“The Cavemen Had No Names"

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

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

This series made possible through the generous support of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company Foundation for the Furtherance of the Arts

"People always ask me, how do I write so prolifically, and I tell them it's quite simple: I sit down every morning at the typewriter with a cup of joe, light up a Husky Boy, and my mind is off to the races!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the "gripping"* new novel Pool Hall Polly

* Flossie Flanagan, The Federal Democrat

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She was gazing off, through the smoke, gazing out at the babble and the jukebox music. "There's still a chance," said the voice in his head. "She didn't exactly say no. Maybe she's thinking it over. Just don't say anything stupid now and spoil the moment." "Is there really a chance?" said Milford, aloud. "Oh, great," said Stoney, his alter ego, as Miss Blackbourne turned her regal gaze upon Milford. "What?" she said. "Um," said Milford, desperately, "I said is there really a chance." "A chance for what? That I'll decide to make the beast with two backs with you?" "Lie," said Stoney. "Lie, and be quick about it." "No," said Milford, as quickly as he could. "I meant is there really a chance that I might find some, uh, meaning in life, some purpose, even if it's not as a poet, although of course I would prefer it to be. As a poet I mean. Or –" He trailed off into silence, thank God, if there was a God, and this whole long day and night, not to mention his whole life, was proof that there was no God.  She took a drag of her ebony and silver cigarette, slowly exhaled a great fragrant cloud in Milford's direction, and just when Milford thought she wasn't going to deign to say a word, she spoke: "Y'know, if you're going to continue to be an utter bore I'm going to have to ask you to get up and leave right now." "Wow," said Stoney. "I don't know about you, Milford, but I am totally in love with this woman." "I lied," said Milford, after sighing for the twelve-thousandth-and-twenty-fifth time since he had unwillingly risen from the oblivion of slumber some sixteen hours ago, although it felt like at least sixteen months. "I was really responding to something my alter ego –" "Bucky?" "Stoney, actually, I was, uh, responding to something he said." "Which was what?" "That, uh, he thought there might still be a chance that you would, um – it was him saying this, not me –" "Out with it. No woman can abide a man who beats about the bush, and please forgive the pun." "He said," said Milford, "that there was still a chance that you would, uh –" "Commit the act of darkness with you?" "Yes, but, again, it was Bucky who said it –" "Stoney, idiot," said Stoney. "I mean, Stoney," said Milford. "But Stoney, or Bucky, or whoever the hell he is," said Miss Blackbourne, "is you, is he not?" Now it was Milford's turn to pause. Even Stoney was silent. And after thirty-nine seconds he, or possibly Stoney, said: "In a sense, yes." "Let me pose a question," said Miss Blackbourne. She took a drink of her highball before continuing, and Milford, forgetting again his alcoholism, took advantage of the moment to take a drink of his own highball. "If I agreed to take you to my narrow bed," she continued, "whom would I be taking? You, Mervin, or Bucky?" "You mean Stoney," said Milford. "Stoney then." "Also, I don't mean to keep harping on it, but my name is Milford." "What did I say?" "I think you said Mervin." "I beg your pardon." "It's okay. No one ever gets my name right." "But you haven't answered my question." "What was it again?" "If I were to allow you to – what's the phrase – hide your salami in my most private of parts, who would be the man wielding the soppressata shall we say, you, or this Chucky fellow?" "I don't think I'm capable of answering that question." "And who is saying that, you or Hucky?" "His name is Stoney, and we're both saying it," said Milford's voice. She gazed off into the smoke and the babble and the jukebox