"The Sacred Confraternity"

Another sad but true tale of  la vie de la bohème transcribed by Dan Leo

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

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Did you know that currently every pack in a carton of fine Husky Boy cigarettes contains a different illustrated trading card with a unique inspirational poem by yours truly?" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the critically-acclaimed new collection of verse, The March of the Wooden Conscientious Objectors 

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"May I ask," said the fat man with the huge white moustache, "if you two gentlemen are members of the sacred confraternity of letters?" "You may indeed, sir," said Addison, "and, yes, we are." "By thunder, I knew it!" said the man. "Just something about your demeanor, and I speak, sir, not merely of your some might say shabby suit of mud-colored flannel, nor of your fedora liberally rumpled and stained with what might indeed be mud, and one hopes that's all it is, nor of your young companion's ostentatiously proletarian peacoat and newsboy's cap, in such telling contradistinction to his delicate infantile hands which have obviously never done physical labor more taxing than lifting an imperial pint beer stein to his thin lips, nor of your matching pallid complexions, calling to mind the oily morning mist clinging to the dockyards of a grim and unforgiving February, no, sirs, it is that immaterial air exuded from the both of you, that faint but unmistakeable spiritual odor of paper and ink and midnight lucubrations."  "And something tells me, sir," said Addison, "that you also are an écrivain de métier." "Attempted, my dear sir," said the fat man, "striving or would-be one might say, indeed an unkind critic might dub me a lifelong manqué, but in point of fact I have been working on my chef-d'œuvre, lo, these forty years or more." "And what is the nature of this life's work?" asked Addison, although in truth he could barely care less, but he believed in being polite up to a point. "It is a novel, sir," pronounced the man, "a roman fleuve if you will, now totaling some twenty thousand pages, with no end in sight." "And may I ask," said Addison, "what is the subject of your novel, if it's possible even to say?" "Of course you may ask, my good fellow. But, by the way, before I continue, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Quilby, Petronius Z. Quilby. And may I know your appellations, dear sirs." "This is my friend Milford," said Addison, gesturing to the young fellow, who was looking into the gently dissipating head of his beer. "He does have a Christian name, but he prefers to be called simply Milford." "Put 'er there, Gilford," said Petronius Z. Quilby, extending his hand, which was as rubicund and bulbous in its own way as his face. "Milford?" said Addison. "Yes?" said Milford. "Mr. Quilby is offering you his hand." "Oh, sorry," said Milford, and he took his own hand away from the handle of his mug and allowed it to be enveloped in Mr. Quilby's. "Very pleased to meet you, Grimley," said the fat man. "Oh," said Milford, "yes, likewise," and he quickly withdrew his thin small hand with a sound like a garden snake slithering away across damp grass. "And your name, sir?" said Mr. Quilby, to Addison. "Well, it seems that all my acquaintances call me Addison," said Addison, "but in fact the name on my birth certificate is –" "Very pleased to meet you, Harrington," said Mr. Quilby, and now he offered his hand to Addison. "And I you as well, sir," said Addison, allowing his hand to be swallowed by the older man's. The hand was sticky, and it felt as if it were made of plum pudding still warm from the oven. Fortunately the fat man held onto Addison's hand for no longer than half a minute. "You asked," said Mr. Quilby, picking up his own huge beer mug, which still had a few ounces of yellow liquid in it, "the subject of my magnum opus. It is quite simple really. It's a novel about a man writing a novel." "Oh, well, that sounds promising," said Addison. "That is to say," said Mr. Quilby, after taking a moustache-wetting sip, "it's a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel. And guess what that man is writing a novel about?" "A man writing a novel?"  "My God, sir, you are a sharp one," said Mr. Quilby. "But you'll never guess what that man is writing a novel about." "Well, I can only make an attempt at a guess, but may I venture that this man is writing a novel about a man writing a novel?" "Ah ha, there's where the twist comes in. Because, no, sir, that man is writing a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel. Nice little curve ball there, hey, my lad?" "Yes, very much so," said Addison. "But here's the thing," said Mr. Quilby, "and this is where I think the themes of the book thicken into a gloriously rich ragout: that last man who's writing a novel is writing a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel about another man writing a novel about a man who is also writing a novel about a – guess what?" "A man writing a novel?" "How did you know?" "Just a wild surmise," said Addison. "But there's really so much more to the work," said the fat man. "I could go on and on, but I don't want to bore you. Unless you insist." "Um," said Addison. "What about you, Bernard?" said Mr. Quilby, looking at Milford, who was back to looking at his beer.  "Milford?" said Addison. "Yes?" said Milford.  "Mr. Quilby asked you something." "Oh, I'm sorry," said Milford. "What was the question?" "I asked," said Mr. Quilby, "if you would like me to tell you more about my novel." "Oh," said Milford. What novel? "Um, you know, I really think I'd rather wait until it's published, so that I can come to it fresh." "Oh. Without preconceptions or prejudice you mean." "Yes, exactly." "Smart lad. May I ask what sort of thing you write?" "Oh, nothing much. Just whining, despairing, foolish and instantly forgettable poetry." "Oh, but I'm sure it's wonderful. You know what they said about Swinburne, when he was just starting out?" "No." "They said his work was hopelessly boring and jejune. But look at his reputation now! One of the unassailable giants." "Um," said Milford. "And you, Harpyman," said Mr. Quilby, addressing Addison. "Don't tell me – you are a fellow novelist." "I plead guilty as charged," said Addison. "I'm going to guess you're one of these modernist chappies, or is the term post-modern? I honestly can't tell the difference myself." "Well, I suppose my work might be called post-post-post-modernist," said Addison. "So much so that I might even have come full circle to be considered a traditionalist." "Interesting. May I ask if you've published." "Not yet," said Addison, "but you see I'm still working on my début novel, which I envision as –" "No, don't tell me," interjected the fat man. "It's a tale, autobiographical in a sense, of a young or no longer in the first flush of his youth would-be novelist living in squalor in the big city, supported by occasional remittances from his elder female relations, spending most of his time sitting blathering with other failures at his local bar on the Bowery, but his days and nights nonetheless are filled with incident, which some might consider inconsequential, but to him they possess all the import of the  adventures of Odysseus. Nevertheless, despite his drinking and his penchant for idleness, he persists in spending at least a half hour each day, or most days, at his trusty Olivetti, tapping away at his incipient masterpiece, somewhat autobiographical in nature, a novel of a no longer quite young chap in the big city who's writing, or attempting to write his first novel, but who meets a beautiful but doomed poetess who for reasons known only to herself enters into a passionate affair with our hero. The descriptions of their sexual dalliances are vivid, but tasteful, and informed, if not by actual experience, then by the author's deep reading of the popular novels of the day, featuring the liberal use of such phrases as 'his bold, pulsating manhood', and 'her musky, moist, and beckoning recesses', as well as 'the soft clamor of their ecstasies'. Am I far off?" "Well, actually," said Addison, "I'm writing a novel set in the Old West, about a wandering gunslinger named Buck Baxter…" "And that's all well and good," said Mr. Quilby, "but have you considered making it a novel about a no-longer quite so young novelist living on the edge of poverty on the Bowery, who is writing a novel about an Old West gunslinger that turns into a novel about a fellow in his late thirties, living on scant means in a city slum, who writes a novel about another fellow wasting his time writing a novel about another chap writing a novel of the Old West, a subject he knows nothing about, and which will never be finished, let alone published?" "Perhaps," said Addison, "I should consider that." "I really think you should," said Mr. Quilby. "But what do I know?" "Um, uh," said Addison. "There are so very few ways to succeed in the literary game," said the fat man, "but so many ways, so infinitely many ways to fail.”

