Square Mile

The bar at the airport transit lounge in Hong Kong at 3am is perhaps not an ideal situation for making new friends. On the other hand, two weary travellers alone at a bar can only ignore each other for so long.

He sat on a bar stool with a canvas bag and some kind of instrument case next to him, and ordered a root beer. I noticed that. He was a long, lean dark man, in a dark suit, with narrow eyes. He said his name was James. I took him at his word. We established we didn’t know each other, and after small talk and a few more beverages, he got to storytelling.

A story I already knew as it happened, but from another angle. It was about a place and time, and a world away. Called Square Mile.

He told quite the tale, but mentally I was filling in the gaps.

It was a stone cold scene, as he told it. Nights with whisky, weed, and wild wild women, cool music, everybody enjoying themselves.

Everybody but Miles.

Miles was a nerd, and he would have stood out: short, prematurely balding, high waisted pants, white shirt and bowtie - the very epitome. But he was also so nondescript, somehow nobody noticed.

He grew up, so to speak, in a small house on the East Side, rented by his mother after his father died in a logging accident, leaving them with not much. Leonora started a bakery in the neighbourhood; simple food, breads, quiches, pies, milkshakes, what have you. Miles of course helped, learning the trade, and the bakery was popular. Especially the milkshakes. He was bookish, and a math nerd, but managed pretty well. Well enough that when Leonora took ill, he managed on his own.

When his mother passed, it turned out she’d been frugal enough to leave Miles a decent nest egg. Not that Leonora had been a domineering personality in his life, but for the first time Miles felt he had options. He did the numbers and figured he could score a building on the West Side, and property being cheap over that way, purchased a place on the corner of a square mile block. He had it in mind to set up a diner, which he did.

Miles did have a degree of self awareness, and a nerdy, self-deprecating sense of humour as it happened, so he saw fit to name his establishment ‘Square Miles’. He had a neon sign installed, the kitchen and fittings set up and he was good to go. Setting up his little bakery, Miles realized he was going to have to do more than pies and milkshakes in this expansive setup. So burgers and fries, hash browns, normal diner fare went on the menu, and he hired a short order cook: a large but quiet man, which Miles liked, name of Giles, who had no greater aspiration than flipping burgers all day, which Miles also liked, so Miles and Giles got along okay.

It being a working class neighbourhood, the diner attracted a good few working men, who appreciated the simple, filling fare like their mothers used to make. It seemed natural to add beer and liquor to the menu, in moderation of course. Then another thing happened: the university year started, and the girls, now college girls, remembered Miles’s milkshakes fondly and came in, of course bringing college boys with them. The working men didn’t mind by any means, and everyone got along pretty well, and business was good. Then another thing happened.

Urban sprawl, and a whole new generation of different strokes began to appear, picking up new jobs and making themselves at home.

Late afternoon, a long, lean, dark man sauntered in, weaving through and checking out the scene. He stood out a little, in his dark suit, with slightly nappy hair, and narrow eyes, but seemed quite at ease. He made his way up to the counter and took a seat.

*****

The man ordered a root beer, and it being a warm day, seemed to savour it. From one jacket pocket he produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one. From another he withdrew a book and proceeded to read while he smoked and drank. From time to time he would close the book and look around him, seemingly in thought. I snuck a look at the cover: it was a book called On The Road, by one Jack Kerouac. I didn’t really know anything about it, but had a feeling it was to do with the ‘Beat’ culture, something I’d heard the college kids talk about in passing.

I remarked on it, and he looked up and smiled.

“I was just reading the passage about Slim Gaillard. You know him?” I confessed I did not.

Great jazz man. Knew time. Didn’t make a lick of sense when he opened his mouth, but who cared.”

All I could do was nod. The man rose, having finished his cigarette and root beer. He looked at me and asked:

“You ever have any music in here my friend?”

I gestured to the jukebox. He wandered over and chuckled at the selection of tunes on offer. He turned back.

“You host a lot of box socials here my man?” I shook my head.

