"Roast Woolly Mammoth"

A fable of the intellectual classes by Dan Leo

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq for penmarqdown™ productions™  

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“Cavemen converging on the wooly mammoth, spears at the ready – would there be meat tonight? Would there even be a tonight?” Gerry “The Brain” Goldsmith looked at the sentence which had been the sole bounty of his previous day’s work. Yes, it had been a good sentence, a good day’s work. But how to follow it up?  Gerry paused for a minute, staring out of his grimy window at the thick falling snow.  He heard the faint whirring noise of the Third Avenue elevated coming downtown, heard the whirring become a rumbling, louder and louder, and then the high skidding screeching as it roared past above his window on its way to the Houston Street stop. Time for another cigarette! Ever since his monthly remittance had been increased last January (his brother Alistair’s preëmptive move to mollify Gerry into not contesting Aunt Edna’s will, as if Gerry might ever be bothered to do so), he could have afforded to buy factory-rolled cigarettes, but for some reason (reasons?) Gerry had stayed with his Bull Durham shag. Truth to tell, he liked the rolling ritual. And so he rolled himself another, lighted it with a Blue Tip kitchen match, and paused for another minute, enjoying the cigarette as much as he had ever enjoyed any cigarette, and then finally he typed these words: “And, later that night, sitting round the fire, dining on roast wooly mammoth after a long day’s hunting, and knowing the meat would last the tribe another week, what more could our caveman want?” Brilliant! Should he continue?  No, perhaps it was best just to quit while he was hot. Better to write one good sentence than a thousand mediocre ones! Time for a bock! Gerry quickly knotted a tie and threw on his trusty old Chesterfield over his “new” Goodwill Donegal tweed suit, donned his hat, and headed out the door and down the stairs. On the landing between the fifth and fourth floors, he saw someone sitting hunched over on the top step. “Hello?” The man said nothing, didn’t even turn around. Gerry approached. “Addison?”  Addison turned his head and glanced up, then turned away again.  “Addison, are you okay?” Addison said nothing. How very odd. Addison never said nothing. “I say, Addison, are you ill?” Addison heaved a great sigh. “Addison, what’s up?” This was annoying. Time was wasting, and there were bocks to be drunk. Gerry was loath to say what he was about to say, and he hesitated before saying it, but after a minute of uncertainty he said it: “Come on, buddy, get up, let’s go get a bock.” Addison turned his head and looked up at Gerry. “You don’t want to have a bock with me.” “Nonsense,” lied Gerry. “I’ll not only have a bock with you, but I’ll buy you one. Come on, get up.” “No.” This was truly unbelievable. Addison turning down a free bock? It was literally unheard of. Not only was Addison among the most tedious of men Gerry knew, he was also perhaps the cheapest, and known throughout the neighborhood as a man who would squeeze a nickel so hard that he made the Indian ride the buffalo’s back. “I know what you’re thinking,” said Addison, staring down the stairs. “How can you possibly know what I’m thinking,” said Gerry. “You’re thinking it’s unheard of me to turn down a drink, that I squeeze a nickel so hard I make the Indian ride the buffalo’s back.” “Nonsense,” said Gerry, after a slight pause. “See, you hesitated, because it’s true. You don’t like me. No one likes me.” “That’s not true at all,” said Gerry, after another pause which he quickly cut short as soon as he realized he was pausing. “It’s not true that you don’t like me, or not true that no one likes me?” “Oh, come on, Addison, what exactly is this all about? This isn’t the witty carefree Addison I know.” “The witty carefree Addison you know does not exist. I am neither witty nor carefree.” Gerry hated to do it, but he sat