"Loser Lager"

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

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

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"If you find you need that extra little 'boost' in your day, why not do what I do and light up a rich and flavorful Husky Boy with our patented Benzo-Tip© cork filter – goes swell with a cup of diner coffee 'regular' and a glazed donut!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Father Mike" mystery, Murder at Old St. Pat's

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A bartender came over, a thin, haggard man of indeterminate age, wearing a stained red vest and a black bowtie. "What do you want?" "Hello," said Addison. "Hello," said the man. "Now what do you want?" "How are you?" said Addison. "How does it look like I am?" "Somewhat harried, I should say." "I am harried, because I got a full bar full of losers to deal with, and now I got you two, too. Now what the fuck do you want?" "Could we have two beers?" "This is a bar, isn't it?" "Ha ha, yes, indeed," said Addison. "Well, then, may we have two beers please in the largest receptacles you have?" "You may, but would it be too much to ask what kind of beer you want? And don't say cold, because I have heard that a million times if I've heard it once, and it hasn't been witty since a thousand years before the first time I heard it." "Very well," said Addison, "do you have a bock beer?" "No, we do not have a bock beer. We don't carry that fancy shit." "I should hardly call bock fancy shit," said Addison. "Look, pal, I'll tell you what we got and make it easy for you. We got Rheingold beer. We got Ballantine ale. And we got our own house lager." "Oh, a house lager? What's it called?" "We call it Loser Lager." "Okay, make it two Loser Lagers then," said Addison, "in the largest –" "Receptacles we have, I heard you the first time." "Yes, thank you," said Addison. The bartender went away. "Nice guy," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields. Milford took out his Husky Boys. "I shouldn't really have a beer," he said. "Dear God, man, after all we've been through, why in heaven's name not?" said Addison. "Addison, cast your memory back into the distant past of a week or so ago. Where did we first meet?" "Well, let's see," said Addison, accepting a light from Milford's Ronson, "oh, I remember, it was at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in the basement at Old St. Pat's!" "Yes," said Milford, now lighting his own cigarette. He exhaled, wearily, or at least seemingly wearily. "Alcoholics Anonymous. I am an alcoholic. And that's why I shouldn't be having a beer. Not to mention that in the course of this night I have smoked marijuana and hashish and eaten the supposedly sacred mushrooms of the American Indians. And then this Negro fellow Jelly Roll gave me a couple of hand-rolled cigarettes composed of a mixture of Bull Durham tobacco, Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum." "But at least you didn't have alcohol," Addison pointed out. "No, I did," said Milford. "I have had grog laced with rum for one thing." "Oh, that sounds good." "Not if you're an alcoholic." "You're too hard on yourself, old man." "I've also had whiskey, wine, and beer, and now that I think of it, I had some sarsaparilla infused with ambrosia, the supposedly legendary food of the ancient Greek gods." "Oh, how was that?"  "It was okay, Addison, but you're not taking my point, which is that I shouldn't be drinking any alcohol or taking any drugs at all –" "Here's your beers," said a voice, and the bartender was there, laying down two very large mugs filled with sparkling golden liquid with creamy foaming heads. "Ah, splendid," said Addison. "Here, let me get this," and he made a vague slow gesture with his right hand in the general direction of his pocket. "That's okay, I've got it," said Milford, and he pulled out his old Boy Scout wallet. "How much?" he asked the bartender. "Two imperial pints of the house lager at two bits each." "So, fifty cents?" "I see you were paying attention in arithmetic class." "Heh heh," said Milford, with false mirth. "Okay, great." He took out a dollar bill and laid it on the counter, which was unwiped and sticky. "Keep the change." "Thanks," said the bartender, and he scooped up the bill, and turned away, muttering something. "Did you hear that?" said Milford to Addison. "No, what?" said Addison. "He called us cunts." "Maybe you misheard him." "No, I distinctly heard him say cunts, and that was after I left him a fifty cent tip for a fifty cent round."  "How dare he," said Addison, but with no great force, and, picking up his large mug, he put it to his lips and drank, and when he put the mug down half a minute later it was only half full, or half empty, depending on how you looked at it. He sighed deeply, emitting the single long exclamation, "Ah…" For his part Milford took a single good gulp, and he had to admit that the brew tasted good, and even better was the feeling it produced in his corporeal host and the tortured spirit that resided or was trapped within it. "Hang it all!" said Addison, out of the blue. "We may well be douchebags, I grant you that. But. There is one thing that we are not. Do you know what that is, dear fellow?" "I can think of innumerable things we are not," said Milford. "Like talented, amusing, tolerable in anything more than the smallest of doses, and those doses occurring no more than once in a season, and I speak of the seasons of the earthly calendar, not that eternal season of tedium in which we essentially exist –" "Yes, of course, but I make reference to one thing in particular that we are not. And do you want to know what that is?" "Okay," said Milford and put his hand to his mouth in a halfway successful effort to stifle a combination of a yawn and a sigh, and he forced a belch just to be polite. "Sorry," he said, "a touch of gas, from the beer." "That one thing which we are not," said Addison, "and which we shall never be –" Even as bored as he was getting, Milford could tell that Addison was pausing for effect, and so to hurry him along he said, "Yes?" "We are not cunts," said Addison.  "No?" said Milford. "No, sir. We are not cunts. This is the hill on which I will gladly expire, defending my position until my last bullet is spent, at which point I shall fix my bayonet and let them come for me." "And who is it that would come for you?" said Addison, proving that two can play the annoying douchebag game. "I shall tell you who will come for me," said Addison. "The cunts, that's who. Because if it's anything a cunt hates and would destroy, it's a man who is not a cunt. And again I say, we may be losers, we may be failures, and, yes, we might well be douchebags, but we are not cunts." "Excuse me," butted in a fat old man sitting to Addison's left. Addison and Milford both adjusted their heads so they could look at him. His face was red and round like a pomegranate, he sported an enormous white moustache, he had thick glasses with wire frames, and he wore a foggy blue beret. "I could not help but overhearing you just now. And I want only to say, I admire your sand, young man." "You do?" said Addison. "I do indeed, sir. And may I say, let no man call you a cunt." "Really?" said Addison. "Nor your young friend there," said the fat man. "Wow, that's really nice of you to say, sir," said Addison. "I speak only the truth, my friend. I may not know much, but I know a cunt when I see one, and you two fellows may indeed be losers, possibly douchebags, and, maybe – I say maybe – chronic onanists of the first order, but, no, sirs, cunts you are not." "Well, thank you, sir," said Addison. "Not at all," said the fat old man.  "And may I ask how you can tell?" "How can I tell that you are not cunts?" "Yes," said Addison. "The species known as Cunnus sapiens," said the man, "is recognizable at once to the trained eye, nose and ear by a sense, both physical and moral, of overwhelming revulsion. But I look at you two lads and feel no such revulsion. Indeed I see versions of my own younger self, when I was full of beans, not to mention piss and vinegar. As opposed to your garden variety cunt who is full of nothing less nor more than shit." "Gee," said Addison, and he turned to Milford. "Did you hear that, buddy? Turns out we're really not cunts. That's something, isn't it?" Milford was on the verge of bringing up again what the bartender had muttered as he walked away, but he held his tongue, lest he should sound like a cunt.