“Hm.” He rubbed his chin, like he’d just shaved a beard off, and looked sidelong at me.

“How about live music?”

I didn’t really know how to respond. He gestured to the mezzanine floor.

“Perfect setup my man. A band could fit right in.”

He leaned back on the counter.

“My name’s James.” I had no reason to doubt it. He shook my hand and I introduced myself without quite knowing why.

“I could make this joint jump, every night,” he said confidently. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by joint or jump but still nodded dumbly. I was usually open nights and the crowd would thin out, so it was an intriguing prospect I had to admit. I mumbled something about it being a thing maybe. James shook my hand, eyed up the piano in the corner, and took his leave.

“So you met The Oriental.” A young, ‘hep’ white kid, one of the college kids spoke from down the counter. He always dressed slightly bohemian, and wore his hair a little too long for the army. I believe he frequented the jazz bars in the downtown area.

“The Oriental? He’s called that?”

The kid smiled. “Sure, ‘cause he’s half Japanese. Could make life interesting round here.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but still had a busy “joint” to run, so it went out of my mind.

And so, everything changed again.

*****

“Soon as I saw the place, I saw a mark, man. From the hokey neon signage to the pastel insides, this was a joint was never meant to be cool. But there were a lot of college kids around, some of them seemed kind of right, a lot of them seemed to love this dude’s milkshakes. I could see potential.

“I sat down and ordered something light. Checking out the man there, I could see he was as square as he could be, and okay with that, which I respected. But I could tell he was a bookish kind of nerd, so I pulled out my copy of “On The Road”. I knew he wouldn’t know it, but that it might pique his interest, y’unnerstand. He took the bait, and we got to talking.

“Next thing I knew, we had a gig. Well, I knew it; Miles there was blissfully unaware, least ‘til we showed up next night.

“I’d called up some of the gang: Chubbly Blue on trumpet, Lean Preacher for the bass, my brother Johnny ‘Sticks’ Hicks for drums of course; last minute I called up my other brother Tasty Jules for some guitar if needed. I figured I could swap between cornet and piano. I told ‘em over a session, listen: we don’t wanna bring the house down and freak the poor guy out, so we move in mellow and easy, okay. Just a few hokey standards, nothing too crazy just yet at least. No girlfriends, just yet, and no hijinks okay.

“Chubby wanted to make sure he could still get high, and Preacher wanted to make sure he could get his fix first. I assured them all would be just fine, long as we played it cool for starters.

“So next afternoon, we move on in: everything smooth and mellow for us. I could tell the man was a touch…startled, though. A little out of his estimation, shall we say.”

*****

To say Miles was startled was an underestimation. He stood behind the counter, a little stunned as the drums, and a few other instruments cruised on in, carried by strange men of various shades and shapes he’d never seen before. Once everyone was set up to their satisfaction, The Oriental plugged in the small public address system and microphone, then sauntered over to the counter to greet Miles.

“My man,” he said, extending a hand, which Miles took, unsure what else to do. He stared over at the mezzanine, now crowded with instruments, including his mother’s old piano which had mysteriously been transported up there without him noticing.

Chubby came in through the outdoor, grinning widely, freshly stoned and thirsty, about to order a root beer when the selection of milkshakes caught his eye, He stood transfixed for a minute, which went on.

“This is my chubby buddy,” said James, also smiling widely (kind of like a crocodile, Miles thought). His name’s Chubby. I think he’d like a strawberry shake.” Miles nodded dumbly and obliged. Chubby slurped it, his eyes lighting up like it was a revelation.

“Damn,” said Chubby. “If this ain’t the best milkshake I ever had.” He turned to Miles.

“Miles, right?” Extending a hand. “My name’s Chubby, and you are the man.” He turned back to James.