himself down on the step beside Addison. One thing he did know, he wasn’t going to put his arm around the man’s shoulders. Gerry was a good fellow, but even he had his limits. He took one last drag of his cigarette. He didn’t want to just grind out the butt on the stairs, even though all the other tenants did so with abandon, leaving more work for poor Mrs. Morgenstern and her broom, so he stubbed out the cigarette on the riser of the step, and dropped the butt into his coat pocket. “Do you know what I did yesterday?” said Addison suddenly. Why did boring people always ask these unanswerable questions instead of just saying whatever they had to say? But Gerry was a kind man at heart, and so he said, “No, Addison, what did you do?” “I walked out to the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, fully intending to throw myself off of it.” “So,” said Gerry, after a pause during which he could think of absolutely nothing else better to say. “Yes, so,” said Addison. “So what?” “So,” said Addison, “I gather you didn’t throw yourself off.” Addison turned to face Gerry, and Gerry noticed that Addison’s eyes, always bloodshot, were now almost entirely red around the pallid blue of their pupils. “An angel appeared to me, Gerry. He told me to appreciate the little things of life. And then I fell, or jumped, I’m not sure. But instead of crashing into the river I flew away, all the way up the river and out over Long Island Sound, and then I flew back.” “To the bridge?” “Yes, to the exact same spot on the bridge.” There wasn’t much Gerry could say to this, or, rather, there were many things he might have said, but he said nothing. He didn’t know what else to do, so he took out his sack of tobacco and his papers and began rolling a cigarette. After a minute Addison spoke again. “I walked back off the bridge, and I walked around all the rest of the day, and all the night. I walked down to the Battery, and then I walked all the way up to I think Washington Heights it was and back again and I don’t know where. Finally it began to snow, and so I came back here. I’m so tired, Brain. I’ve never been so tired.” “Why don’t you let me help you up to your digs, old man? A good sleep and you’ll be right as rain.” “I can’t go to my digs.” “Why not?” “Because the walls will close in on me.” “No they won’t, old boy. You’ll get in bed and be sound asleep before you know it.” “I couldn’t even kill myself properly.” “Why would you want to?” “Do you really want to hear all the reasons? Even that angel who appeared to me told me that I would never amount to anything.” “Addison, buddy, there was no angel.” “Yes there was!” “Well, even if there was, what does he know? Who says angels know everything?” “They’re angels, damn it!” “Only God knows everything,” said Gerry, even though he had no idea if this were true, or even if there was a God. Suddenly Addison began to breathe very heavily, and Gerry was afraid he was going to get hysterical.  Gerry had just finished rolling his cigarette, and so he held it out to Addison. “Here, Addison,” he said. “Addison. Here.” “What?” “Have a cigarette.” Addison took the cigarette. Gerry brought out his matches and gave him a light. “There ya go,” he said. He blew out the match and put it in his coat pocket. “The little things. Like your angel said.” Addison sat there hunched over, the smoking cigarette between his lips, and Gerry rolled himself another one. By the time he had the cigarette rolled and lighted, he noticed that Addison’s chin was on his chest, and his eyes were closed, but the cigarette still dangled from his lips. Gerry removed the cigarette, stubbed it out on the riser, dropped the butt into his coat pocket. Addison’s tiny apartment was on the fifth floor, and although Gerry was not a physically strong man, he figured he would probably be able to drag Addison up to his apartment and get him into his bed. A good long sleep wouldn’t be the answer to all the man’s problems, but it wouldn’t hurt, that was for sure. next story

