far, right?" "No, not far." "Good, wait here, I'll be right back." Addison went away.  How very strange, thought Milford. Did he really have a friend after all?

"Big Bottomed Mama"

Another sad but true 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 the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"One needn't be husky nor even a boy to enjoy Husky Boy Ladies' Cork Tips, now available in both Petite and Queen Size, and in half a dozen divine colorways!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of this week's episode of the Husky Boy Television Theatre: Horace P. Sternwall's Gee, What a Gal, co-starring Alfred Lunt and Lynne Fontanne.

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to begin series, click here

Milford came to the table where Miss Alcott sat with his supposed friend Addison, along with Mrs. Stowe and that girl Emily and another woman dressed in Puritan attire. He had barely ever been able to abide being with even one other person, and now there were five? This was almost as bad as an AA meeting. "Hello, Addison," he said. "How odd to find you here." "How odd to find oneself in this universe," said Addison. He had an almost-full pitcher of what looked to be beer in front of him, as well as a glass with what Milford assumed was beer in it. "I wonder do you know these good ladies, Milford?" "I know Miss Alcott," said Milford, "and I have met Mrs. Stowe and Miss Emily." Milford took a drag from the reefer Jelly Roll had given him, of which there was still more than an inch left, thank God, in whom he did not believe. "Allow me to introduce Mistress Bradstreet," said Addison. "Call me Anne," said Mistress Bradstreet. "Hello, Anne," said Milford. "And may I call you Merkin?" said Mistress Bradstreet, not offering her hand, in which she held what looked like a reefer of her own. "You may," said Milford. "But my actual name is Milford, if it matters." "I thought it was Mervyn," said Emily. "I loved your performance, by the way." "Thank you," said Milford.  "It was –" she said, and she paused. While she paused, Jelly Roll continued to sing and play on the stage. I got a big bottomed mama, she don't give me no big drama, she throws me down on the bed and loves me till I'm dead… "It was – unique," said Emily, continuing her critique. "Shall we get you a chair, old boy?" said Addison. "Thank you, but no," said Milford. "I think it's time for me to go home." "To go home?" said Addison. "But the night is young!" Milford became aware that Miss Alcott was looking at him. "I'm sorry," he said, addressing her. "I am sorry, too," she said. "It has been – interesting." Mrs. Stowe addressed Miss Alcott. "So that's it, Lou?" she said. "You are just going to let him leave?" "Perhaps it is best," said Miss Alcott. "Before we begin to bore each other." "The romance in the turbid air is strong, and not unsweet," said Emily. "I don't know why you don't let us get you a chair, Milford," said Addison. "We can squeeze you in. We'll get you a glass, too, and you can help me drink this fine pitcher of Rheingold." "If I sit down and start drinking Rheingold," said Milford, "I can state with a 99% chance of certainty that I will wind up frozen and dead in an alleyway." "But there is still that one percent, isn't there?" said Addison. Suddenly Mr. Whitman loomed up beside Milford, and he put his great hand on the young man's narrow shoulder. "Murford," said Mr. Whitman, "I just want to say that I thought your songs of the soul touched my own soul. If you will come back to our table I should like to give you my in-depth analysis of your effusions, with just a few notes for possible improvement." "Thank you, Mr. Whitman," said Milford, "but I was just leaving." "But you can't! Miss Blackbourne will be so disappointed. Look at her over there." He gestured toward the table where Miss Blackbourne sat, smoking an ebony-colored cigarette and gazing toward the stage. "I think she will survive the disappointment," said Milford. Mr. Whitman ignored this response and addressed Addison. "We have met, dear fellow, what seems more than a twelvemonth and a season ago, but which was in all truth only