“Serious man. You tried these?” Back to Miles, who was turning a little strawberry coloured himself. “My man, we just make music, but this - this is like a symphony in my mouth. You is one talented man.” Chubby was clearly a man of some gastronomic enthusiasm. When Preacher stalked over, Chubby tried to entice him with a shake, but Preacher opted for a root beer. A high yeller mulatto in a cream flannel suit, Preacher didn’t like to disturb his pencil moustache by moving his lips too often or far. He was almost as slit-eyed as The Oriental, but that was more due to his habits than his genes. Somehow he looked like he could be packing a switchblade. As he sloped off back to the bandstand, Miles wondered aloud how he got to be called Preacher. The man heard him, turned a little and mumbled. “Man’s better known by his actions than his words.”

James leaned over and confided with a smile, “Fact is, my man there’s got rotten teeth.”

Miles knew little about switchblades and such, but he was by turns charmed, confused and a little intimidated by the goings on. Sticks meanwhile preferred to hang out behind his drumkit, swigging on a hip flask and looking surly. He thought he was doing his brother a favour, typically not considering the break he was getting after a run of social and legal misadventures.Tasty Jules was a no show, no surprise.

It was around seven o’clock, most of the working stiffs had gone home, but some were still there along with the college kids. As the gentlemen hit the ‘bandstand’, Johnny impatiently let off a little blast of bass, snare, and crash cymbal to draw attention, which it immediately did. As the kids experienced a little whiplash, James mounted the stage, gently motioning Johnny to take it easy.

The Oriental stepped up to the microphone and cleared his throat with a smile. He spoke pleasantly, so as not to scare anyone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to be here for the first of many - “ he looked over at the counter and his smile widened - “evenings of providing entertainment for you wonderful people. We hope y’all will enjoy what we can bring to your sense of well being.”

And further ado foregone, James turned and sat at the piano. He tapped out a few notes to set the pace and tone, looked over at Preacher who followed suit, then Sticks kicked in while Chubby geared up to come in on a leisurely rendition of “My Funny Valentine”. James was checking over his shoulder to see if it was hitting the mark.

It so happened it was. Miles’s mother’s favourite song. He was standing behind the counter with tears running down his cheeks. James didn’t quite know how he knew, but he knew. He looked over at Preacher who nodded. It was a gift.

From there it was plain sailing. The kids drifted up to what, as the chairs and tables had somehow disappeared to somewhere, was now a dance floor. The music loosened up as did the evening, all of them waltzing to “Begin the Beguine” by the end, loving it before rushing off at 11pm to their dorms or wherever.

The gentlemen quit their noodling, and packed their gear up and into the rusty black wagon before coming back inside. They relaxed like it was a second home already, and ordered beer mostly from Miles, while Preacher politely asked for a little “bourbon-orooni”. Chubby practically demanded another milkshake. They drank and talked, and laughed, while Miles took it all in and served, until they ran out of beer and bourbon around three o’clock and made moves to blow.

That was when The Oriental leaned close to Miles to inquire regarding their fee. Miles, tired as he was, had the presence of mind to point out that nobody had paid for their drinks and in fact had cost him - he referred to his books -

The Oriental cut him off sharply.

“My man,” he said, his voice lowering.

“What we did tonight was lay foundations my friend. You saw the reaction to what we laid down tonight right? They gonna be comin’ back, and they gonna be disappointed after they had a taste of your milkshake.

“You need to consider this as an investment my man. Word gets around, and word is money. Trust me, and it will be flowing like melted ice cream. So, just so we can eat and do our thing before we come back tomorrow,,,”

Miles thought fast, and fished through his till and caught forty dollars which he brought up in slightly shaky hands. James took it with a smile.

“I knew you were a man to be trusted.” He raised his last shot glass of Preacher’s bourbon, knocked it back, set it down with a bang, and shook Miles’s hand.

“See you tomorrow, my man.”

He left Miles to assume that was true.

*****

It was true. And I felt like my life was changing in a way beyond my control. I cleaned up the mess left on the newly christened dance floor, retired and woke up next day, not very refreshed. I was pouring a strong coffee for myself when guess who showed up. He looked fresh as a daisy, without a minute’s sleep overnight. I could only imagine why or how.

