"This Is Where We Came In”

A tale of bohemian romance, by Dan Leo

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq, for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

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After Addison had pressed the buzzer five more times, a crackling metallic voice came through the speaker: “Who the hell is it?” “It is I, Bubbles – he whom you know as Addison!” “Madison?” “No, Addison – you remember, from yesterday?” “Who?” “Sometimes you call me Amberson?” “Oh, Amberson. You again. Scooter.” “Yes, ha ha. Scooter if you will. May I come up?” “You just drop by without calling first?” “I thought I would surprise you!” “I was taking a nap. Beat it, Scooter, and you can call me later.” “Oh, please let me come up, Bubbles! It’s raining terribly out here.” “So go up the corner to the San Remo and have a beer. Call me in an hour, no, two hours.” “Please, Bubbles. I have five dollars!” “What?” “Five dollars. And seventy cents to be exact.” “Five dollars and seventy cents.” “Yes, precisely.” Addison waited. The cold rain clattered down outside the entranceway, on the grey mountain ranges of snow piled up between the sidewalk and the street, on the grey human beings who passed by under their umbrellas. Then the door lock clicked, and quickly Addison grabbed the knob before Bubbles could change her mind. She lived on the fourth floor, no elevator of course, and although Addison was the least athletic of men, it took him less than a minute before he was knocking on her door, and only two minutes later Bubbles opened it. “You look like a drowned rat.” “Yes, my umbrella has a few holes in it I’m afraid. I keep meaning to replace it, but it has a certain sentimental value for me, as my Aunt Enid bought it for me when I matriculated at Swarthmore.” “Well, come in if you’re coming in.” She wore her kimono, and even if she had just been awakened from her nap she looked lovely in the pale light of her little studio, with only her bedside lamp turned on. Addison had only been here twice before, but already it seemed like home, more of a home than his own tiny flat. Bubbles closed the door, and he put his ancient umbrella in the cracked vase by the door. Before he even took his hat and coat off he brought out the five-dollar bill that Milford had given him for supposedly reading his bad poems. “Look, Bubbles, I have five. Dollars.” “Yeah, I see.” “And so I wondered if perhaps, if you weren’t too busy, I might avail myself of a ‘BJ’.” “Just like that.” “I beg your pardon?” “What am I, your dancing monkey?” “No, of course not, but you see I just wanted to let you know that I, uh –” “Diamond Jim here, with your lousy five bucks in your mitt. You know why I buzzed you in, Scooter?” “Um, not because I said I had five dollars?” “No, I let you in because you said you had five bucks, and so I could do this.” She hauled off and slapped him, hard, and he staggered back a couple of steps. “Ow,” he said. “Count yourself lucky, Scooter.” “Lucky?” “Because I slapped you barehanded instead of whacking you with my sap like I should have done. I’ve had it up to here with chumps like you, thinking they can buy me whenever they want.” “I’m so sorry, Bubbles.” His face really hurt. He had actually never been slapped before, but there was a first time for everything. “All right, now take a hike,” she said. “Oh, but wait,” said Addison. “Wait for what? You want me to get my sap out of my purse, because don’t think I won’t.” “Would you like perhaps to go to a movie?” “What?” “A movie. I should be delighted to take you to a movie. And then afterwards perhaps we could get a bite somewhere, I mean, you know, someplace reasonable because I only have just the five-seventy, but –” “You want to go see a movie?” “There’s a new French film at the Waverly that has gotten some very interesting reviews.” “You want to see a French movie?” “Unless there’s something you would prefer?” A pause fell here, the only sound being the rain rattling on the the glass of the flat’s one window. And then Bubbles spoke.   “There’s a new movie around the corner at the Pantages, called The Night Before the Dawn, with Ruth Roman and Cornel Wilde, on a double bill with some movie with Marie Windsor and Steve Cochran called Gambling Boat Lady.” “That sounds like a delightful double feature.” “Did I hurt your face?” “Not too much.” “It would have hurt a lot more if I had used my sap.” “I’m glad you didn’t use the sap,” said Addison. “All right, let me get dressed.” “Should we get a newspaper and check for the showtimes?” “Who cares? We’ll watch the movies until we get to the part where we came in.” “Splendid idea.” And as it happened Addison didn’t get his BJ, but during the March of Time newsreel (about big-game hunting in the Amazon rain forest) Bubbles did give him a gentle massage through his trousers (the same trousers that comprised one half of the brown suit his Aunt Edith had bought him at Wanamaker’s for his graduation from Swarthmore), although not to the point of what he believed the French called la petite mort. He was not quite sure if he would have to pay for this massage, or if he should even ask. Just to be on the safe side (he could still feel the delicious burn of that slap!) he decided to wait and see if Bubbles brought the matter up… next story