perhaps a few hours ago." "Hi," said Addison. "Turgison, is it not?" "Well, actually, they call me Addison –" "Call me Walt. Oh, some call me Mr. Whitman, but when I hear that term of address I can think only of my late lamented father. And so I beg of you, sir, call me not Mr. Whitman, nor even Walter, but simply Walt." "Okay, uh, Walt," said Addison. "Now, Atcherson," said Walt, "if I am not mistaken, are you not  Mimphrey's friend, if not blood brother?" "Do you mean Milford there?" "Yes, this fine sample of young American manhood here." He still had his great hand on Milford's shoulder, and he gave it a squeeze, causing Milford to flinch. "Why, yes," said Addison, "I suppose you could say we're friends, if not quite blood brothers." "Then speak to him as a 'friend', and all that entails, which we need not investigate just now, and implore him not to leave." "Well, I don't think I can stop him if he wants to," said Addison. "Okay, well, I'm going to shove off now," said Milford. "Don't go," said Emily. "I'm sorry," said Milford.  "How are you getting home?" said Mrs. Stowe. "I'm walking," said Milford. "I don't live far." "But I hear it's a blizzard out there." "I'll manage," said Milford. "Perhaps I should accompany you," said Mr. Whitman. "No need," said Milford. "But what if you are accosted by brigands?" said Mr. Whitman. "I don't know if I told you, but I am quite adept in the arts of bareknuckle pugilism and Greco-Roman wrestling, and thus would not be entirely useless were we to be accosted by some of the Hudson Dusters gang, out trolling the snow-choked streets for inebriates to pummel and rob." "I'll take my chances," said Milford. "So, uh, if you'll let go of my shoulder, Mr. Whitman –" "Walt," said Walt. "If you'll let go of my shoulder, Walt, I think I'll just – "Oh, dash it all," said Miss Alcott, and she stood up, taking her purse. "Milford, may I have a private word with you?" "Uh-oh," said Mrs. Stowe. Miss Alcott came around and took Milford by his arm, the one that wasn't holding his peacoat and sweater. "Come with me," she said, and, addressing Mr. Whitman, "If you will unhand young Milford, Walt." Mr. Whitman took his hand off of Milford's shoulder, and Miss Alcott pulled Milford away, in the direction of the bar. "What the hell is up with those two?" said Mistress Bradstreet. "It is a story that is as old as mankind," said Mr. Whitman. "Perhaps, if we are to believe Mr. Darwin, even older than mankind. Oh, well, I suppose I shall return to my table, in defeat, bloody, but unbowed." "Yes," said Mistress Bradstreet, "Miss Blackbourne looks like she is missing you." "Miss Blackbourne misses no one," said Walt, "and that is part and parcel of her sui generis charm. And now I bid you all au revoir." He turned and headed back to the table where Miss Blackbourne sat, smoking, and staring in the direction of the stage. Addison refilled his glass from the pitcher. To his left Mistress Bradstreet sipped her Scotch-and-soda through a straw and then took a dainty drag of her hand-rolled reefer. To his right Mrs. Stowe sat smoking a Herbert Tareyton. Across from him, Emily watched Milford and Miss Alcott walking away. It occurred to Addison that this was the happiest moment of his life. A pitcher of beer, three ladies at his table, a ten-dollar bill in his pocket. What more could he possibly want?  On the little stage Jelly Roll played and sang. I got a big bottomed mama and I ain't got no mañana, I got a bottle of good whiskey and I'm feeling mighty frisky… Mr. Whitman came to his table and sat down. Miss Blackbourne looked at him with her dark eyes. "Don't worry, Walt," she said. "There will be other young men." "Yes, I suppose you're right, Margaret," he said. He took his pipe out of his pocket. "I wonder, would you care to share a bowl of my special blend with me?" "Why not?" said Miss Blackbourne, and as Walt took out his pouch of "special blend" comprised of excellent Kentucky burley and Lebanese hashish, up on the little stage Jelly Roll continued to play and sing. Yes, I got a big bottomed mama and she rides me like a llama, and when she bends down low, you should see her go…