"The Bar With No Name"

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

Illustrations by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ family of fine tobacco products

"The very last thing I do before I make my entrance in a theatrical production is to smoke an absolutely divine Husky Boy Ladies' Cork Tip, and, at the close of the performance, after taking my final bow, the very first thing I do is to light one up!" – Hyacinth Wilde, now starring in the Demotic Theatre's production of Horace P. Sternwall's smash hit A Red Rose for Miss Hoople. 

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Addison held the door open, Milford passed through, and Addison followed him, the door closing behind them.  An enormous bearded burly fellow sat on a high stool to the right of the doorway. "Hold on, fellas," he said. "Hello," said Addison. The man wore a watch cap such as longshoreman and sailors wear, and a thick grey turtleneck sweater. He had a lighted cigar in one hand, and next to his stool was a small high table with a box of Ohio Blue Tip kitchen matches on it and an ashtray filled with cigar butts. "First time in here, right?" "Yes, sir," said Addison. "You guys know how to read?" "We do, sir," said Addison. "In fact, we are both literary men, myself a novelist and my friend a poet." "So if you can read," said the man, "I take it you read the sign on the door." "You mean," said Addison, "the sign saying, 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here'?" "There ain't no other sign on it," said the man. "Yes, well, we did read the sign," said Addison. "And so," said the big guy, "am I to assume you have abandoned hope?" "Look," said Milford, "we've just been chased by an angry mob of douchebags out for our blood, then we were trapped in the world's slowest elevator with the world's oldest elevator operator, after which we wandered all through a dark basement and a warren of dim corridors, and all we want now is to sit quietly, have a few minutes of peace and rest, and then we'll be on our way." "Feisty little fella, ain't ya?" said the man. "Far from it, sir." "You say you was chased by an angry mob of douchebags." "We was," said Milford, "I mean, yes, we were." "Must've done something to rile 'em up." "Look," said Addison, "can we just go sit at the bar and have a beer?" "You got money?" said the man. "Yes," said Addison. "We got, I mean, we have money." The big man took a drag on his cigar. "You don't know where youse are, do yez?" "Well, it seems to be a bar," said Addison. "I guess you noticed that there weren't no name outside the bar, just that sign, just that sign about abandoning hope." "Yes, in retrospect, I suppose I did notice that," said Addison. "And you know why there weren't no sign with no name on it?" "No," said Addison, "but I suspect you are going to tell us." "There weren't no name on no sign because this bar ain't got no name." "Well, I suppose that makes a sort of sense," said Addison. "And so now, if we could just step over to the bar –" "And," said the man, "the reason this bar ain't got no name is because it is strictly a bar for the nameless ones of the universe, the losers, the eternal failures, the ones fated not to be remembered by no one, the faceless ones, the anonymous ones, the spear carriers, the supernumeraries in the great Cecil B. DeMille production of life." "Um, okay," said Addison. "So, can we come in?" "Keep your shirt on, pal," said the big man. "I'm asking the questions here." "Sorry," said Addison. "Am I to assume, since you say you was being chased by these alleged douchebags, that youse yourself are not douchebags." "Um," said Addison. "No, we are not douchebags," said Milford. "You sure of that?" said the big man. "I'm not sure of anything," said Milford. "Good answer," said the man. "But let me ask yez this. You may not be douchebags, but are youse cunts." "What?" said Addison. "You heard me, pal. Don't make me say it again." "You mean cunts?" "That's the word, although it's not a word I like to use, and never in mixed company." "No, sir, we are not cunts," said Addison. "Jesus." "Leave Jesus out of this, buddy. Because in here we may be the losers of the world, the forgotten of the forgotten and the damned of the damned, but one thing we are not is cunts. So let's just get that one thing straight." "Look," said Milford, "we're not cunts, okay?" "But," said the big man, "you just told me a second ago you wasn't sure of anything, so how can you be sure you ain't a cunt?" "Okay," said Milford. "Fine. Let's go, Addison." "Wait a minute," said the big man. "What?" said Milford. "I like your style." "You do?" "Yeah, I don't know what it is, but I kinda like both you guys. Maybe you are cunts. Maybe on the other hand you're just douchebags. Or, maybe, just maybe, youse two are members of the great fraternity of the losers of the universe." The big man paused, looking Addison and Milford over. He took another drag on his cigar, took it out of his mouth, exhaling an enormous cloud of smoke, then looked at its end and turned and tapped its ash into his ashtray. Milford, who constitutionally noticed very little in the physical world, noticed that the ashtray had printed on its side in flaked gold the legend THE ST CRISPIAN HOTEL WHERE THE SERVICE IS SWELL. The big man sighed, and without looking at either Addison or Milford, he said, "All right. What the fuck. What do I know, anyway?" "You mean," said Addison, "we can come in?" The man turned and looked again at Addison and Milford. "Yeah," he said. "Sure. Why not?" "Oh, good," said Addison. "Thank you." The man said nothing. "So," said Addison, "I guess we'll just grab a couple of seats at the bar then." "Sure," said the man. "Unless." "Unless?" said Addison. "Unless you want a table, or a booth." "Oh," said Addison. "Well, actually, I think just two seats at the bar would be fine." "Suit yourself. But if you want a table or a booth you could wait here and the waitress will come over and seat you." "No, I think just the bar will be fine," said Addison. "We serve the full food menu at the bar if you're hungry." "Okay," said Addison.  "I recommend the all-you-can-eat chicken wings." "Okay, good," said Addison. "The egg and onion sammitch ain't bad, on your choice of white bread or rye." "We'll bear that in mind." "They call me Gargantua." "Hi, uh, Gargantua," said Addison. "They call me Addison, and this is Milford." "Hi," said Gargantua. "So, uh, we'll just be heading over to the bar then," said Addison. "Not so fast," said Gargantua. "Yes?" "Don't make me look bad." "Oh," said Addison. "Well, we'll try not to." The man Gargantua pointed his cigar at Addison, and then at Milford. "Losers, failures, faceless drones, hopeless bores, these are all welcome here. Just no douchebags." "Right," said Addison. "No douchebags," said the big man. "And, especially –" "Yes?" said Addison. "No cunts," said Gargantua.  "Oh," said Addison. "Right." Gargantua pointed his cigar at Milford. "You sure you ain't a cunt, sonny?" "Uh," said Milford. "I assure you, Gargantua," said Addison, "that neither I nor my friend Milford are cunts." "Good," said Gargantua. "Keep it that way. And try the fried Spam-and-cheese sandwich on toast if you get hungry after a while." "Thank you for the recommendations," said Addison. Gargantua turned away, seeming to stare off into a distance only he could see. Milford touched Addison's elbow, and the two friends walked over to the bar, which was crowded, but they found two adjoining barstools, and climbed up onto them.