"The Great Leap"

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

Illustrated and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq; exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

“A Flophouse Is Not a Home rips the lid off the boiling cauldron of lusts and passions of today’s so-called ‘Beat Generation’!” – Horace P. Sternwall, author of All or Nothing or Anything at All: a Memoir   

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“Pleased to meet you by the way, Mr. Slick,” said Mr. Eliot. “Put ‘er there, pal.” The two thin men shook hands. “Just make it ‘Slick’, daddy,” said Detroit Slick. “And what’s your moniker?” “Eliot’s the name, T.S. Eliot, perhaps you’ve heard of me.” “Heard of you? Why, buddy, I wrote a term paper when I was at Michigan on Murder in the Cathedral!” “Oh, that old thing –” “No, my man, it’s a banger, and I don’t care what nobody says!” “Ah, you are too kind, Slick.” “Still, I gotta say,” said Detroit Slick, “The Waste Land? That poem is the bomb, man. First time I read that I says to myself, fucking hell, I don’t know what this poem is about, but I dig it!” “Why, thank you, buddy,” said Mr. Eliot.  Milford was standing there, or, rather, floating there, gently rising and falling between a height of approximately two feet   and eighteen inches above the snow-covered pavement of the entrance area, and he still held in his fingers the inch that was left of the reefer. Mr. Eliot and Detroit Slick were saying words on the white puffs of breath that escaped from their mouths, the puffs that turned pink in the neon light of the San Remo Café sign and then disappeared, and now Detroit Slick held his lighter up to Milford, clicking a blue and orange flame from it, and Milford realized he was expected to put the stub of the reefer in his lips, and he did so, and as the fire ignited the weed and he breathed in the sacred smoke he suddenly remembered Polly Powell sitting in there in the San Remo, at the little table, waiting for him to return with cigarettes.  By force of new habit he drew upon the truncated reefer deeply, once, twice, three times, and held the smoke in as his consciousness now floated out and away from the entrance area, into that heavily falling snow which somehow fell all around him but not onto him and he was one with all and all was one with him.  “The hollow men,” said Detroit Slick, “J. Alfred Prufrock, the goddam four quartets,” and other words followed, drifting away into the snow falling in the neon light. I am free at last, thought Milford, free of my pathetic corporeal host, and now I will exist beyond time and place, floating through the falling snowflakes through the universe as the universe flows through me, but then Mr. Eliot was taking the stub of a reefer from his hand and Milford felt his feet in their sturdy work shoes standing on the surface of the earth again, in the glowing pinkish snow drifted into the entrance area of the San Remo. "I have to go inside now,” his voice said, echoing through the obscure back alleys of his brain, “Now, now, now…” “Yeah, I’m starting to get cold,” said Mr. Eliot, sticking the the butt of reefer into the side pocket of his tweed suit coat. “You got any more muggles?” said Detroit Slick. “No,” said Mr. Eliot, “but I think I know where we can get some.” “I could go for a nickel bag,” said Detroit Slick. “Bag that nickel bag shit, my chums will hook us up.” “Swell, daddy-o,” said Detroit Slick. “Come on back inside with us, buddy.” “I was gonna hit another bar,” said Detroit Slick, “but sure. I am like a leaf, man, tumbling down the dark city streets, from gutter to gutter. Where the wind blows me, I go, and if it don’t blow me, that’s where I stay, just digging everything.” “Spoken like a true poet, my man,” said Mr. Eliot, and he went to the door and opened it, waving to Detroit Slick to go on in, which he did, and Mr. Eliot turned to Milford. “You coming, Melvoin?” “Ommm,” said Milford. “Is that a yes?” “Ommm.” A slender bony hand reached out and grabbed Milford’s arm, and he found his corporeal host, with