music again, and then she said, "Oh, Christ." "What?" said Milford. Had he said the wrong thing? Was it possible ever to say the right thing? "This fucking guy," said Miss Blackbourne. "You should pardon my fucking French." And yet another man emerged from the swirling clouds of smoke. This one was a tall thin fellow dressed in overalls like a farmer, with a tattered straw hat on his head, and he carried a guitar on a strap over his shoulder. "Hi, Margaret," he said. "I've written a new song, and I wonder if I could get some 'feedback' from you." "Okay, Chet," she said. "How's this? I don't like it. Now scram, we're having a private conversation here." "Hi, fella," said the man to Milford. "Ain't seen you round here before. My name's Chet Maliszewski." He extended his hand, which was thin and white. "Hello," said Milford. Reluctantly he took the man's hand and shook it, it felt strangely inanimate, like the hand of a department store dummy, not that Milford had ever shaken hands with a department store dummy, but at any rate the handshake was brief, which was always a good thing, or a less bad thing. "What's your moniker?" said the man, wiping his hand on his overalls. "Milford," said Milford. "Jes' Milford?" "Yes, just Milford." "I been a-thinkin' of changing my name to just Chet, on accounta people are prejudiced against Polish people – quite unfairly, you ask me – so maybe I should just go simply by Chet after all. What do you think?" "I don't care," said Milford. "If it was up to me I wouldn't have any name at all." "So you could be just Anonymous." "Even Anonymous is too much of a name for me." "I like your style, pard. So, anyways, I'm gonna play y'all this new little ditty I just wrote, and it goes something like this."  He struck a chord on his guitar, and began to sing, in a gruff, southern-sounding voice: There's a notion  of an ocean of emotion deep inside and I just can't hide it and I just can't abide it 'cause it's tearing me apart and eating up my heart and the cause of it all is a lady  called sweet Margaret 'cause she's got something I  just can't get. O sweet Margaret I'll make you mine yet. O sweet Margaret I just can't forget that time you said hello and after talking to me you told me just to go and not come back but here I am again just a-singin' alas alack. O sweet Margaret I'll make you mine yet. He struck a chord and then stopped singing. "That's all I got so far, but I'm thinking I might add a few dozen more verses, kind of like one of the traditional Child ballads, like 'Tam Lin', say, or another favorite of mine, "The Midnight Ploughboy of Swampoodle", which in one variant has fifty-six verses. What do y'all think?" "I think you should drop dead while you're still ahead," said Miss Blackbourne. "Ha ha, you're such a card, Margaret," said Chet. He turned to Milford. "What do you think, Milbert? Be honest now, I can take it." "I think it's great, Chad," said Milford, because he knew that no artist wanted honest criticism, but only praise, and lots of it. "Thanks, Mulgrew," said Chet, "although my name is actually Chet, but, who knows, maybe I should change it to Chad. Chad something more Anglo Saxon maybe. Chad Mitchell?" "Why don't you go away and work on your song now, Chad," said Margaret. "Yes, ma'am, I reckon I'll do that," said Chet. "Nice meeting you, Milton." "You too, Thad," said Milford. "Thad, Chad, Chet, what's in a name?" said Chet. "The cavemen had no names," said Milford.  "Yes, sir, I like your style, Melvin," said Chet. "See ya, Margaret. I'll sing you the rest of the song after I finish it." "I can't wait," said Margaret. The fellow turned away and walked off into the smoke and the babble. "Do you see what I have to deal with here?" said Miss Blackbourne. "With this crowd even an ill-favored chap like yourself doesn't look too terribly dreadful." Yes, said Stoney, yes, there is still a chance!  And this time Milford had the momentary good sense not to say anything, at least not aloud anyway, and it occurred to him (why had he never realized this before?) that the only sure way not to say something stupid was to say nothing, nothing at all.

