Dan Leo's Blog, page 2

"Onward Into the Dark"

 

The weedy man with the garnet toupée still sat on his stool by the doorway, smoking his pipe.

"What, you're leaving already?"

"Yes, well, just a quick one," said Addison.

"Oh, 'a quick one'," said the man, what was his name? Ben?

"Yeah," said Addison, "one and done, you know…"

"No, I don't know," said the man, yes, Ben was his name, Ben the Bore. "I'll tell you what I do know. Do you want to know what I know?"

"Sure," said Addison.

"What I do know is you yourself don't look like the one-and-done type. You look more like the drink until you run out of money or people to buy you drinks type to me."

"Um –" said Addison. Was he really that transparent?

"And as for you," the man addressed Milford, "you strike me more as the sit sullenly at the bar downing beer after beer until the bartender throws you out at 4 A.M. at which point you stagger into the nearest alleyway and pass out in a pool of your own piss on the cold cobblestones amidst the garbage and rats type."

"Uh –" said Milford. Was it really that obvious?

"What's the matter," said the guy, "this place not 'exciting' enough for you two?"

"No," said Addison, "it's not that –"

"Not enough brilliant repartee for you gentlemen here?"

"Look, sir," spoke up Milford, "we're just leaving, all right? There's no law saying we have to stay here, is there?"

"Not that I know of," said Ben the Bore.

"Well, then, good night."

"But can I just say something?"

"Okay," said Milford, sighing, for the twelve-thousandth and thirty-fourth time since he had awakened long ago the previous morning from a troubled sleep into a more troubled wakefulness.

"Why are you sighing?" said the man.

"Don't mind Milford," said Addison, "he sighs quite often."

"I hope I'm not boring him," said Ben the Bore.

"Oh, I'm sure you're not," said Addison.

"Am I boring you, Milforth?" said the man, to Milford.

"My name is Milford, and, yes, you're boring me," said Milford.

"Well, that's just too bad, young fellow, because I've got something to say, and you're going to have to listen to it."

"All right," said Milford, putting his fist to his mouth to stifle another sigh.

"I just want to say," said Ben the Bore, pausing and pointing the mouthpiece of his pipe at Milford, and then at Addison, "I only wish to say that I hope you two fellows don't think you're better than us."

"We don't, we assure you," said Addison.

"Then why may I ask are you leaving when you just got here?"

"We have to go somewhere."

"Where?"

"To another bar."

"Another 'bar'?"

"Yes."

"What other bar." 

"It's called the Hideyway I think."

"The Hideaway?"

"Yes, that's it."

"That's a Negro bar."

"Yes, we're aware," said Addison.

"You're not Negroes."

"Of that we also are aware."

"Then why are you going there?"

"Listen –" said Milford, "Ben is it?"

"Yes," said the man. "Ben. Ben the Bore. I'm surprised you remember my name. Most people don't. And I suppose you know why."

"Because you're so boring?"

"Yes. Which is why I am called Ben the Bore. Not Ben the Exciting Guy. Ben the Bore. And I am okay with that. But you were saying something? Or about to?"

"Yes," said Milford, "but now you've bored whatever it was I was going to say right out of my head."

"And for that I apologize. See? I may be a bore, but at least I'm polite."

"Uh," said Milford.

"Boring but polite, that's me," said Ben the Bore.

"Yeah," said Milford. "Oh, wait, now I remember –"

"Remember what?"

"What I was going to say."

"Please say it then. See, I said please, because I'm polite."

"Okay," said Milford, "what I was going to say was, and no offense intended, but what business of yours is it that we're going to a Negro bar or any other sort of bar?"

"Oh," said Ben. "Wow."

"What do you mean?" said Milford.

"What I mean is, wow, the arrogance."

"How is what I said arrogant?"

"Because you're implying that I am overstepping my bounds simply because I find it shall we say curious to say the least that two gentlemen as blatantly Caucasian as yourselves would want to go to a Negro bar, but you won't stay and enjoy yourselves here, with your fellow members of the European ethnicities."

