“There is something magical in seeing what you can do, what texture and tone and colour you can produce merely with a pen point and a bottle of ink.” – Ida Rentoul Outhwaite, Illustrator, 1888-1960

After a somewhat tiresome search, Olive, Bluto, Popeye, and I have at last chanced upon a quaint, two-bedroom walk-up on East 4th Street. Serviceable, if not as opulent as one might prefer, comfortably suited to our means, and perhaps most importantly, affords me the opportunity to reserve a good portion of my assets (garnered from the inheritance from my late pater, J. Wellington Sr.), for a rainy day.

Olive and I each inhabit a bedroom. Bluto and Popeye, currently reduced to intermittent employ, are left to share the living room, to be designated instead as a third bedroom.

The concrete bathtub is rather immodestly located in the kitchen, around which Popeye and Bluto have constructed a removable structure affording privacy for Miss Oyl. Aside from the inconvenience of the location, a plywood board more aesthetically transforms the tub into a kitchen table.

A final quibble concerning our new residence, given the current tendency in my appearance toward the rotund, is that our domicile requires the mounting of three staircases prior to reaching the entrance, an effort that encourages me to plan my comings and goings with some forethought.

—

Previously Olive, with her remarkable resemblance to Louise Brooks, had found regular remuneration as a photographer’s model, having appeared with some regularity in the Montgomery Ward Catalogue, until one of her (how shall we say?) “indiscretions,” culminated in, to borrow the term used in the popular vernacular for such happenstances, “the rabbit passing away.” Given this, Montgomery Ward decided she no longer embodied the virtues required of one making regular appearances in a family catalogue.

The “aftereffect” of her indiscretion will continue to reside with one of her aunts until such time as Olive’s situation admits the possibility of assuming the additional responsibility. In the meantime, Olive has found employment (I am loath to use the word “gainful” here) as a hostess at the Roseland Ballroom, a midtown whites-only dancing establishment.
Bluto and Popeye spend their mornings in consort with the other aspirants populating the docks in Red Hook, in the hopes of earning their keep as stevedores. Unfortunately, being neither of Irish nor Italian descent puts them at somewhat of a disadvantage, regardless of which of those ethnicities has currently, temporarily muscled their way into taking charge of the hiring process.

—

Popeye, comfortably situated on the couch, is delighting in the orchestral sounds of “Paul Whiteman at the Waldorf” when his enjoyment is abruptly cut short by Bluto, who, having arrived in a rather disheveled (one might go so far as to suggest “inebriated”) state, immediately proceeds to switch the dial to “The National Barn Dance.”

“Jusk who does ya tinks youse is?” inquires Popeye.

“Ah get lost, ya runt!” Bluto responds, emphasizing his response by according Popeye a shove that results in a shower of plaster, dislodging a painting through which Popeye’s head now appears.

“Ya big lug! I’ll give ya two fisks of what for!” says Popeye, sending Bluto into a nearby lamp, the shade topping Bluto’s cranium in the manner of a stylishly cocked top hat.

“Boys! Boys! You’re dislodging the lodging!” intervenes Olive.

Needless to say, similar incidents speak to the current state of the furnishings of our habitat, as well as the missing plaster on so many of the interior walls, in many cases where decorative art once hung.

—

We vary in our appetites where dinner is concerned. Myself, I must confess a strong penchant for that classic American staple, the hamburger. Also a carnivore, Bluto shares my enthusiasm in this regard.

Popeye, however, has sworn off heartier fare, for a diet primarily consisting of leafy green vegetables, and Olive keeps close watch on her girlish figure, a habit not uncommon among photographers’ models. Initially she was aided in her efforts by a paramour in the medical profession who introduced her to what became a habitual infatuation with derivatives of the coca leaf. However she has recently developed (pardon the expression) a “nose” for the popularly promoted amphetamine, Benzedrine, which unlike the former medication, is readily available without a prescription. Olive claims these compact tubes, handy for pocket or purse, not only support her efforts to remain a size two, but also provide the get-up-and-go required for those long hours on the dance floor. In any event, her appetite requires a minimal amount of sustenance, which she finds primarily in the form of the latest nutrition supplement currently trumpeted on the radio, the Heath Bar.
Given this disparity of culinary habits, the dinner hour has become a rather haphazard affair.