“Darkness Be My Destiny”

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

Illustrated by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

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Addison gazed around the automat, not too crowded at this grey time between the rush of lunch and the first stirrings of the dinner trade. Milford hadn’t been here when Addison arrived, and so unfortunately he’d had to buy a cup of coffee with one of his own nickels.  He sat at a small corner table where he could keep an eye on both the Bedford Street entrance and on the side door that opened onto the alley across from the Hotel St Crispian. The rain continued to lash down on the mountains of snow piled along the sidewalks and onto the huddled masses hurrying by, God only knew where they were hurrying to, or from, or why. This would have been a perfect time to smoke a leisurely Philip Morris Commander, but Addison was reluctant to dip into his remaining fund of only seventy cents to buy a pack from the machine, not when Milford might soon be here with quite possibly a full pack of Woodbines, and had not the fellow admitted that he had a trust fund of five hundred a month?  Now that Addison gave the matter a moment’s thought, it occurred to him that Milford was really being rather cheap inviting him to lunch at the automat, and after Addison had supposedly read his collection of bad poetry overnight, not that he’d actually read more than a dozen lines or so of the drivel, but still, it was the principle of the thing. Reading eighty or ninety single-spaced pages of poetry should rate more than just an automat lunch. Which was why he determined anew to try somehow to touch Milford for at least three dollars. With three dollars burning a hole in his pocket he could ring up Bubbles, and, if she was free, purchase another “Baltimore handshake”. For that matter, if he could get five from Milford he could get a “BJ” – he wasn’t entirely sure what a BJ was, but it must be something good if it cost two dollars more than the handshake. And if he flattered Milford sufficiently, perhaps the dullard would even let him have ten, so that Addison could finally get a “throw” from Bubbles, and wouldn’t that be something to write home about? Not that he could ever write home about such a thing. Still no Milford. Addison had finished his cup, but you couldn’t get free refills here, so he waited.  It occurred to him that his chances of hitting up Milford successfully might be improved if he actually looked at a bit more of the chap’s alleged poetry, and so Addison reached into the inside pocket of his old Jacob Reed’s topcoat (bought for him by Aunt Edna upon his graduation from Episcopal lo those many years ago) and brought out that thick scroll of expensive-looking paper tied up absurdly with its red ribbon. He opened it up and, pushing his empty cup and its saucer aside, laid it on the table. The thing was to give the impression not only that he liked the poems, but that he had actually read them, and to do this successfully he might have to say something specific, so he thumbed about a third of the way through the pages and came onto the following: Darkness Be My Destiny (for D.T., again) Darkness be my destiny,  death be my only goal. Oblivion be my cup of tea to soothe my wretched soul. Why must she always torture me with questions I cannot answer? Why must she always pester me with her words made out of cancer? I wish she would just let me be, alone in my lonely room, but, oh, no, she cannot see that I prefer my private gloom. The poem went on, but he had read quite enough of that one. Who was “she” anyway? Who cared? This was pretty unbearable, but Milford still hadn’t shown up, so Addison flipped through a dozen more pages and stopped at: No One Cares a Bit (Also for D.T.) No one cares a bit, not a tiny bit, no one cares even a whit that I have feelings too, you know, very deep feelings, even if they don’t show, but society