"The River and the City”

A fable by Dan Leo

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq for penmarq after-school productions™  

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It was the worst possible kind of day, and what better sort of day to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and end his pathetic life once and for all? Addison (not his real name, but that’s what everyone called him, so let’s call him that) stood looking down at the East River flowing toward the Atlantic Ocean beneath the cold dirty steel of the bridge. The sky was bright blue, not a wisp of a cloud in it, but the wind was high and freezing. He stood there with his right arm holding onto a girder. He had always been afraid of heights, and yet, here he was, way up here, about to end it all.  What did he have to live for? No one liked him, let alone love, no, love was out of the question, even his own mother didn’t really love him, nor his grandmothers or his aunts and great-aunts. They might send him checks, but that didn’t mean they loved him. All he had to do was jump.  But. But on the other hand he was a coward, and always had been. So then the question was, what was he more afraid of: jumping and ending it all, or continuing to live the miserable pathetic life he had always lived? “May I intrude?” Addison was so shocked that he almost jumped off the bridge by accident. A little old man was standing to his left, wearing a cloth cap, thick glasses, a ragged overcoat and scarf. He had a smoking stub of a cigar in his mouth. “Jesus Christ!” said Addison. “Oh, I wish!” said the old man. He seemed vaguely familiar, like someone Addison had seen in Bob’s Bowery Bar. “Do I know you?” “We have not been formally introduced, but I have been keeping my eye on you. They call me Bert, Bowery Bert.” “What are you doing here?” “I am here because you are here, Addison.” “How do you know my name, not that Addison really is my name.” “Nonetheless it is the name that everyone calls you.” “I know, I know –” “All because you’re always trying to be witty and acerbic like Addison DeWitt in All About Eve.” “I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me.” “It could be worse, maybe they could call you Waldo, after Waldo Lydecker in Laura, ha ha. How’d you like it if everybody called you Waldo?” “I wouldn’t.” “So Addison’s not so bad, is it, Addison?” “Wait, just who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” “You saw that movie It’s a Wonderful Life, didn’t you?” “Yes. And I thought it was sentimental tripe.” “Well, irregardless, you remember that scene where Jimmy Stewart was gonna end it all, and suddenly a lovable little angel shows up?” “Yes, what nonsense.” “Well, I’m an angel, sorta like in that movie. A guardian angel.” “You’re my guardian angel?” “Not exactly. I always have to explain this to you stupid humans, so here I go again. We ain’t got enough angels to give everybody on earth their own guardian angel, and so instead we angels are each given districts to take care of. Me, I got the Bowery, or at least a big chunk of it. Which is why they call me Bowery Bert.” “So, what, you’re here to talk me out of jumping off the bridge?” “I ain’t here to talk you out of nothing. I’m here only to get you to think about your life for just one minute, but from like maybe a different angle.” “Oh, like, look how great my life could be, if only I, if only I –” “May I be honest, Addison?” “Of course.” “Your life will never be great, my friend.” “Wow.” “You will continue to be shallow and pathetic and untalented. You will never amount to nothing, you will get older, you will continue to drink and smoke too much, your body will deteriorate, and then you will die, friendless and alone, quite possibly after a painful disease.” “Gee, thanks a lot. I guess I’ll just go ahead and jump now then, if it’s okay with you.” “Be my guest. But first, consider this: if you decide not to jump, and just walk back to land, think of all the fun things you can do.” “Fun?” “Going to see Audie Murphy movies. Reading a good book, even if it’s only a Nero Wolfe mystery. Dunking a doughnut into a cup o’ hot chicory joe at Ma’s Diner –” “Yes, okay, I get it, the little things, sure. But, don’t you see, I’ll still be me.” “Yeah, that’s the hard part, ain’t it?” Addison stared at the little old man, and waited. Waited for what? A word of wisdom? But all the little old man did was stare right back at Addison through those thick glasses of his. Addison turned away and looked down at the river. For some reason he had chosen the northern side of the bridge to jump off of, and so he was looking upriver at Manhattan on the left and Brooklyn on the right, all these thousands of buildings filled with millions of people. The air and the wind were bitter cold. Like – like what? Like frozen daggers? No, what horrible triteness. Can’t you just say cold, fucking cold, and leave it at that? Must you always try to be clever, even when you’re getting ready to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge?  Addison turned to his left, but now the little man was gone.  So that was it?  That was all? The little jerk had had nothing more to say? But, wait, what if the little man had been a hallucination?  What if all there was was this? Just me, inside my head,  looking down and out at all that, at the whole incomprehensible world?  Suddenly Addison felt vertiginous, as if his body might take flight of its own accord and go sailing out over the river, and then that’s what happened, he sailed off the bridge, his arms at his side, headfirst, sailing down and down toward the cold grey river, but then, so strangely, just before he was about to crash into the water, he swooped upward, upward, high into the bright cold blue sky, higher and higher, and after a minute he leveled off, and sailed along, looking down at the islands full of people far below him, and way off to the left he could even see the stretches of New Jersey. Addison sailed along for a few minutes, and then, somewhere over Long Island Sound, he made a great graceful curve and began sailing back, back to the river and the city. next story

"Galoshes"