him in it, pulled through the doorway. The music, the smoke, the noise, the shouting and laughing people, the rich smells of burning tobacco and of whiskey and beer and wine, the warmth of human bodies, and Mr. Eliot and Detroit Slick forging away through the crowd. To the right at the bar sat the lovely Bubbles, with Addison leaning in close to her, his lips moving, like an actor in a silent movie. And turning to the left Milford saw Polly Powell sitting at the little table, facing toward the rear, and he sighed and made his way to her. On the table were two bowls of spaghetti and meatballs, a carafe of something red, two water glasses with something red in them. “Hello,” he said. “Milford!” said Polly, looking up, slurping strands of spaghetti into her lips. At last someone who knew his name. “Sit down,” she said. “I do hope you don’t mind, but I started without you because I was so absolutely starving.” Milford floated down into his seat. “Did you get the cigarettes?” said Polly. “Oh no,” said Milford. “You didn’t?” said Polly. “I forgot. You see, I ran into T.S. Eliot.” “The poet?” “Yes.” “That’s that old man I saw you with?” “Yes.” “You’re friends with T.S. Eliot?” “Well –” “That’s so exciting! I don’t know anybody famous, although sometimes I see famous people come into the automat. Do you know the actress Hyacinth Wilde?” “Um, well, I’ve seen her –” “Did you see her in the The Speckled Honeybee?” “Yes, my mother took me to that one –” “What about The Travails of Harold and Sylvia?” “Yes, my mother took me to a matinée of that one.” “I think my favorite was The Songbird Does Not Sing, did you see that one?” “Yes, my mother takes me to all the shows.” “She’s so beautiful.” “My mother?” “No, Hyacinth Wilde. She comes into the automat all the time. She always gets the lemon meringue.” ”Uh –” “Eat your spaghetti, Milford!” “Oh, yes, of course,” and Milford soon found himself shoveling spaghetti and meatballs into his mouth. He had never in his life before been so hungry. Polly was shoveling, too, breaking pieces of bread from a wicker basket and dabbing it into the sauce, and at intervals picking up her glass and drinking the red liquid in it. And all the while she was talking about plays she had seen, about how Hyacinth Wilde was even more beautiful in person than on stage, and as he ate Milford suddenly remembered he was an alcoholic when he realized he had just drunk a small tumblerful of red wine.  Oh well. Tonight was the first night of the rest of his life, and even though he felt quite deranged at the moment, tomorrow he could resume his sobriety, start counting the days once again. He would go to a meeting first thing, he would confess his slip… Polly refilled his glass. “Oh, no,” he said. “No more for me.” “But you’ve only had one glass!” cried Polly. “Listen, Milford, may I ask you a personal question?” “Yes?” “Have you ever had sexual intercourse?” Fortunately Milford’s mouth was full of spaghetti and meatballs, and so he had an excuse not to say anything straight away. He chewed, thoroughly, more thoroughly than necessary if truth be told, and then at last swallowed the mouthful, with his pride, and said: “No.” “I knew it!” said Polly. “And guess what? Neither have I!” “Um, uh,” said Milford. “What do you say?” said Polly. “I mean, if I’m not being terribly forward, but, do you know, I consider myself a modern woman, unconstrained by outmoded social mores.” “Oh, uh,” Milford gripped his fork and his spaghetti-twirling soup spoon tightly, as if they were weapons he might need quite soon. “So, how about it, Milford, shall we? Shall we take a great Kierkegaardian leap into the vast unknown together?” She seemed quite sincere. Milford picked up his wine glass and drank half its contents, forgetting again for the moment his alcoholism. “Um,” he said. “It’s okay if you say no,” said Polly. “No,” said Milford, after gulping and swallowing nothing, “I mean, yes. Yes I mean. I mean yes. Yes.” “Oh, good,” said Polly. She resumed eating her spaghetti and meatballs, and, after a moment, so did Milford. next story