doesn’t care, not in the least, it only cares for Mammon, the great Beast of the almighty sacred Dollar. It makes me want to holler – but who will hear? Who will heed? Who will satisfy this burning need? Is there no one to be a friend to me, or, failing that, be not my enemy? “Oh, I see you’re rereading my poems,” said a voice. Addison looked up, and sure enough, it was Milford, dressed like some sort of stevedore in his peacoat and newsboy’s cap, and fastening up a black umbrella. “Why, yes,” said Addison, “just looking over some of my favorites.” “You actually have favorites?” “Indeed I do. I especially like this one –” he glanced at the page. “’No One Cares a Bit’. Really, uh, striking.” “Yes, I do think that’s one of my better ones. Listen, I’m starving, are you hungry?” “Famished.” “Then let’s get some nickels and get some food. Then we can discuss my poems at leisure.” “Yes, splendid idea.” Addison went for the macaroni and cheese, the baked beans on toast, the stringbean casserole au gratin, a hot cross bun with butter, and the pineapple upside down cake, while Milford chose the French onion soup, the Welsh rarebit, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, a side of creamed spinach, and the chocolate Jell-O cake. They both had coffee. Milford ate steadfastly, without talking, which was fine by Addison, who hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, and in less than five minutes their plates were empty, and Milford (yes!) took out his pack of Woodbines. “Would you care for one?” “Don’t mind if I do,” said Addison, and he began to lie and to invent and to create in earnest, Milford eating it all up as if it were chocolate Jell-O cake. “That’s all I need to know,” said Milford at last. “To know that my words breathe – that they live, that they – how shall I put it – that they resonate.” “Oh, they certainly resonate,” said Addison. “You don’t know what this means to me, Addison.” “Validation,” offered Addison. “Yes, validation. I wish I could do something in return.” “Oh, but you’ve bought me lunch, old man.” “Yes, that’s true,” said Milford. Now was the time if ever there was a time for Addison to broach the subject of a small loan, to be repaid just as soon as he got his next envelope from home. But something held him back. Pride? Did he still have pride? Yes, he supposed he did, and so alas his next meeting with Bubbles would have to be postponed. But then, after a pause during which the rain spattered against the plate glass of the automat’s windows and people’s voices murmured of whatever they were murmuring and plates clacked and clattered on table tops and trays, Milford spoke. “I’ll tell you a secret, Addison. I told my mother I was taking a friend to lunch at the automat, and she was appalled, and gave me fifteen dollars so I could take you to the Prince Hal Room at the St Crispian, where we could get the sole meunière or the finnan haddie.” “I do like finnan haddie,” said Addison. “She told me to order us a bottle of Sancerre.” “That would have been nice,” said Addison. “Except you forget, we’re alcoholics.” “Oh, right,” said Addison. “I was going to just keep the money, but now I want you to have some of it, because you read my poems.” “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” “You can take this girl of yours out somewhere.” “Well, that would be nice.” “I’ll give you five.” “Gee,” said Addison. “You don’t have to pay me back.” “Thanks, Milford.” “It’s my mother’s money. Thank her.” “Will you thank her for me?” “I most certainly will not. Would you like another cup of coffee? Another Woodbine perhaps. You don’t have to go anywhere right away, do you?” “No, not right away,” said Addison. “I have time for another cup of coffee.” Another cup of coffee, and then nowhere in the world he wanted  to go except to Bubbles’s little flat down the block from the San Remo, and with five dollars in his pocket. And, whatever a BJ was, he would find out soon enough… next story