"Here's one reason," said Milford. "It's that everything about this place is boring, and annoying, including you. The whole place reeks of tedium. Even the bartender told us we should leave."

"He did, huh? That's Joe for you. Well, I'm sorry he said that, and I will have to have a word with him. We can't have him scaring away customers that way. So, look, why don't you fellows go back to the bar and just have another drink, maybe get something to eat. If you don't want the baloney and American cheese sandwich on white bread special, you might consider the peanut butter and jelly on white bread, that's pretty good."

"Sorry, we're going," said Milford.

"So what you're saying is that it's really just too boring for you here."

"Yes," said Milford, "it's too boring here."

"That hurts," said Ben. "And you know why it hurts? It's because you two look pretty damn extremely boring to me. And if you fellows think it's too boring here, what does that say about this place? About everyone in here? What does it say about me? Yeah, I'll admit it, that hurts. That stings."

"But we really do have somewhere else to go," said Addison. "So don't take it personally."

"Right," said Ben. "The Hideaway. The Negro bar."

"Yes," said Addison.

"I wish I could go there," said Ben.

"Then you should go," said Addison. "It's really quite an amusing place."

"Yeah, I'll bet it is," said Ben.

"So go there sometime," said Addison.

"I did try to go there one time," said Ben. "They wouldn't let me in. And, you know, it wasn't because I was white, either."

"Oh," said Addison.

"No, it wasn't because I'm white. It was because they said I looked too boring."

"Let's go, Addison," said Milford, after a pause that was awkward even compared to all that had gone before.

"Sure, go," said Ben the Bore. "I won't stop you."

"Thanks," said Addison. 

"Don't thank me," said Ben.

"All right," said Addison.

"Just leave," said Ben the Bore. "But I will say this. Don't come back."

"We won't," said Milford.

"Enjoy the Hideaway. Enjoy the Negro bar. Enjoy the music, and the happy people. Enjoy your capability of experiencing enjoyment."

"We'll try to," said Addison.

"Come on, Addison," said Milford. He didn't want to have to touch his friend's arm again, but he would if it came to that.

"Okay," said Addison. "Good night," he said to Ben the Bore.

"I hate my life," said Ben.

Addison was rarely at a loss for words, but now he was. Milford broke down and gave his companion's arm a slight pat, and they went to the door. Addison opened it, Milford went through, and Addison followed him.

Outside in the dim corridor Addison took one last drag from what was left of his latest Chesterfield and dropped it to the floor.

"Okay," he said.

"Yes," said Milford. "Okay."

He went over and stepped on Addison's Chesterfield butt, grinding it out with the sole of his stout workman's brogan.

"I'm starting to wonder," said Addison. "If we'll ever find our way back."

"Me too," said Milford.

"I mean," said Addison, "should we just give up? Just keep going until we find an exit, and go home?"

Milford paused.

"No," he said. 

"Are you thinking of the ladies we left back at the Hideyway?"

"The Hideaway," said Milford.

"Yes," said Addison.

"Yes," said Milford. "I was thinking of them."

"I don't really want to go home either," said Addison. "So shall we continue?"

Right before them was the dim hallway leading back the way they had come, and to the right and the left was another dim hallway, ending in darkness in both directions.

"We should have asked for directions," said Addison.

"Yes, we should have," said Milford.

"We could go back in and ask that Ben guy for directions."

"Yes, we could," said Milford.

"But we're not going to, are we?"

"No, we're not," said Milford.

"Okay, then," said Addison. "Which way?"

Milford looked to the left, and then to the right.

"To the left?"

"Fine," said Addison.

"No, to the right," said Milford.

"Right it is," said Addison.

They hesitated a moment, and then, without another word, turned to the left, and walked down the dim corridor towards the darkness.

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Bar Bores"

 

"This place doesn't seem so bad," said Addison, drawing a dirty ashtray closer, and tapping his Chesterfield ash into it. "Don't you agree, old man?"