“M.F.K. Montaine”

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"Insistent Old Poets"

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

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq; through exclusive arrangement with quinnmartinmarq™ productions

"A quinnmartimarq™ production is a swell production!” – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Little Joe From Kokomo: a Novel of the Hobo’s Life, a “paperback original” exclusively available from quinnmartinmarq™ productions  

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"Hey, yo! Magwitch!” Someone grabbed Milford’s arm. It was T.S. Eliot, and even amidst the thick swirling effluvia of the bar, he reeked of gin. “Oh, hello, Mr. Eliot.” “Tom! I thought I told you to call me Tom, man!” “Sorry. ‘Tom’.” Mr. Eliot gripped Milford’s arm tightly, as if he wanted him not to escape before some important business was taken care of, and he stepped closer.  “Where the hell you going, kid?” “I’m, uh, just going to the cigarette machine to buy some, uh –” “What happened with Stevens?” “Wallace Stevens?” “Who else? What happened? Did you kick his ass or what?” “Um, not exactly –” “Look, don’t fuck with me, Magwitch. I saw you go outside with the big goon. Did you do what I said? Give him the old one-two combo in the breadbasket?” “No –” “But you took care of him.” “Well, I don’t know if I ‘took care of him”, but, um –” “Look, all I want to know, is he gonna come back in here and try to make trouble for me?” “I, uh, don’t think so.” “I’m too old for the bar-brawling, Magwitch. I don’t got time for that shit no more.” Milford noticed that Mr. Eliot’s English accent had completely disappeared and been replaced by a demotic American one, perhaps that of his Gay Nineties boyhood on the mean streets of St. Louis. “Well, anyway, Tom,” said Milford, “I don’t think you have to worry about him.” “Wait, just what do you mean by that, exactly?” “I mean, I think you can just relax –” “How bad did you fuck him up? For Christ’s sake, you didn’t kill him, did you?” “No, not at all, sir.” “Tom. Or Tommy. Or Tommy Boy.” “I didn’t kill him, Tom.” “But still you fucked him up pretty bad, huh?” “Look, it really wasn’t like that, uh, Tom. To be honest, he took a swing at me, stumbled and lost his footing, and slammed his face into that entrance column outside.” “So he went down for the count, huh? Good. Great. But, hey, jeeze, he ain’t still lying out there in that blizzard, is he?” “No, he was unconscious briefly, but then he woke up and insisted that we go somewhere and have a drink together, because he didn’t want to come back in here with a big bruise on his face.” “So you went and had a drink with him?” “Well, I had a ginger ale.” “Whatever. Where’d you go?” “The Kettle of Fish, right up the block on MacDougal.” “So he’s still there?” “I suppose so. He seemed pretty comfortable on his barstool when I left.” “I owe you, man. Seriously.” “I didn’t really do anything, Mr. Eliot.” “Tom. Or Tommy.” “I didn’t do anything, Tommy.” “Don’t be modest, Magwitch. You put down the big man of American poesy. And the only other guy was ever able to do that was Hemingway.” “Well, as I say, I didn’t –” “You got balls, my boy. Big ones. And I am gonna publish your fucking début book of poems.” “Well, thank you, Tommy.” “When can you get me the manuscript?” “I don’t have one.” “What the hell are you talking about? You’re a poet, ain’t you? You tellin’ me you ain’t got a couple-three dresser drawers filled with your shit?” “I do, but that’s what it all is: shit. I realize now I have never written a decent line of poetry in my life.” “Wow. Those are some pretty strong words, Magwitch.” “My name is Milford, actually.” “Isn’t that what I said?” “No, you called me Magwitch, like the escaped convict in Great Expectations.” “So it’s Milburg?” “Milford.” “Say it again. It’s so fucking noisy in this joint with this ragtime jazz music on the jukebox and all these drunkards yelling and laughing.” “Milford,” said Milford. “Milberg?” “Milford!” shouted Milford. “Mimford?” “Yeah, sure,” said Milford, sighing. “Mimford.” “Anyway, I want to see your book of poems, Mimford. A spot of editorial work, perhaps a trim here and there, a spelling correction or two, we’ll have it out with our spring releases.” “Tommy, I just told you that everything I have