“My man.” Grinning wide like a crocodile.

I was acutely aware the working folks would be in soon so behind my pounding head I only paused a moment, not really hearing his words as I rolled pastry.

“Great start last night. I tell you, we got one cool line up for tonight. My buddy Lucky Fluke's coming from cross town to blow on trombone, His bud Hube Allpress to play some wicked piano, it’ll be swingin’. See you round seven.”

As noted I barely took it in as the trickle of early visitors turned to a steady flow and I was serving bacon, eggs and sausage, coffee and a roll, what have you. The custom had got so I’d had to hire an extra short order cook, name of Angelo, a lanky kid with no work ethic but all I could afford. Kept having to hustle him along. Giles didn’t like him but he was off sick a lot lately.

It also got so I needed a waitress. The Oriental showed up later in the day and noticed this too.

“You know, my man.” He leaned on the counter sucking on a root beer through a straw. “You need a waitress.”

I silently acknowledged this while I hustled around.

“Doin’ too much by yourself Miles.” Funny, I realized it was the first time he’d used my name.

“I know a gal can use a job. Great with customers, can serve food and drinks anytime. I’ll send her over. Her name’s Ellie.”

And he was off and out before I had a chance to reply.

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Ellie showed up. Tall, dark, very curly hair, dressed in a way that was meant, I guessed, was to make men desire her. She introduced herself as Ellie, my new waitress and bartender. I stood, dumbly as usual, while she rearranged the space to suit her and having done that, sat down and lit a cigarette. I in turn took an order for bacon, eggs, and hash browns, yelled it out, and rang the bell she gave me for such purposes. She in turn gave Angelo an earful in very loud terms until he in turn jumped to it. I decided I liked Ellie.

Between us, Angelo cowed by Ellie, who was seemingly doing a roaring trade at the bar; mostly I just had to take orders and make milkshakes. All seemed to be going smoothly. Until everything changed again.

*****

Who knows how The Oriental knew, but he knew. He threw a party. Invited all the best players he knew, and with his pull, most of them showed up. He managed to cram eight players on the mezzanine and a couple more around it, and introduced the evening. His cornet in hand as Big Sailor was already planting his fat fingers on the piano, with an ever so gentle touch - for now.

“My friends,” James started. “We wish to pay tribute tonight to the man - my man Miles, who made this happen and was born today, however many years ago, never mind that. Point is, we have a brand new piece we’d like to perform tonight in his honour. It’s composed by my buddy Chubby Blue, and it’s called ‘Milkshake Man.’”

Chubby led it in on trumpet, with a long sweet croon, until the band joined in with a slow. smooth, silky rhythm, with milky overtones, the odd Eastern flourish for which The Oriental was known, occasionally suggesting there was more to Miles than just made to measure. A little jump here and there to make his heart beat a little bit faster. Miles felt every jump, every note.

The song ended, and that was Miles, still transported. He turned to see not only Ellie, but her smaller friend, who she introduced as Alice. Alice was just a little shorter than Miles, making her pretty short, relatively pale, with dark, curly hair and a small but curvy smile with red, red lips. She looked at Miles sweetly and claimed to be a fan. Miles didn’t know what to say until she asked if she could please have a strawberry milkshake. Miles went into action and duly presented one which she drank with great pleasure apparently.

As the noise grew around them, people passing bottles and things, flesh and thighs between them, the sweet smell of something Miles didn’t know rising around the joint, Alice, pressed against Miles, her milkshake finished but her lips still sweet. asking if there was somewhere they could go. Miles, head swimming, suggested the upstairs apartment. There wasn’t much to it: a bed, lamp, writing desk, just enough room to move.

So up they went, leaving Ellie in charge while the music raged on, reaching fever pitch downstairs. ‘Night in Tunisia’ had the kids jumping like crazy but Miles paid no mind. Somehow they made it to the bed, Alice taking control of Miles’s inexperienced body and kissing him passionately and moving oh so smoothly and sweetly against him. She fed him white wine and brandy and told him how good he was. It didn’t take long. Miles lay there, spent and still heaving slightly, while Alice was already dressed again. She bent, kissed him lightly, murmured something meaningless and left.