"In the sense that no one has tried to beat us up yet, yes, it doesn't seem so bad."

A bartender came over. He was big and large all over, and wore a red bow tie. His dark hair was slicked back and he looked bored. 

"Do you want anything?" he said.

"We would like two beers, please," said Addison.

"Okay," said the man. "We have Schaefer beer."

"Any other kinds?" said Addison.

"No," said the man, with just a slight note of sadness in his voice. "Schaefer is the only beer we carry."

"Well, I guess we'll have two Schaefers then," said Addison.

"Is draft okay?"

"Do you have bottles?"

"No."

"Let's make it two draft Schaefers then."

"Is a mug all right?"

"Are there any other choice?"

"No, we only serve beer in twelve-ounce mugs."

"Okay, then, two mugs of Schaefer, please."

"Do you know what they say about Schaefer beer?" said the man, after a brief pause.

"That it's the one beer to have when you're having more than one?"

"Yes," said the man. "And do you know why?"

"Because Schaefer's pleasure doesn't fade even when your thirst is done?"

"This is true," said the man. And then, after a brief pause, "the most rewarding flavor in this man's world, for people who are having fun."

He stood there.

"So," said Addison, "two mugs of Schaefer then?"

"If you like," said the man.

"We would like," said Addison.

"Okay. I'll go get them now."

He went away, presumably to the beer taps.

A man to Addison's left leaned in to face the two friends.

"Don't mind Joe," he said. "Do you know what Joe's problem is?"

"That he's insane?" ventured Addison.

"Ha ha, you jest," said the man. "Ha ha." 

He was a fat man, yet another one. It seemed that nearly everyone they met was either fat or thin. Where were the normal people? 

The fat man addressed Milford. 

"Your friend is a jester, sir!"

Milford said nothing. He had learned very little in his years spent as a young alcoholic, but one thing he had learned is that you should never encourage conversations with strangers at bars.

"I'll tell you what Joe's problem is," said this new fat man, unbidden. 

Neither Addison nor Milford said anything. Even Addison could tell the man was a bore, and Addison admittedly had a very high tolerance for boredom, but he did have his limits.

"I said I'll tell you what his problem is," said the new fat man. Neither of our heroes said anything, and so after a moment he said, "I'll tell you what his problem is. Do you want to know?"

"Is it," said Addison, "that he is an uncomfortably oversized human being who has the ill fortune to tend bar for a living?" 

The man took pause.

"You are very astute, sir," he said. "Very astute. Hey, Clyde," he spoke in a louder voice, apparently addressing someone to Milford's right.

"Yes, Kevin?" said this other man, and Addison and Milford turned to look at him. This was a thin man, with a long face the color of the winter sky before a snowfall.

"I said did you hear what this astute young fellow said?"

"I confess that, yes, I was eavesdropping," said the man apparently named Clyde.

"He divined Joe's problem," said the fat man, presumably named Kevin.

"Well done," said Clyde. "A most perspicacious fellow!"

The bartender was back, at last, and he put mugs in front of Addison and Milford. The beer in the mugs, if beer it was, had no head, just a sad tracing of white on its surface.

"Here's your beers," said the bartender. "That'll be ten cents."

"Let me get this," said Kevin.

"No, I've got it," said Clyde.

"That's okay," said Addison.

"No, I insist," said the fat man.

"I insist as well," said the thin man.

"No, please," said Addison.

"Let me get it," said Kevin.

"No, it's on me," said Clyde.

"Let me just dig a dime out," said Addison, making no move to put a hand in a pocket.

"I wouldn't hear of it," said Kevin.

"Nor I," said Clyde.

"Here," said Milford, and he laid a quarter on the bar. "Keep the change," he said to the bartender seemingly named or known as Joe.

"Thanks," said the bartender.

"You're welcome," said Milford. He grabbed his beer mug, all his reservations about drinking an alcoholic beverage temporarily vanished.

