"Dear Diary"

Another sad 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™ family of fine tobacco products

"As I wander this great land of liberty on my frequent speaking tours, many aspiring young scribes will ask me if I have a 'method' to my writing routine, to which I answer, yes, indeed I do, which is to make sure I always have a minimum of three unopened packs of Husky Boy cigarettes next to my typewriter when I begin my day!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the best-selling new collection of essays Give the People What They Need

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This was the thing about sitting with an alleged friend at a crowded and noisy bar. Invariably some guy sitting next to your acquaintance would start talking to him, you could barely hear anything either of them said, and soon you were left alone with your beer and the noise and the jukebox music, and maybe it was just as well, since all barroom conversations were by their very nature tedious and meaningless.  But then some new stranger sitting on your other side started talking to you, and a new insanity began. "I beg your pardon," said a voice to Milford's right. Milford turned. It was never a beautiful girl. No, it was always a man, and usually a homely and unprepossessing one. "Yes?" said Milford, despite himself. "I couldn't help but notice you and your friend," said the man. What did the man look like? He looked like a weasel. Small, with beady eyes behind thick glasses, a sparse goatee, a broad-brimmed hat of the sort that people wore who wanted other people to know that they weren't like other people. He might have been fifty, or seventy, he might have been dead but just too stupid to fall over. "My name is Quintillius T. Jasper," said the man. "My friends call me Quintillius. I hope you don't think I am a homosexual trying to pick you up. I am merely a literary man who loves to meet other people, especially other literary men, and I overheard your friend saying you are a poet." "Um," said Milford. "Did he say your name was Milberd?" "What?"  "I heard your friend say your name, and I believe it was Milborne. Is that correct?" "No," said Milford. "Then why, if I may ask, did he say your name was Redburn?" "He said Milford," said Milford, with that familiar feeling of ennui that could only grow more unbearable. "Milford, you say?" said the man. "Yes," said Milford. "Not Milberd, or Milborne, or Redburn, but Milford." "Milford," said the man. "Yes," said Milford. "Do you remember my name?" "No," said Milford. "It's Quintillius T. Jasper. But please call me Quintillius. All my friends call me Quintillius." "Okay," said Milford, deliberately not saying the name.  "I am always glad to make acquaintance with an up and coming young literary man. I'll bet your poetry is quite exciting." "It's not," said Milford. "Please allow me to disagree," said the man. "It is only the poets who despise their own work who are capable of writing the really good stuff. Or don't you agree?" "I wouldn't know," said Milford. "The only kind of poetry I know how to write is the bad kind."  "Your very words are proof that your poetry is of the highest caliber." "A cursory glance at a page of it would prove you wrong," said Milford. "The more you protest, the more you convince me that your work will assure you pride of place in literary Valhalla." "Okay, fine," said Milford, and he turned his gaze to the beer in his imperial pint mug. On the one hand he didn't even want the beer, but on the other hand he wanted to lift it to his lips and down it in one go, and then request another, and a shot of cheap bourbon to go with it. "I myself do not write poetry," said the man, who was obviously not the sort to take a hint. Milford said nothing. Maybe if he continued to say nothing the man would give up.  "I wish I could write poetry," said the man. "You know who I'd like to be able to write poetry like?" Milford continued to say nothing. It was nearly always better to say nothing, especially when being accosted by a bore, and the vast majority of people were bores, especially the ones who accosted you in bars. "Carl Sandburg," said the man, relentlessly. "That's who I'd like to be able to write poetry like. Muscular poetry, y'know? I'd like to be able to write poetry about those guys who work building skyscrapers, or digging coal, or maybe those chaps who operate jackhammers in the streets or on the great highways. That's the kind of stuff I'd like to write. Not this effete, sensitive, limp-wristed crap. But, unfortunately, poetry is not where my talent lies." Milford stared into his beer. To his left he could hear Addison and that fat guy talking, about what he didn't know or care. "Guess where my talent lies," said the man on his right. Milford picked up the big mug and took a drink, only his second drink from it so far. It was beer, like any other beer, neither great nor horrible, but