"Sawdust and Ashes"

Another sad but true 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 the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company

"Did you realize that each carton of fine Husky Boy cigarettes comes with a different collectible 'Great Forgotten Writers' trading card in each pack?" – Horace P. Sternwall, your host of The Husky Boy 'Live' Radio Hour, this week starring Hyacinth Wilde and William Conrad in Mr. Sternwall's exciting new western adventure Showdown at the Hoedown

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Milford knew he should leave the stage, but some internal demon kept him standing before the microphone. Was it his alter ego, named Stoney? It's not me, said Stoney, in the Carlsbad Caverns of Milford's mind. And I don't mind saying you're embarrassing yourself, and, by extension, me.  I empathize with your embarrassment, said Milford, silently, while taking a big drag on the reefer Jelly Roll had given him, but still I feel that I want to say more, even though I have nothing to say. This is what the psychiatrists call narcissism, said Stoney. My dear Milford – mon semblable, mon frère! – I say this in all sincerity, and please don't take this personally, but no one cares what you have to say, no one in all the world, or even in the next world, if there is a next world, which there isn't – no one gives a shit, nor a flying fuck, least of all these people in here, who all have real problems of their own. I repeat, no one cares. Milford took another good drag on the reefer, while Jelly Roll gently "vamped" at the piano, and the aforementioned people in the barroom laughed and chattered. Do you see? said Stoney. Do you see all those people, ignoring you? They couldn't care one iota less about anything you remotely have to say. Milford let the smoke out of his lungs, and watched it float away and merge with the myriad shifting clouds of smoke all about him. Please try to get it through your thick skull, said Stoney. No one cares. Yes, but I care, said Milford.  Because, of course you do, you are a narcissist, said Stoney. A female voice cut through the babble, and it shouted, "More, Murphy! More!" Milford's eyes looked through the smoke and saw that nice lady Emily, sitting at the table with Addison and Miss Alcott and Mrs. Stowe and Mistress Bradstreet. "One more, Murphy!" cried Emily, pointing a slim finger at him. Well, Stoney, said Milford, to his alter ego, see? Emily cares. Okay, said Stoney, so I was wrong. After all, I am you, or a version of you, so why shouldn't I be wrong, since you, that is I, have been wrong since first we drew breath? Milford became aware that people were staring at him. He also became aware that he was still smoking the reefer that Jelly Roll had given him. He turned and addressed that gentleman at the piano, who was still tinkling the keys, no doubt waiting for Milford to, in the parlance of the common people, shit or get off the can. "Mr. Roll," said Milford, "do you mind if I do just one more, oh, what shall I call it, a dithyramb? I promise to try to keep it short." "I don't mind, brother," said Jelly Roll. "How about I play a sprightly little jump blues for accompaniment, with just a tinge of ragtime?" "It doesn't matter to me," said Milford.  "Then let's do it," said Jelly Roll, and he began to play, and, after half a minute, words emerged from Milford's mouth and into the microphone, from which they were transmitted booming into the barroom over the shouts and laughter of the revelers therein. I have given my all, perhaps I should have given less, but I heard the siren call of ridiculousness. I have emptied my brains of the garbage they contained but they have filled up again like a broken water main. What is the meaning  of these words  that mean nothing? What is the sound of  a deaf man singing? These are the questions  that will puzzle me but apparently not muzzle me until I gasp my final breath and sink into grateful death. And so I bid a fond adieu to you good people in this room. I wish I could be a little like you, not stumbling around  in stygian gloom, but laughing and shouting  and raising a convivial glass, not mumbling and pouting and behaving like an ass. I will now give you over  to my acquaintance Jelly Roll who, unlike me, possesses a soul. Milford turned to Jelly Roll and nodded, and Jelly Roll, still "tickling the ivories", spoke into his microphone. "All right, let's hear it for young, uh, what is it, 'Mufford'?" "Milford actually," said Milford. "Young Milfrid," said Jelly Roll, and a smattering of applause emerged from the crowd, as well as a few hoots and hollers. Emily stood up from her table, and putting two fingers to her lips, let loose with a piercing, multi-toned whistle.  Okay, said Stoney, inside Milford's head, quit while you're ahead, boy, and exit the stage, before they drag you off. Yes, I suppose you're right, said Milford, silently. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," he said into the microphone. "You've been very kind, and –" "Get off the fucking stage, honky!" yelled someone. "Heh heh, yes, of course," said Milford. "Sorry! Heh heh." "Thank you, Mumphrey," said Jelly Roll. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to sing you a little song called, 'I Got a Big Bottomed Mama'." The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Yes, thought Milford, this is what people want: 'I Got a Big Bottomed Mama'. And can you blame them? asked Stoney. No,replied Milford, silently. He stepped away from the microphone stand and down from the shallow stage. His peacoat and burly fisherman's sweater lay on the dance floor there by the stage, where he had tossed them when he was ecstatically dancing the Black Bottom. Milford put Jelly Roll's reefer between his lips, picked up the coat and sweater, and with his hand he brushed off some of the coating of sawdust and ashes they had acquired. Yes, the time of Dionysian ecstasy had come and gone. Jelly Roll played his piano and sang. I got a big bottomed mama from the state of Alabama, her name is Mary Lou and she knows how to do the do… Milford looked through the smoke at the table where sat Addison, Mrs. Stowe, Miss Alcott, Mistress Bradstreet, and Miss Emily, who still stood, clapping her hands, and shouting, "Well done, Mumphrey!" Carrying his peacoat and his sweater over his arm, Jelly Roll's reefer still dangling from his thin lips, he headed over toward the table where the three ladies and his only "friend" Addison sat.  In a sense, he thought, but in a very real sense, he felt his evening, and perhaps his life, was only just beginning. It occurred to Milford that his alter ego Stoney was now silent. Had he disappeared? Or had he, Milford, merged at last with Stoney, becoming a better, a fuller and more manly version of himself? Let's not get ahead of ourselves,said Stoney.