"It's so good to see some new blood in this establishment," said the fat guy, leaning in so close to Addison that their arms touched.

"Yes, we need fresh new blood in this place," said the thin man, also leaning in, the whole side of his body from his arm down to his thigh pressing against Milford, who cringed even from his mother's touch.

"I'm wagering you two are literary men," said the fat guy Kevin.

"They possess all the earmarks," said the thin man Clyde. "On the one hand the shabby suit of threadbare flannel and a decrepit fedora, with a chin bespeaking the only occasional use of a razor, and that with a blade at the minimum six months old, while on the other hand the ostentatiously demotic uniform of peacoat and dungarees, complete with newsboy's cap, worn by a young fellow whose lily white hands have most obviously never wielded a longshoreman's hook nor hauled on a bowline."

"Tell us," said Kevin the fat man, breathing his warm beery breath into Addison's averted face, "if you don't mind, your names, or noms de plume, so that we may keep a weather eye out for your work."

"My name is –" said Addison, and he paused before continuing, "Maxwell Thornburgh. And my friend's name is –"

"Mack Jackson," said Milford, and he compulsively lifted his mug and gulped down half of it, his alcoholism be damned.

Addison also lifted his mug and drank down half.

"Maxwell Thornburgh," said Kevin. "Mack Jackson? And have you gentlemen published?"

"We are both in the midst of huge massive projects, and so our books have not yet reached the shops, although we have contracts with major publishers," said Addison. 

"I am impressed," said Kevin. "May we know what sort of massive works you both are embarked upon?"

"I myself am composing an epic novel, or perhaps a roman fleuve, on the hideousness of contemporary America, while my friend Mack is writing, uh –"

"An epic poem, in hexameters," said Milford, "on the hopelessness of human existence."

"Oh, I'd love to read that," said the thin man, what was his name, Clyde. "What do you think of Robert Frost?"

"I think he's a fraud," said Milford.

"You say you are writing an epic novel," said Kevin, addressing Addison, "perhaps a roman fleuve. May I ask your opinion of Marcel Proust?"

"He's okay," said Addison. "If you don't mind reading about mind-numbingly tedious dinner parties for thousands of pages."

"Ha ha," said Kevin, "oh, dear. I hesitate to ask what you think of Mr. James Joyce!"

"What does it matter?" said Addison.

"I beg your pardon?"

"What does it matter what I think of Joyce?"

"Gee."

"Hey, buddy," said the thin man, Clyde, leaning in so close that his own beery breath assaulted Milford's nostrils with the force of a miniature noxious gale, "Kevin is only trying to make conversation."

"Excuse me, what is it, Clyde," said Milford, to the face that was only three inches from his own, "but would you mind leaning away from me?"

"Oh," said Clyde, backing up his face only an inch, "am I intruding upon your personhood?"

"Yes, you are, and, if you don't mind my saying so, your breath smells like a sewer. A sewer on the street outside a slaughterhouse. A backed-up sewer. In August."

"How dare you?" said the thin man, Clyde.

"Hey, that's not nice," said the fat man, Kevin.

"You know," said Addison, addressing the fat man, "while we're on the subject, I wish you also would lean away from me, and, if I may say so, your breath also is quite vile. May I recommend Dubble Bubble gum? It sweetens the breath, and you can also make bubbles with it, and when the bubble has reached its maximum diameter you can let it explode with a most satisfying popping sound."

"How dare you," said the fat man.

"Yeah, how dare you both," said the thin man.

"Hey, everything okay here?" said the bartender, who was standing there again.

"Me and Clyde were just trying to be friendly," said Kevin, "and now these two scamps insult us."

"Saying we're sitting too close to them and and that we have bad breath," said Clyde.

"Why don't you two just leave them alone then?" said Joe the bartender. 

"What?" said Kevin the fat man.

"Yeah, what?" said Clyde the thin man.

"I'll tell you why you don't leave them alone," said Joe. "It's because you're both inveterate bores, like everybody else in this place, and you're not happy unless you're boring someone and sucking the life force right out of them."