"Phil the Pill"

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

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

Sponsored in part by Husky Boy™ cigarettes, now available in "Regular" and "King Size", with or without our patented "Cork Tip", and our line of special "Husky Boys for Ladies" cigarettes in six attractive colorways

"My morning is not complete without a cup of 'joe' at my favorite diner, the daily Federal-Democrat crossword, and a smooth and refreshing Husky Boy King Size!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author Further Lucubrations of a Loon: Essays on Sundry Topics

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Just then someone else emerged from the smoke, from the babble and the jukebox music, and stood at their table. Why was there always someone else? When, at long last, would there be no one else? Maybe when you're dead, buddy, said the voice in his head, but I wouldn't count on it. It was a little fat man, with one of those little beards that fat men grow to hide the fat under their chins. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat, and he had a black leather motorcycle jacket on, but he didn't have it zipped up because his stomach was too huge. "I hate to interrupt," he said.  "Then don't," said Miss Blackbourne, "and fuck off back to where you came from." "Now don't be like that, Margaret," said the little fat man. He had a whiny voice, like Peter Lorre's but with an American accent. "You know I have a job to do." "I'll do a job on you," she said, "with this." And she pulled a silvery pin out of her hat. It was about eight inches long with an ebony scarab at one end and a glistening sharp point at the other. "Heh heh, you kill me, Margaret," said the fat man. "Damned straight I'll kill you," she said. "If I can only puncture a vital organ through those thick layers of whale blubber you're encased in." "You shouldn't make fun of me just because I'm a little overweight. You know I have a glandular condition." Nevertheless he stepped back a pace or two away from the point of the hatpin, so as not to make an easy target. He addressed Milford. "Hi," he said. "My name is Philip Waterbury." "Phil the Pill," said Miss Blackbourne. "You can just call me Phil," said the fat man, to Milford. "May I know your name?" "Milford," said Milford. "Just Milford?" "Just Milford," said Milford. "Okay, that's cool," said the fat man called Phil. Milford now noticed that the man carried a clipboard with some papers on it, and he wrote something with a ballpoint pen attached to the clipboard with a thin chain. "It's actually really pretty neat just to have one name. Look at Homer, no one ever asked him what his last name was. So, lookit, I take it you are a lost poet?" "Yes," said Milford. "Good, great," said the man, and he checked something off with his pen. "Quick quiz, but remember, there aren't necessarily any wrong answers, but which is preferable, life or death?" "Are you joking?" said Milford. "Okay, I'll put down death then. Next, is it better never to have been born, or to be born, just so you can know how meaningless everything is?" "Can I answer neither?" said Milford. "You can answer whatever you want to, but please bear in mind that –" "I would prefer never having to answer any questions ever again," said Milford. "I would prefer also never to have to talk to anybody again." "Does that include attractive females?" said Phil, with a glance at Miss Blackbourne, who still held her hatpin at the ready. "Okay, not attractive females," said Milford, "but everyone else I would prefer not to talk to, and more important, not to have them talk to me." The little man was writing rapidly on the clipboard. "Did you get all that?" asked Milford. "Yes, got it," said Phil. "So," he said, looking up from his clipboard. "I guess all's we really need now is your John Hancock on here, and ten dollars." "What's the ten dollars for?" said Milford. "Your official membership in the Society of Lost Poets. You're probably wondering what that entails. Well, first off, you get all drinks half-price, as well as access at half-price to our daily table d'hôte, and also our bar menu featuring hot dogs with or without baked beans or sauerkraut, and our award-winning proprietary burger, with your choice of American or Cheez Whiz, bacon at your request." "What award did your burger win?" said Milford, but really it was the voice of his alter ego, Stoney. "The Award for Best Burger for Lost Poets," said Phil. "By the way, I should be unforgivably remiss if I didn't mention that membership also includes your own private 'garret' room upstairs, so you can have some privacy to knock out a quick lyric poem or canto of an epic as the case may be, with each room supplied with a Hermes Baby typewriter, a box of #2 pencils, and, for the traditionalist, a quill pen with a dozen nibs and a jar of high quality India ink. A replaceable ream of 20-pound paper is provided gratis, and prime vellum, if you prefer, is available at cost." "Okay, whatever," said Stoney, speaking through Milford's mouth. "If I give you ten dollars, will you go away?" "Of course," said Phil, and he held out the clipboard and the pen. "Just sign your name down there at the bottom where it says Name." "Don't sign it," said Miss Blackbourne.  "Pardon me?" said Milford, speaking now for himself. "If you value your soul, don't sign it." "Oh, be still, Margaret," said the little fat man. "Why should –" he glanced at his clipboard, "why should Milfort –" "Milford," said Milford, "with a d at the end." "Really?" said the fat man. "Yes," said Milford. "Oh, okay, Milford with a d then." He scrawled something on the clipboard, then looked up. "What was I saying?" "No one cares," said Miss Blackbourne. "Oh, now I remember," said the man. "My question to you, Margaret, and also to, uh –" he glanced again at the clipboard, "to Milford – is simply, why would he not want to sign it? What more could a lost poet ask for?" "How about nothing?" said Miss Blackbourne. "Nothing is always a good thing to ask for." "Ha ha, quite risible, Margaret." He proffered the clipboard and pen to Milford. "Here ya go, Milbert, just scratch your mark there, slide me a sawbuck, and we're good to go." "Don't do it, Milford," said Miss Blackbourne. Milford's heart was touched that she actually called him by his correct name. "Yeah," said Milford, "I think I'll pass." "Well, you don't know what you're missing," said Phil. "No, I don't," said Milford, "but I also don't want to know." "Which only proves you are a true lost poet. Come on, pal, if you don't have the ten bucks on you, we can put you on a payment plan." "I have the money, but I just don't want to join." "Okay, well, how about our special trial membership then? Just give me a dollar, and I'll put you down for a month with full privileges. If you decide you want to cancel, you're under no obligation to –" "No," said Milford. "All right, look, I very rarely do this, but I'm prepared to offer you a six months' trial membership absolutely free, gratis and for nothing, and if at the end of that time –" "I don't think so," said Milford, and then his alter ego Stoney added, "in fact I'm sure of it." "Sure of what?" "I'm sure I don't want to join," said Milford and Stoney in unison. "Y'know, I forgot to mention, we have poetry 'slams' every Monday night, and any member can take part. Wednesday nights are 'hootenanny night' if folk music is your thing. Fridays are folk dancing. Do you like to clog?" "I don't want to join," said Milford. "And this is your final answer?" "Yes," said Milford. "Yes you want to join?" "No," said Milford. "Yes I don't want to join." "Oh," said the fat man. "Well, if you're sure." "Yes, I'm sure," said Milford and Stoney. Now the fat man paused for a moment before speaking. "Well, I hate to have to say this," he said, "but, you can finish your drink, but then you're going to have to leave. The Island of Lost Poets is for members only." "Milford is my guest," said Miss Blackbourne, and she brandished her hatpin. "Now hop it before I stick you like the little swine you are." "Oh, okay, I'll go," said Phil, taking another step back. He addressed Milford again. "If you change your mind I'll be across the room there by the shuffleboard table." Both Milford and Stoney said nothing, and after another short pause the little fat man shrugged and turned and waddled away into the smoke. Milford realized that his latest cigarette had gone out, and so he shook out another Husky Boy. "Thanks for allowing me to be your guest," he said to Miss Blackbourne.  "My pleasure," she said, finally sticking her long sharp pin back into her black pillbox hat. Milford lighted up his cigarette. Miss Blackbourne must be a member here. Therefore she must have one of those garret rooms that the fat fellow had mentioned. Was there even a slight chance she would – "I know what you're thinking," she said. "But what would be the point? A few minutes of thrashing about in my narrow bed, and then the awkwardness ensuing? Is that really what you want?" Say yes, said the voice in Milford's head, the voice of his alter ego Stoney. "Yes?" said Milford. She said nothing.  Another sad song was playing on the jukebox.