Miles, after a while, roused himself, dressed, and wobbled downstairs, one step at a time. He re-entered his diner to see what he could only think of as Gomorrah. The college kids were cavorting with the crazy cats; handshakes were happening with money and who knows what involved. People were making out in dark corners, That sweet smell hung heavy in the air. The dance floor was slick with sweat and spilt booze. Miles stumbled outside, amidst the parked cars and partygoers. He looked up to see the ‘S’ on the end of his sign had frizzed out, leaving the name people were drunkenly howling:

“Square Miiile!”

Miles staggered back in, feeling a little queasy. He found his way back to his usual spot behind the milkshake dispensers. He watched the night through glassy eyes as the music grew wilder and every man with some weird name and haircut took their turns, taking it higher and higher until Miles was nearly comatose from the sound, the drink, the contact high.

All of a sudden it came to a stop.

The doorway darkened as three policemen filled it. Miles froze of course, while every man on the bandstand checked their pockets. When they asked who was in charge, all fingers pointed to Miles, who lurched up to the counter, not quite comprehending.

The lead officer advanced.

“You’re in charge of this establishment?”

Miles nodded dumbly as usual.

“You’re aware illegal activities are taking place on your premises and we could have you shut down like that?” Officer Krupke snapped his fingers.

“Like that?” Miles snapped his own.

“Yes, like that.” He turned to survey the cowering crowd.

He turned back. “So, your name sir?”

Miles pointed to the manager’s certificate on the wall behind him. “Miles.”

“Surname?”

No sir.”

“No surname?”

“Couldn’t decide on one sir.”

He saw out of the corner, The Oriental eyeing him with new respect.

The cop huffed.

“Well that’s not what we’re here about anyway. We understand there’s a man here with a few warrants out on him. We believe he’s known as Preacher, Lean Preacher or some such. We hope you don’t mind if we take a look around.”

Miles stayed dumb and shook his head once.

Officer Krupke leaned closer. “You don’t know him do you?”

Miles couldn’t have been any dumber as he shook his head twice. It was true enough, to be fair.

The men made their way through the crowd of terrified teenage stoners toward the mezzanine. They only just got there when a wild man in an off white suit leapt out, laughing maniacally and brandishing a set of rotten teeth and a switchblade. Fortunately the nearest officer, a nimble young fellow, disarmed the high yeller junkie who was quickly subdued and led out to a patrol car.

Things settled down after their exit, the kids trickled out nursing their little traumas. Miles was left with the dregs, the musicians, Ellie, and wait - there was Alice. Miles almost called to her, then saw that she was exiting on the arm of a large, well dressed man. James, now seated at the counter with a whisky in hand, looked at Miles knowingly.

“Been quite a night my man, say what.”

Miles was still looking after Alice’s disappearing figure. Chinks were slowly showing in his naivete.

“So she was - she’s…”

James reached over and gently punched Miles on the arm. “Happy birthday my man.”

Miles went visibly pale, and his nausea returned. He gulped a little in his mouth before scurrying off to the rest room, leaving James chuckling a little.

Surrounded by white walls and glaring light, Miles heaved up a gallon of white wine and brandy, along with whatever food he’d taken in that day. His mother’s voice rattled around in the back of his head, telling him his first time would be special. Would have to be. Another part of his head said sardonically, well it was, kind of.

James came in and entered the adjacent booth. Miles got up, unsteady, flushed the toilet and staggered over to wash his face. Looking up at the mirror, he saw a different pair of eyes. The Oriental came up behind him and clapped him on the shoulder before washing his hands.

“Popped your cherry, my man.” As noted, who knows how he knew, but he knew.

*****

“After that, bit of a change came over my man Miles.