"Well!" said Kevin.

"Yeah," said Clyde, "well, indeed!"

"My advice to you two guys," said the bartender, addressing Addison and Milford, "is to finish your beers and get out of here and never come back. Unless you want to wind up like these two. Unless you want to wind up like me."

"Well, I never!" said Kevin.

"Yeah, I never either," said Clyde.

"The nerve," said Kevin.

"The unmitigated gall," said Clyde.

"Okay, let's go," said Milford to Addison.

"All right," said Addison, with a note of sadness or regret in his own voice. He lifted his mug and drained it. He put the mug down and glanced at Milford's mug, which was still half full. "Aren't you going to finish that?"

"You can have it," said Milford, who knew Addison all too well.

Quickly Addison picked up Milford's mug, and it was the work of a moment for him to empty it and place it back on the bar top.

"Okay, I'm ready," he said.

"Please don't go," said Kevin the fat man. "We won't suck your life force anymore."

"We won't lean in so close either," said Clyde. "We promise."

As one Addison and Milford climbed off their stools.

Addison addressed the bartender.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

"You're welcome," said the man. "And now, leave, if you value your souls, leave at once."

"Please don't leave," said the fat man.

"Yeah, don't go," said Clyde the thin man. "We'll be good."

"Listen," said Kevin the fat man. "I know we got off to a bad start, but give us another chance. Let us buy your next couple of rounds of beers."

"Schaefer beer," said Clyde. "Schaefer's pleasure doesn't fade even when your thirst is done."

"The most rewarding flavor in this man's world," said the fat man, "for people who are having fun."

"And shots of whiskey, too, Kevin," said Clyde. "I propose that you and I both buy a round of shots and beers!"

"Hang it all, Clyde," said Kevin, "but you're talking turkey now! Sit back down, fellas, because we're just getting started."

"Schenley's whiskey," said Clyde. "and Schaefer beer. On Kevin and me – free, gratis, and for nothing."

"Doesn't get much better than that," said Kevin. "So, please, we implore you, resume your seats."

Addison hesitated, taking a drag from his Chesterfield, but Milford, despite his aversion to touching other human beings, grabbed his friend's arm and pulled him away, towards the exit, through smoke and soft jukebox music and the babbling of crashing bores.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"The Bore-Ass"

 

The two companions walked down the dim corridor in silence until they came to a junction where the corridor continued straight ahead into darkness, but was now bisected by another corridor going to the right into distant darkness and left also into darkness.

"Didn't that fellow say to turn right at the corner?" said Addison.

"You're kidding me, right?" said Milford.

"In what sense?" said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields.

"In the sense that I already told you I was barely listening to him, and, even had I been listening, intently, or as intently as I am able to listen to anyone, I have never in my life been able to follow the simplest directions."

"Me neither, to be quite honest," said Addison. "Chesterfield?"

"No thanks," said Milford. "I might as well have another 'Husky Boy'."

He took out his pack of Husky Boys, and Addison gave him a light with one of his Bob's Bowery Bar matches and then ignited his own cigarette.

"Did you ever wonder what people did before they invented cigarettes?" said Addison.

"No," said Milford.

"I mean," Addison blew the match out and flicked it away, "did people just exist? Just stand around doing nothing?"

"Yes," said Milford. "They just stood there, arms at their sides, staring into space."

"Like dumb animals," said Addison.

The two friends stood there and smoked, like sentient animals.

"Oh, well," said Milford. "Let's just pick a direction and resume walking."

"Okay," said Addison. "Right or left?"

"You decide," said Milford.

"Right then?"

"Okay," said Milford. Then, "No, let's go left."

"Sure, why not?" said Milford.

They turned left, walked farther, then turned right at the next corner, then right again at the corner after that. They reached a dead end, with another corridor, or the same one, going to the left, and so they walked on, turning left at the third corner they reached, and then they walked down a narrow hallway that grew increasingly darker, then completely dark, but they continued on, carefully, walking slowly, their arms brushing, until the darkness grew less dark, and then became merely dim, and up ahead they saw a light, and they walked toward it.