"Mrs. Milford and Son”

A tale of the faded gentry of New York City by Dan Leo

Tastefully illustrated by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

“On my speaking tours throughout this great land of liberty, it is my habit and pleasure to examine the revolving paperback racks in bus stations and drugstores with a weather eye out for the bold imprint of quinnmartinmarq™ – always the ‘marq’ of quality in literary and artistic publishing!” – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Willy and Mr. Croak: The Story of a Boy and his Frog.

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Who was that on the telephone, dear? “No one.” “It was obviously not no one.” “Can’t I get a telephone call?” “Of course you can. But.” “But what, Mother?” “But for the life of me I can’t remember you ever getting a telephone call before.” “I’ve gotten telephone calls.” “Oh, have you, then it must have been when I was out of the house.” “Yes, it probably was.” “So who were you speaking with?” “A friend. Okay?” “Don’t use that vulgar word. Say all right instead.” “It was a friend, all right?” “That’s much better. And this ‘friend’, does he have a name?’ “Of course he does.” “And may I ask what it is.” “Addison.” “Addison what?” “I don’t know! Why are you grilling me? What is this, a Gestapo interrogation? Where are the rubber hoses? Where are the telephone books?” “I’m delighted to hear you have a friend. What does he do? If anything.” “He is – a novelist.” “A novelist? How charmingly bohemian. Where did you meet him?” “At a meeting.” “Oh.” “Where else would I meet someone?” “Another drunkard.” “We don’t say drunkard, Mother, we say alcoholic.” “Another hopeless sot. Just like your father.” “Excuse me, Mother. I must dress.” “Oh dear me, and it’s only quarter to two. Are you sure you don’t need more rest, dear?” “I am quite well rested, thank you very much.” “Where are you going?” “Who said I’m going anywhere?” “You’re getting dressed, aren’t you? If you were not going somewhere you would stay in your pajamas all the livelong day and night, wouldn’t you?” “I’m going to lunch if you must know.” “With this, what, Atcheson?” “Addison, and, yes, I am having lunch with Addison.” “Where are you lunching.” “At the automat on Bedford, over by the St Crispian.” “Don’t go there. You shouldn’t eat that food. And besides, what will your friend Harrison think?” “I think he will be perfectly delighted to lunch at the automat, especially since I shall be paying for it.” “Don’t be such a tightwad, Marion. Take him someplace nice. Even the dining room at the St Crispian would be better than the automat.” “You’ve eaten at that automat. I know you have because I’ve eaten there with you.” “I have eaten a restorative slice of orange layer cake at the automat, yes, after a grueling day of taking you shopping, because I simply couldn’t stand the further ordeal of speaking to a waiter or waitress, but that’s different. If you’re giving a friend lunch, you do not take him to the automat.” “Oh, God!” “Here, take this ten-dollar bill, and take this fellow Murchison to the Prince Hal Room at the St Crispian. Order the sole meunière, or the finnan haddie. Be a man, for once in your wretched life!” “Oh, all right!” “You may keep the change, and don’t forget, a fifteen percent tip, no more, no less.” “Thank you.” “Here, better take another five, because you really should order a nice bottle of wine for your friend.” “Mother, we are both alcoholics!” “A half-bottle each of a nice Sancerre is not going to kill you, Marion.” “I’ll take the extra five, but only so we can have a nice dessert.” “The Baked Alaska is very good there.” “Fine, I’ll order the Baked Alaska.” At last Milford escaped his mother and went up to his room. What should he wear? The Hemingwayesque ribbed turtleneck again? Yes, damn it, and the newsboy’s cap as well, along with the sturdy workman’s dungarees, and his Abercrombie Wellingtons on account of the rain and snow. And the peacoat. She would no doubt have words to say about his attire, why didn’t he wear his nice grey suit. Well, too bad for her! He was a poet, damn it, and a poet should dress the part. He looked at his face in the pier glass. He had not shaved since yesterday morning. Should he? No! Let her say what she would, the harridan. He was the man of the house, even if she did hold the purse strings. However, just to be on the safe side, and to avoid trouble, when he got downstairs he hurried right through the hall to the foyer, without even saying goodbye to her. He was sorry, but she forced him to be rude! He had gone halfway down the block before he realized he’d forgotten his umbrella, and so he turned and retraced his steps through the cold slashing rain and the mountains of grey snow. It was all Mother’s fault! next story

"Alleyways of Despair"