—

Last night brought with it a fair amount of drama, if not at least a modicum of high excitement. Bluto, responding to a call from the pay telephone in the hall, returned to the apartment with the news that apparently Olive had made arrangements for an after-hours assignation with a gentleman from the dance establishment, only to discover immediately following her receipt of the associated remuneration in advance of her services, that the gentleman was under the employ of the City’s Vice Enforcement Squad.

This resulted in an overnight stay in nearby Greenwich Village at the City’s expense, within the confines of the Women’s House of Detention, a sleeping arrangement that, while not exactly habitual, was not what one might characterize as “novel” to Miss Oyl.
Appearing the following day with the required stipend to effectuate Olive’s release, I am apprised that on this occasion, the charge of resisting arrest has also manifested itself on the report, as during the struggle the arresting officer has quoted Olive as saying, “You keep your hands to you—you—THAT’S what you are!” This was evidently followed by the considerably more profane, “How the fuck do you expect a goddamn working girl to get by on eleven cents a dance?”

—

I believe Geoffrey Chaucer to be the first credited with the comment “All good things must come to an end,” and sadly, so it seems they must. Popeye returned today with news of a talking picture arrangement that potentially affords the opportunity for, among other things, an improvement in the elegance and comfort of his living quarters, as well as those of his anticipated co-stars Olive and Bluto.

While he lamented the fact that he was unable to further extend this newfound entitlement to myself, he did assure me that there would be ample opportunities to participate periodically in supporting roles. Fortunately, given the generosity of my late Pater, as well as the kindly offers of shelter and sustenance on the part of my many friends and relatives, I have never found myself in the position of requiring full-time employ of any kind, nor have I ever fancied any such an opportunity.

—

The first of the talking pictures has been released and the release has brought with it a veritable maelstrom of speculation surrounding the longstanding existence of a possible romantic triangle between the three principals. I have never been one to participate in the furthering of conjecture of this nature, regardless of my long-held suspicions of the veracity of such.

Turning then to a topic of a less salacious nature, Olive is currently investigating temporary quarters at the Waldorf, until such time as she might find a brownstone with a suitable address.

Popeye and Bluto lean more toward slightly less ostentatious arrangements in the form of suites at The Hotel Pennsylvania, conveniently located directly across the Avenue from Madison Square Garden, home to the exhibitions of the Greek wrestling superstar, Jim Lindros, as well as the Polish superstar, Stanislaus Zbyszko.

I myself have been invited to reside with my sister and her husband on their estate, in Hokum-on-Thames, Helminthiasis Hall, an inducement that affords me to continue to place the predominance of my own assets aside for a rainy day, and an offer which I now most humbly accept.

—

Postscript:

Following the removal of the drug “amphetamine” from Benzedrine inhalers, Olive reverted back to her earlier infatuation with cocaine. Her increasingly erratic behavior soon led to her becoming persona non grata in the talking picture industry, and aside from sporadic guest appearances on various Saturday morning television programs, she soon disappeared from the public eye. Recently, however, she has re-emerged with a best-selling memoir, Strong to the Finish: My Life and Times with Popeye by Olive Oyl (with Craig Rice), which, as suggested by the title, describes her relationship with the talking pictures star and former Greek merchant marine, born Gnossos Pappadopoulis (a name, as stars of the screen are wont to say, “far too long for the marquee,” hence the adoption of the more abbreviated nom de guerre, “Popeye”). Readers have further been drawn to her opus by Olive’s candid revelations touching on such rather sordid events as her many affairs, addictions, and battles for rehabilitation.

Bluto moved on from appearances in talking pictures, to directing and eventually producing television shows (appearing in the credits under his birth name, Ivan Blutostakovich). Two of his more prominent televised successes have been “The Bird Whistler,” and the animated version of “The Sopranos” in which he also appears in a recurring supporting role.

In addition to his inheritance, a string of successful investments in the fast food industry have provided J. Wellington Wimpy with a comfortable retirement income. He currently spends his time between his sister’s estate in Hokum-on-Thames and his cousin’s summer home in East Hampton.

The onset of esophageal cancer forced Popeye into early retirement from talking pictures in 1949, at the age of 51. His role was subsequently assumed by his look-alike nephew Pupeye. The sailor succumbed to the disease in June of that year and is buried next to his father, “Poopdeck Pappy” (the late Gnossos Pappadopoulis, Sr.), in New York City’s Woodlawn Cemetery.

Story by Arthur Levine
Photography by Walker Esner