A tale of la vie de bohème by Dan Leo

Copious illustrations by rhoda penmarq  

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Terry and Araminta had been friends now for more than five months, and they met nearly every afternoon at Ma’s Diner to drink untold cups of coffee and peruse the pages each had produced that morning. They were very kind in their comments, despite the fact that neither could make head or tail of what the other was on about in their respective novels-in-progress. Today, this snowy cold day in January, Araminta sipped her chicory coffee and read the following from Terry’s book, still titled (she hoped provisionally) Say There, Young Fellow!: Another day awakening to the symphony of the great city! The fartings of the garbage trucks, the belchings of the El train, the wailing of the little guttersnipes in their slum dwellings, the vomiting of the drunkards on the sidewalk, the random shouts of violent young thugs! Jerry Hooley ripped another page from his trusty Olivetti portable and added it to the foot-high pile next to the machine. He inserted another blank sheet into the roller and typed the page number in at the top: 1,000. Not bad, not bad at all. He still hadn’t quite found the plot of the novel, but plots were overrated anyway. He scrolled down an inch and typed CHAPTER 303 The city’s daily concerto called to Mickey Mooney. Enough of creation for one day, time to go out and experience life! Time to shake off the  That was where Terry had left off. He always stopped writing at noon on the dot, even if he was in the middle of a sentence, or, for that matter at the beginning or ending of one. “So, what do you think, Araminta?” “I think it’s marvelous,” said Araminta, as usual. After all, what did she know about what she called boy novels? “Simply marvelous. Is anything going to happen with Annabella?” Annabella was the presumable “love interest” in Terry’s novel, a bohemian lass who lived in the same building as Terry’s hero Jerry Hooley and who was writing a cycle of poems called Sappho, My Sappho. “I honestly have no idea,” said Terry. “You know me, I have to go where my characters take me. However, I suspect that there might be something dramatic in store with Melpomene.” Melpomene, a girl playwright, was the love interest of Mickey Mooney, the hero of the novel (Moon Over the Bowery) that Jerry Hooley (and, actually, Terry) was writing. “Perhaps,” said Araminta, “and only perhaps, mind you, the development of Mickey and Melpomene’s relationship could mirror the same in Jerry and Annabella’s.” Terry paused before answering. He lighted up another Camel. “Wow,” he said, finally. “That could really be a swell idea!” “It’s a thousand pages you’ve got there so far,” said Araminta. “I know you must follow your own artistic impulses, but maybe it’s time for a little, you know, I hate to use the word.” “What?” said Terry. “But I hate to use the word. It’s so crude.” “What word?” “I just told you I hate to use it.” “Oh, I’m sorry. But could you give me maybe a synonym? Or what do you call it when you use a nicer word for a harsh word or phrase?” “Euphemism?” “Yeah, that’s it.” “Oh, hang it all, Terence, the word I mean is sex. There, I’ve said it, full speed ahead and darn the torpedoes. Sex.” “Sex?” “Yes. Now please don’t say it again.” “I promise not to.” Sex.  Yes, perhaps Araminta was right. Maybe a thousand pages was a little too long to go without, well, Terry didn’t even want to think the word, so careful was he not to offend Araminta by even thinking of a word she found offensive. “But I could be wrong,” said Araminta, and she took out one of her Viceroys. She waited while Terry scrabbled up his matches and gave her a light. “And after all, look at my own novel.” She brushed her long red-painted fingernails over the cover of the large leather-bound notebook that contained the latest pages of her own work in progress (provisional title: The Womb of the City). “I’ve been working on this thing for almost a year, and Azalea {the heroine of Araminta’s novel} hasn’t even been kissed by a man yet!” “But,” said Terry. “Yes?” “But –”  “Go on.” “Well, please don’t be offended.” “Damn it, Terence, stop beating about the bush. Out with it.” “I thought Azalea was a, you know, I hope you won’t be offended if I say the word.” “How can I know if I’ll be offended if you don’t say it.” “You promise not to be?” “I make no such promise. Now say it.” “Lesbian.” “What?” “I thought Azalea was a lesbian.” “You thought Azalea was a dyke?” “Well, not definitely, but, you know, she went to a women’s college, and –” “Well, Terence, I went to Vassar and I assure you that, despite everything you may have heard, the sisters of Lesbos were a distinct albeit noticeable minority there. Gee, whillikers, you never saw such a pack of boy-crazed sluts as in that school!” “I’m sorry.” Now Araminta took pause. So.  So now she knew why she and Terry had been having coffee together nearly every single day for five months, reading and critiquing one another’s work, and he had never once made a pass at her. Or.  Or could it be? Could it be that Terry himself was the one who was a little light in the loafers? Well, there was only one way to find out. “Say,” she said, “do you want to get out of here? Take a walk? Or something.” “But it’s snowing.” “I love to walk in the snow.” “Well, okay,” said Terry, who remembered without fondness long hikes with a full pack in the snowy wastelands surrounding Fort Dix.  “I just need to get my galoshes,” said Araminta. “Sure,” said Terry. They both lived in the same building, just across Bleecker Street and catercorner to Ma’s. “Do you want me to wait here?” “No,” said Araminta. “Why don’t you come up with me.” “To your apartment?” Terry lived on the fourth floor, Araminta on the second, but he had never once been in her apartment. “Yes, to my apartment,” said Araminta. “So I can get my galoshes.” Terry really couldn’t see why he had to go up to Araminta’s flat if she was just going to get her galoshes, but he didn’t pretend to understand the first thing about women, so he said okay. next story