the thing was you had to drink it while it was cold, or else it really was horrible. "Okay, you give up," said the man, "so I'll tell you. You'll never guess, but I am a diarist." Milford put down the mug. He shouldn't be drinking at all. What he should do was tell Addison they should leave, and then try to find that other place where the ladies were. Maybe that girl Lou would still be there. Maybe she would relieve him of his virginity, if not tonight, then some other night, maybe. "My life's work," said the man, "is to keep a meticulous diary, and I have kept it up since I was fourteen years old. Every night before I go to bed I get out my diary and record in exhaustive detail the events of the day, no matter how seemingly mundane. I have now accumulated some forty-five thousand pages of 'material' in this fashion. And when I get home tonight I will get out my diary – I write in these enormous leather-bound ledgers by the way, using a quill pen – and I will recount this very conversation we are having now, verbatim. And so you see, all the life I have lived is contained in these ledgers, these diaries, and the diaries themselves are my life, my life feeding off the diaries and the diaries feeding off my life. It is all one. I have been shopping it around, intending to publish it in completely unexpurgated form in a uniform series of separate volumes, totaling in number at least fifty, but so far I haven't been able to find a publisher willing to meet my demands. I don't know why. I am sure there would be a market for it. Who else is writing a diary consisting of a man's life whose sole raison d'être is to write a diary recounting every moment of his life, and not just his waking moments, but his dreams, at least the ones he can remember. Who, I ask you, who?" "What?" said Milford, roused from his own reveries. "Who else is writing such a mammoth epic work?" "What mammoth epic work?" "The one I'm writing," said the man. "My diary in which I recount my entire life in exhaustive detail." "Oh," said Milford. "And do you know what I'm calling it?" "Calling what?" "Do you know what the title of my life's work is, my monumental undertaking, recounting my entire life since I was fourteen years old, nearly all of which has been spent sitting at this very bar?" "No, I don't," said Milford. "Guess." "The Diary of a Lunatic?" "No, that's good, but guess again." "The Diary of an Insufferable Bore?" "Pretty good again, but wrong. Try again." "The Journal of a Man Who Should Never Have Been Born?" "Wrong again. Do you give up?" "Yes," said Milford. "My book, my masterpiece," said the man, "is called – drumroll, please – The Diary of a Dickhead." "Oh," said Milford.  "Diary of a Dickhead." "Okay." "Because, yes, I know I'm a dickhead. I am not that deluded. But answer me this, is not a dickhead's life worthy of being recorded?" "Um." "Well, I'm here to say it is. And I'll fight the man who disagrees with me. And I will lose, but I don't care. The dickheads of this world need a voice, same as anyone else, and I intend to be that voice. Do you gainsay me?" "No," said Milford. "The Diary of a Dickhead, by Quintillius T. Jasper." "Right." "Kind of got a ring to it, don't you think?" "Uh," said Milford. "My marketing plan is that people can purchase it gradually in separate volumes, using S&H Green Stamps they will pick up at their local supermarkets. Collect so many stamps, get another volume, until eventually you have the whole fifty-volume set. Pretty smart, huh?" "Yes," said Milford.  "I figure to make a pretty penny from the project, keep me comfortable in my golden years, as I continue to churn out more volumes. Who knows, maybe eventually the thing will be a hundred volumes long." The man had one of those extra-large mugs in front of him, half-full, or half empty, depending on how you looked at it, and he now lifted it, took a sip, put the mug back down again. "Diary of a Dickhead," he said, "by Quintillius T. Jasper. Look for it on display at your local A&P." "I will," said Milford. "Not now, but after I get my publishing deal." "Okay." "And you'll be in it, Moffatt. It is Moffatt, isn't it?" "Yes," said Milford. "You'll be in the book, Mofford." "I will?" "Of course. Which means you'll be famous too." "Oh." The man turned away, to look down into the golden depths of the big beer mug that sat on the counter in front of him. Milford turned to Addison and touched his arm. Addison had been saying something to the fat man, but he allowed himself to be interrupted, not really minding because he had been boring himself actually. "Yes, Milford?" "Let's go," said Milford. "Now?" said Addison. "Yes." "But you've hardly even touched your beer." "I don't want it. Let's go." Addison's own large mug was empty. "Okay, buddy," he said. "But, waste not, want not." He picked up Milford's mug, raised it to his lips, and forty-five seconds later when he put it back down on the bar top it was empty.