"If that's a doorway there, I'm going through it," said Milford.

"Yeah, I'm with you," said Addison.

"Because this is insane," said Milford.

"One could say," said Addison, in that particular "George Sanders" voice he used for philosophical pronouncements, "that this is a metaphor for modern man, walking aimlessly down dim corridors, searching for but never reaching his supposed destination."

"Yeah, and you know what else?" said Milford.

"What's that, old chap?" said Addison.

"All of life is a metaphor for all of life."

Addison said nothing to this. 

They walked on towards the light, which turned out to be a bare bulb above a door that had a hand-painted sign on it which read

The Bore-Ass

with a crude painting of an ass or a donkey seen from behind, the animal's head turned to look back sadly at the viewer.

"This isn't the place," said Addison.

"I know," said Milford.

"Shall we go in anyway?"

Milford's Husky Boy had burnt down to a half-inch stub. He sucked one last lungful of smoke from it, and dropped it to the floor. He ground it out with the sole of his workman's brogan.

"Yes," he said. "Let's go in."

Addison let his own Chesterfield butt drop to the floor.

"Yes," he said. "This is our fate, to wander from unknown place to unknown place. To meet strange unpleasant people. And then to go to other unknown places, to meet more unpleasant people. But, perhaps – perhaps I say – in due time, we shall indeed reach our destination, and the lovely ladies we left behind, and then –"

"Addison," said Milford.

"Yes, old man?"

"Can we just go in, without the commentary?"

"Ha ha, yes, of course."

Milford walked over and stepped on Addison's cigarette butt. He looked at Addison. 

"Ready?"

"Willing and able," said Addison.

The door had a curved tarnished-metal handle, with a thumb press, Milford put his hand on it, and managed to pull the door open.

A wave of soft nameless jukebox music, the babble of dull voices, the all pervasive smells of smoke and whiskey and beer, humanoid forms in dimness, pinpoints of light like despairing stars, and another man sitting on a stool next to a table for one by the doorway.

"Hi," he said.

"Hello," said Addison. "May we come in?"

"That depends," said the man, who looked like a dead weed disguised as a man, wearing a grey suit and a black tie, and what looked like a garnet-colored toupée. He held a smoking pipe in his thin bony hand. "First you must answer a few questions."

"Of course," said Addison.

"First question. What is the meaning of life?"

He was looking at Milford. 

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Wrong answer," said the man. He looked at Addison. "Your turn. What is the meaning of life?"

"To sit in bars, drinking, and speaking nonsense?"

"How did you know?"

"Just a wild guess."

"Okay," said the weedy man. "Second question. What's better, to speak nonsense or to say nothing at all." He looked at Milford. "You go first."

"I choose to say nothing at all in answer to your question."

"Wrong answer again." He looked at Addison. "Your turn. What's preferable, speaking nonsense or keeping quiet?"

"Speaking nonsense, of course," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields.

"Correct," said the man. "Third question, and last. Which is better: to be dead, or to live and speak nonsense." He looked at Milford.

"To live but not to speak nonsense," said Milford.

"Wrong, and doubly wrong, because you only had two choices, and living and not speaking nonsense was not one of them." He looked at Addison again. "What's better, being dead or living and talking nonsense?"

Addison lighted his Chesterfield, waved the match out and placed it in a dirty ashtray on the table next to the weedy man.

"Could you repeat the question?"

"Which is preferable, being dead or living and talking nonsense."

"Living and speaking nonsense?"

"Correct again. You can come in."

"What about my friend?" 

"He got all three questions wrong, so he is banned for life."

"That hardly seems fair," said Addison.

"Since when is life, or death, fair?"

"Let's go, Addison," said Milford. "This was a mistake."

"But wait," said Addison. He addressed the man on the stool. "Ask my friend one more question. If he gets the answer right, can he come in then?"