"Bless Me, Father"

A tale of the working folk by Dan Leo

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq for flophouse productions™  

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“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been four or five weeks since my last confession, I ain’t sure, exactly. Maybe six weeks.” “Go on, my child.” “I lost my temper with my little brother and little sister a few times. You see, our parents are dead, so I gotta work to put a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, and sometimes I lose my patience.” “I understand.” “I cursed a whole bunch of times. I work in a bar, and sometimes I just get so mad at them drunks, and so I tell ‘em off.” “Well, that’s understandable too.” “I got drunk one night.” “How drunk?” “Pretty drunk. And I did something I shouldna done.” “What was that?” “I committed the act of darkness with this guy I know.” The priest paused for a moment. Then he said, “Did this fellow force you to commit the act?” “No, he was even drunker than I was. I’m not even sure he knew we committed it.” “I see.” “He’s a poet.” “A poet? What kind of poet?” “They call him a doomed romantic poet.” “I see. So it was just the one time?” “Yeah, just the oncet.” “Well, then God forgives you, but you must not let it happen again.” “I’ll try not to, that’s for sure.” It hadn’t been anything to write home about anyway. Hector wasn’t bad looking, but his body had been thin, bony and pale, he wasn’t any Burt Lancaster or Kirk Douglas in the Greek god department, and his breath had smelled of all the whiskey he’d drunk and all the Philip Morrises he’d smoked, plus his bad thing was weird looking, not like the harmless little willie Janet’s brother Bub had. “But that ain’t all, father, on accounta I did something worse.” “What was that?” “You ain’t gonna get mad at me, are you?” “My child, I’ve been a priest for almost forty years, I assure you there’s very little I haven’t heard in the confessional.” “Okay. I got in trouble just from that one night, and I knew I couldn’t bring up no baby while I’m the sole support for my kid brother and baby sister, so I went to this lady in the neighborhood and she took care of it for me.” “You mean, she –” “Yeah.” The priest was quiet. “Anyway,” said Janet, “I just wanted to confess that.” “It’s a very serious sin, my child.” “You think I don’t know that? Why do you think I’m here?” “You must never ever do such a thing again.” “I don’t plan to, father. It’s just I couldn’t see no other solution. At the time, I mean.” “This man, this, uh, poet –” “Hector.” “I don’t need to know his name. Did he talk you into getting rid of the baby?” “Him? He didn’t even know I was in trouble.” “You never told him?” “Why would I tell him?” “It was his child, wasn’t it?” “He wasn’t the one with it in his belly.” Again the priest fell silent. “So do I get absolution?” said Janet. “Yes,” said the priest. “Do you have anything else to confess?” “Ain’t that enough for one day?” “Yes,” said the priest. “Yes, I suppose it is. For your penance I want you to say the rosary six times.” “That’s all?” “That’s all. And try not to drink too much in future.” “I hardly ever drink. It was just that one time. I just had bad luck, y’know?” “Yes, yes it was bad luck.” “Hey, father.” “Yes?” “Do I got to say all them rosaries all at once, or can I spread them out?” “You can spread them out.” “Thanks. I think I want to save them for later, because right now I just want to get out of this church.” “I understand. I understand you’re upset. But you must not let yourself be racked with guilt.” “I’ll try not to.” “Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat,” said the priest, reciting the words that washed away the sin; “et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” Outside on Sixth Avenue it was cold and the sky up above the rooftops was the color of a wet gunnysack. Janet’s parish church was Nativity down on Second Avenue, but she had come over here to St. Joe’s for confession because none of the priests here knew her. She went to the corner, crossed the avenue, and headed toward the park. She didn’t want to take a bus, and she had plenty of time to walk to work. And if any bum said a single word to her on the sidewalk she swore she would smash him in the face with the brass knuckles she always kept in the pocket of her coat. Just let some bum say one little word to her, she swore she would make him rue the day he was born. next story