written thus far is no good. It’s all shit.” “I’ll be the judge of that.” “No, it really is bad, and I’ve only just realized it tonight.” “Maybe you’re wrong.” “I’m not wrong. It’s all shit.” “Well, I still want to publish you. How long will it take you to write some good stuff?” “I don’t know. Maybe never.” “Bullcrap. I see that fire in your eyes, burning through the half-inch thick lenses of your glasses. Here’s what I want you to do. Get up early tomorrow, perc a big pot of strong black coffee, break open a fresh pack of smokes, and write something good.” “Okay.” “Something epic. Would you like that?” “I confess I would.” “A great epic American poem.” “That’s something I would actually –” “I’m talking maybe a hundred fifty pages, maybe two hundred. Or more!” “Okay –” “You want a tip?” “Yes.” “Don’t overthink it. Just sit down and start writing. You still got that pen I gave you, the Montblanc?” “Yes.” “Use that. Just start writing. Keep at it, and when you get a good chunk finished – fifty, a hundred pages, get it to me straight away.” “Well, if you say so –” “I do say so. You did me a solid by knocking down that gorilla Stevens, and now I’m gonna do you a solid.” “Okay, thanks.” “I’m stopping at the Hotel St Crispian, you know where that is?” “Yes, I do.” “Good, bring me something tomorrow. Meet me in the Prince Hal Room, say one o’clock.” “One o’clock?” “No, better make it two o’clock. We’ll have a nice brunch, a Bloody Mary or two, and we’ll look through your manuscript.” “Tomorrow?” “Why not? You got something better to do? Bring me some pages. Twenty, thirty, whatever.” “I’m not sure I can write that much in one morning.” “Look, I knocked out the first draft of The Waste Land in one day, high as a kite on cocaine and Tanqueray, so don’t give me that shit. Just do it.” “Okay.” “My man. Now bring it in, buddy.” “What?” “Give me a hug, daddy-o.” “I don’t hug, Tommy.” “Come on, Mimford. Nobody’s gonna think you’re gay. We’re all poets and artists in this joint. Now give me a big bear hug.” Mr. Eliot pulled Milford close to him, and hugged him to his skeletal old body reeking of gin, tobacco, tweed and pomade. Milford had not been hugged since he was thirteen when his Aunt Adela had had too much eggnog one snowy Christmas Eve. At last, after what seemed like a half hour, while the jukebox music played and the drunken people laughed and shouted, while the tobacco smoke swirled, Mr. Eliot drew away, although he kept his hands on Milford’s boyish upper arms. “That settles it then, Mimford,” he said. “You and me, buddies for life. You want to go outside and blow a doobie now?” “A what?” “A reefer. My boys back at the table hooked me up. Come on. We’ll get a little crazy, just you and me.” “Mr. Eliot –” “Tommy – don’t make me tell you again, tough guy.” “Tommy, I’m sitting at a table with a young lady, and I was really just on my way to the cigarette machine, and I’m sure she’s wondering what’s taking me so long.” “Oh, I get it. A young lady.” “Yes.” “You might not believe me, but I was young once, too, y’know.” “Uh –” “Is she good-looking? Where is she?” “She’s over there.” Milford pointed through the throng to where Polly sat at the small table by the wall. She was just lifting a glass of something red to her lips. “Oh, okay,” said Mr. Eliot. “She’s all right, I guess. You like that type? Small, mousy, probably likes to read George Eliot?” “I, uh –” “Look, don’t get me wrong, she’s fine.” “Well, I, um –” “Once the lights are out they’re all pretty much the same anyway.” “Yes, okay, well, anyway, Tommy, I really should just buy some cigarettes and get back to her –” “Fuck that noise. Women like to wait. Come on, let’s go outside and burn this muggles, man. Five minutes.” Mr. Eliot let go of Milford’s right arm, but he pulled on his left arm, with surprising strength leading him through the crowd and toward the entrance of the bar.  Is this my fate? wondered Milford. To be dragged in and out of bars by insistent old poets? But was this not preferable to not being dragged anywhere by anyone? He caught Polly’s eye, and she waved, smiling, apparently seeing nothing strange or out of the ordinary, but maybe that was just because she was drunk, that blessed timeless state Milford remembered all too well, when everything seemed just as it should be, if only for the moment… next story