“Fact is, Square Mile became the place to be. Wild music, plenty of people havin’ they selves a time, everything flowing freely. Miles, he decided he was gonna be the maestro now. Swapped out his suspenders for a silk shirt, a bigger bowtie, some kind of red velour jacket, got a comb over and everthang. Flirted with the girls. Made a big deal with his milkshakes and insisted we play the song every night, sometime with him dancin’ in front like a cement mixer. It was kind of embarrassing. The college kids thought it was funny. Funny, it wasn’t to us.

“Miles was not cool, and would never be. Somebody had to break it to him. One night, we were chillin’ after the gig, just me and a few of the guys. Miles was all hyped up, talking ninety to the dozen about what a great night it had been - pretty average to my mind. It was obvious he’d had a snort of something and was talking himself up to fever pitch when my man Chubby said “Yeah, this ain’t you man.”

“And he said it so quiet and so kind, bless his bones, it stopped Miles in his tracks. You ever see a man at the very moment his heart breaks? I have, mercy. It was like that new light in his eyes, it just died. Because he knew. He just sat down and sort of sobbed. Crumpled up inside. None of us knew what to do, but then who should walk in but Alice, on her own. She went round behind the counter and whispered in his ear. Don’t know what she said, but it got him up and out of there. Me and the boys, we decided on the better part of discretion and exited ourselves. Last we saw of that Miles. Or Alice, for that matter…

“I went in next day and there he was, front and centre like usual, in his old shirt and suspenders, small bowtie. I asked him if he was good to go that evening and he nodded in that same old dumb way. Looked hard at him, and there was no sign of that light in his eyes. More of a…faraway look, you might say. Well, whatever you might say, last night was the last night I saw him looking alive.”

He finished his root beer, and signaled for another.

“Seemed like he was just doin’ it by the numbers those last couple weeks.”

*****

The band played like usual, Miles served milkshakes and burgers and fries, people came and drank and partied. Miles watched it all in a detached manner. He left at closing time for his upstairs apartment. Sometimes Alice appeared, and stayed a while. They talked about their lives and dreams, such as they were. She never stayed long, because the big man would be looking for her, but always left Miles wanting more. In time, his plan became concrete.

He’d done his research: he knew which wires to disconnect to make it look like an accident. He waited until about three in the morning, when he knew there was absolutely no one around. He’d put everything he wanted to keep in a brown leather suitcase, and he’d quietly contacted Alice. By 6am, they were both ready to go.

*****

“I don’t know why I was up and round there, maybe a little too much action that night. But I saw the flames and heard the fire trucks ringing - by the time I got there the place was razed, man. To the ground. No Square Mile no more. And no Miles.

“Last I saw of my man - least I think it was him, big overcoat and hat, but right size and walk - he was getting on a greyhound bus headed north. Thought I saw a woman in there as well, but couldn’t make her out.”

*****

Miles cashed in his insurance, no problem, and he and Alice headed north to Toronto, bought a small house. There, Miles took up a job and did very well, becoming a sales manager, which was how he came to be there, for a conference. He’d paid off Alice’s pimp and she in turn became a dutiful housewife. Life treated them well in its way, and brought him here this morning, where he heard his boarding call. He paid his tab and shook James’s hand, thanking him for his company.

James was looking at him sidelong. “You sure we never met, my man?”

Miles smiled. “Anything’s possible.” He had long since grown a beard and wore glasses now. He wore a regular suit, with a bowtie. He’d taken on his middle name and his father’s surname. He gave James a business card:

SQUARE DEAL FOODS

Davis Armstrong

Sales Manager

It had a picture of a jar of marmalade next to it. “I sell marmalade.” He explained. “Big market for it over here, some reason. Look me up if you’re in Toronto.”

*****

Something nagged me about that dude. The way he talked, and the way he walked away. When he opened his wallet to pay his tab, I saw a photo in there. Was only quick but it looked a hell of a lot like Alice. Walking to the departure lounge, with his neat brown suitcase, he was humming a tune.

Swear it sounded a lot like “Milkshake Man”.