"Get Plastered"

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 made possible in part through the generous support of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company Foundation for the Furtherance of the Arts

"The first thing I do when I return to my dressing room after a performance is to light up a smooth and relaxing Husky Boy!" – Hyacinth Wilde, star of Horace P. Sternwall's triumphant new smash comedy stage hit Varlets and Harlots

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to begin series, click here

"I'm sorry," said Milford, after a resonant pause, "I was addressing the voice in my head again." "I surmised as much," said Miss Blackbourne. "And do please tell me about this 'voice' in your head." "It's apparently my alter ego," said Milford. "His name is Stoney, and he is what I would or could be were I not who and what I actually am." "An idealized version of yourself then." "Yes. I first started hearing his voice about an hour or so ago, although it feels closer to six months. And then a short time later, although it felt like a long time, I was wandering through these endless corridors wondering which way to go, and he appeared to me in the flesh." "Indeed? And what did he look like?" "He looked just like me, a slight young man in a peacoat and newsboy’s cap, with thick round glasses, and smoking a cigarette, but he was me without all my boring faults and personality traits. He was me if I were not a twerp." "The better part of you, shall we say?" "Yes. He was standing right before me. But right now he is only in my head." The lady took a drag of her cigarette (the sort of drag the writers of the trashy novels Milford surreptitiously read called "a contemplative drag") and then exhaled an enormous cloud of smoke which blended seamlessly into the greater cloud of smoke in which they sat. "I hope you won't take this the wrong way," she then said, "but has it occurred to you that you may very well be in the midst of what the headshrinkers call a psychotic episode?" "Well, okay, but here's the thing." "Oh, there's a thing." "Yes, you see, earlier this evening I foolishly ate a handful of these mushrooms –" "Ah, the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians?" "Yes." "I see. And so then could it not be that this alter ego of yours, this – what was his name?" "Stoney." "Stoney." "Yes, he said his name was Stoney." "Could it not then be that this 'Stoney' is perhaps – perhaps I say – an hallucination brought on by the mushrooms?" "Well, maybe." "Maybe?" "Yes, I say maybe because maybe he was always there, inside me, but it took the mushrooms for me to be able to see him, to hear him –" "To converse with him." "Yes," said Milford. "And even to appear to you in person?" "Well, uh, I know it's a little hard to believe, but –" "And is he in there right now, in your head?" "I believe so, yes." "May I speak to him?" Go ahead, Milford, said Stoney's voice in Milford's head. Let me talk to her. "Well, maybe just briefly," said Milford. "Hello," said Stoney, through Milford's voice. "Is this Stoney speaking?" said the lady. "Yes, it's me," said Stoney, in his strong and confident voice. "Very pleased to meet you. Margaret, isn't it?" "Yes. Margaret Blackbourne. How are you, Stoney?" "I'd be better if I wasn't trapped in the carcass of this idiot, I'll tell you that much." "Well, at least you have a sense of humor about it," she said. "Believe me, lady, being the alter ego of this guy, you have to have a sense of humor." "Ha ha. This is weird. And I am used to weird, but I must say this is the first time I've ever spoken to someone's alter ego." "Well, this is only about the second time I've ever spoken to another human being besides Milford, so it's weird for me, too." "You don't sound too nonplussed about it." "Look, Margaret, I take things as they come. Because this is the way to live, just striding manfully through life, living every second to the hilt and knocking out splendid poems when I'm in the mood, and then when I die, I can say, 'I have lived my life in full. Whatever happens now, be it nothingness or heaven or hell or reincarnation as a toad or a lion, bring it on, I have no regrets.'" "What a delightful philosophy." "I like to think so. Get it while you can, that's my motto. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. And, please pardon my language, but, fuck 'em all if they can't take a joke." "Brilliant. I wonder if I may speak to Milburn again now?" "Milford? Sure. Nice speaking with you, Margaret." "Likewise, Stoney." "And, listen, Margaret, don't be too hard on Milford. I know he's a jerk, but he doesn't mean any harm." "I will bear that in mind. Goodbye, Stoney." "Not goodbye, but shall we say au revoir?" "Yes, of course, au revoir, Stoney." "Till we meet again," said Stoney. The lady paused, smoking her black cigarette. "Is he gone?" "Yes," said Milford. "Did you hear all that?" "Yes." "Good God." "I know." "This Stoney's rather full of himself, don't you think?" "Yes, I suppose so." "I hope you won't be offended if I say I prefer you to your drugs-induced subconscious alter ego." "No."  Boy, that hurts, said Stoney, in Milford's tortured brain.  "Go away now, please," said Milford. "What?" said the lady. "I was speaking to him," said Milford. "To Stoney." "Oh, good," she said. "But I shouldn't worry. He'll probably disappear for good once those mushrooms wear off." "I hope so," said Milford. "It's bad enough having one personality, let alone two." "You don't happen to have any more of those mushrooms on you, do you?" "No, sorry." "Quel dommage. As my good friend Charles Baudelaire put it, and I shall translate liberally, 'One must always get plastered. On wine, on poetry, on virtue, your choice.' To which I would add the sacred mushrooms of the noble red man. And woman. Drink up, Mordred." Milford lifted his highball and drank, and sighed. "Do you always sigh so much?" "Yes," said Milford. "I wake up sighing, and go to sleep sighing, and in between I sigh, frequently." "It could be worse," said the lady. "You could be one of these other losers in this joint. And at least you're young, for the moment. Once you hit thirty the downward slide begins." "I feel that for me the downward slide began at birth." "Ha ha. I almost regret that your corporeal being is so unimpressive." "So do I, and there's no 'almost' to qualify my regret." "Have you considered a course of physical self-improvement. The vigorous lifting of dumbbells, long swims in the ocean?" "No, I generally detest any form of physical exertion, and the only reason I would jump into the ocean would be to attempt to drown myself. But there's no fear of my doing that, because as well as being a bad poet, and a lazy idle loafer, I am also a coward." "Ha ha. You amuse me. I've met all kinds of lost poets in my time, and I admit I've even had carnal and sometimes even emotional relations with some several, but you, Malone, are the first time I've ever met a modest lost poet." "I have nothing not to be modest about." "Read some more of Theodore's poem." "Okay." Milford picked up the sheet of paper, found his place, and began to read aloud again. And if you should kick me in my manly sac and then strike me on the head with your purse, I should not cry alas, nay, nor alack, because to be ignored would be far worse. Yes, I should fall to my knees, and worship, even if you should grind your high heel (again) into the back of my neck, its stiletto tip causing me such sweet glorious pain. Oh, Margaret, wilt thou not bless me with a curse from your scarlet tongue wilt thou not with disdain address me as swine, as dog, as beetle dung?  Milford laid down the sheet of paper. "Can't take any more, Morton?" said the lady. "I'll say this," said Milford. "It's nice to know there are possibly worse poets than myself." "There are always worse poets, Muldoon," said the lady, dare he address her as Margaret? "By the way," he said, "I know it doesn't really matter, but my name is actually Milford" "Milford?" "Yes." "I beg your pardon. I thought it was Murgatroyd or something like that. Milborn, you say?" "Milford." "Milford." "Yes." "Very well, I shall call you Milford then." Ask her if you can call her Margaret, said the voice in Milford's head. "May I call you Margaret?" asked Milford. She paused.  "It may be too soon," she said. "I understand," he said. "I have always regretted allowing men even the slightest leeway." "I don't blame you." "You may call me Miss Blackbourne, at least for the nonce." "Of course," said Milford. "Better not to rush into intimacy." "Okay." "Okay what?" "Okay, Miss Blackbourne?" "That's better. And I shall call you, what was it, Mifford?" "Milford." "I shall call you Milford." Baby steps, said the voice of Milford's alter ego Stoney, who was still there, lurking behind the scenes in his brain. You're taking baby steps for now. But maybe someday you will walk proudly, like a man. Milford was on the verge of responding to this last remark of his alter ego's, but he remembered that Miss Blackbourne was sitting right there across the table from him, from him and from Stoney both, and so he held his peace.