Another tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

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Addison took that first sip of Ma’s lovely chicory coffee (light, two sugars), and, with a sigh, and wishing he had a cigarette, he unknotted the bow of the red ribbon around Milford’s sheaf of alleged poetry.  The paper looked expensive, thick, and slightly nubbly – a far cry from the cheap typing stock Addison used for his own epic novel.  At the top left of the first sheet was typed a phone number (a SPring-7 exchange) and an address, 175 Bleecker Street. Under that, and centered, was: Alleyways of Despair poems by Marion J. Milford  Marion? No wonder Milford went by Milford.  Addison took another sip of coffee and went to the next page, where he read: Alleyways of Despair (for D.T.) Cry, I cry, down tumbling dark streets, sob, I sob, down avenues of doom, scream, I scream, into my sweatèd sheets mourn, I mourn, in my lonely wretched room. Who will care when I die, I cry, who will sigh when I dare to bare the soul I share in church basements  with other bores who silently stare into the empty Dixie cups of their lives and await their turn to get up  and vomit their own self-pity  in their turn? No one, that’s who, no one, not a one, not a single one… Addison put the sheet down. That was quite enough of that! However, he had spent all but his last eighty-five cents at Bob’s last night, and there had been no envelope from home in the morning’s post, so he got off his stool, and, taking the cover sheet with the phone number, he went back to the payphone on the rear wall, dropped in a dime, and dialed the number. “Milford residence.” “Oh, hello, I wonder if Milford is in?” “Who?” Addison glanced at the sheet. “I mean, uh, Marion?” “Young Mr. Milford?” “Yes, I suppose so. Marion J. Milford?” “Oh. One moment please. I’ll see if he’s available.” Addison waited, for one minute, then another, staring out the rain-streaked plate-glass window at the rain falling on the piles of snow and on the cars and trucks passing by, and on the sad people shuffling along the sidewalk. Finally a whining voice spoke: “Yes, this is Marion J. Milford.” “Hi, Milford, it’s Addison.” “Who?” “Addison. From the meeting, at Old St. Pat’s? Smiling Jack’s friend?” “Oh. You.” “Of course Addison is not precisely my real name, but it’s the one everyone calls me, ha ha. You see, I got the sobriquet because one of the wags at my local said I was always trying to act like the character Addison DeWitt in the film All About Eve –” “I never saw that movie.” “Oh. Well, anyway, Milford – or should I call you Marion?” “Just Milford will do.” “Okay, then –” “I detest the name Marion.” “Well, all right then, so Milford it is!” “Thank you.” “Anyway, Milford, I read your collection of poems –” “You hated them, didn’t you?” “Not at all, old man –” “You didn’t?” “No, far from it. And anyway, you said yesterday that you might like to have lunch so that I could share my thoughts on your, uh, poetic efforts –” “You want to have lunch?” “Well, you know, just so we can, uh, talk –” “Did you really like the poems?” “Yes, they were, uh –” “I was still in bed. I’m still in my pajamas.” “At one-thirty in the afternoon? And I thought I was a late riser!” “What’s the point of getting out of bed?” “Well, that’s a very good question, Milford, and perhaps we could discuss it over a bite to eat.” “I suppose you want me to buy you lunch.” “Well, you did mention that you would treat me to lunch, and in point of fact I am a bit short today –” “Okay, fair is fair. I’ll give you lunch.” “That’s swell, Milford.” “What’s it doing outside? Is it snowing again?” “It’s raining actually.” “Of course it’s raining. And all I want to do is lie in bed with the curtains drawn.” “Well, if you would prefer to meet some other time –” “No, I really want to hear your thoughts on my poems.” “Yes, well, uh –” “Look, I’ll meet you at the automat across from the Hotel St Crispian, on Bedford.” “I shall leave posthaste.” “Give me a half hour. I still need to get dressed.” “A half hour it is, and I look forward –” The phone on the other end clicked and the dial tone came on. What a rude fellow, but still, a free lunch was a free lunch. And, maybe, just maybe he could touch Milford for a small loan. Three dollars perhaps, which would be good for another Baltimore handshake from Bubbles. Who knew, maybe Milford would even spring for a ten, which would pay for a throw at Bubbles’s going rate. A throw! It would be Addison’s first ever, not only with Bubbles, but in his life. And all he had to do was tell Milford what Milford wanted to hear. Addison could do that. Was he not a novelist, a creator? Was he not a spinner of tales and fabulations, of epics?  He went back to the counter, swallowed the cold coffee in his cup, and politely asked Ma for a refill. Should he read some more of Milford’s poetry? God no, life was too short… next story