"That would be against the rules."

"He's young. Give him one more chance."

The man said nothing at first. He looked into the bowl of his pipe, which had apparently gone out, then picked up a box of Ohio Blue Tip kitchen matches from his table, extricated a match, struck it, then applied the flame to his pipe. After puffing and sucking for a few moments he finally spoke. 

"Very well," he then said. "One more question." He gazed at Milford. "Have you ever had a person – man, woman or child – look at you and say, 'Please, tell me more?'"

"No," said Milford.

"Good answer," said the man.

"Great," said Addison. "So can he come in now?"

"I suppose so. What are your names, anyway?"

"They call me Addison," said Addison. "But, in point of fact, that appellation is by way of being a sobriquet, a nickname if you will, although I have come to look on it more as my nom de guerre, its origin being –"

"Look, pal, I didn't ask for a whole long disquisition, I just wanted to know what to call you."

"Addison will do."

"Fine, great. Paddington it is then." He looked at Milford. "What about you, sonny Jim?"

"Milford," said Milford. "It's actually my last name, but I prefer it to my alleged Christian name, not that I consider myself a Christian, but –"

"Dilford?"

"Milford, actually."

"Fine. Provisionally pleased to meet you, Quilford. My name is Ben, but everyone calls me Ben the Bore."

"Why is that?" said Addison, with a straight face.

"To differentiate me from one of our regulars, known as Boring Ben."

"Oh, okay," said Addison. "Thank you. So, can we just grab a couple of seats at the bar?"

"Sure, unless you want a table."

"Are there any tables available?"

"No."

"So I guess we'll just find seats at the bar?"

"I don't care what you do. Once you're in here, you're on your own."

"Oh, okay."

"Just don't cause any disturbance. If you do I will have to throw you out. I might not look like much, but I have a sap in my pocket, and I'm not shy about using it."

"We'll behave, Ben."

"'Ben the Bore'."

"We won't cause any, uh, disturbances, 'Ben the Bore'."

"See that you don't."

"Okay, well, thanks again."

"You're welcome. By the way, if you're hungry, we have a baloney and American cheese on white bread sandwich special tonight, with your choice of Gulden's yellow mustard or Hellman's mayonnaise. It's a bargain at two bits."

"We'll bear that in mind," said Addison.

"Enjoy yourselves. If you can."

"Yes, well, thanks again. Again."

"You're welcome, again."

For some unknown reason, or reasons, Addison seemed unable to disengage from the weedy man, so Milford, as much as he disliked touching anyone, put his hand on Addison's arm.

"Let's go, Addison," said Milford.

"Oh, yes," said Addison, and they headed toward the bar, which was long, and packed with hunched humanoid shapes.

"Just one beer," said Addison. "Just to regroup, and marshal our forces, plan out our next maneuver."

"Okay, fine," said Milford.

There only seemed to be two contiguous empty stools at the bar, right near the middle, and the two companions claimed them. 

It felt better to be seated at a bar again, or, if not better, not worse. 

{Kindly go here to read the unbowdlerized "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"The Right Way"

 

The enormous bearded burly fellow was still sitting on his high stool to the left of the doorway, and there was nothing for it but to go by him if they wanted to get out of this place, and they could see that he saw them coming.

"Where the fuck you guys going?"

"I'm sorry, but we have to leave," said Addison.

"You just fucking got here. What's the matter, you don't like it here?"

"Oh, we like it fine," said Addison, "it's just that, uh, heh heh –"

"Just that what, 'heh heh'?" said the huge man, and he tapped his cigar ash to the floor, ignoring the Hotel St Crispian ashtray on the little table to his side.

"We have to go somewhere," said Milford.

"You 'have' to 'go' 'somewhere'."

"Yes," said Milford.

"Oh. Okay."

"Well, so then –" said Addison.

"May I ask youse a question?" said the big fellow.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"I mean if that's all right."

"Certainly."

The big man pointed his cigar at Milford.

"It okay with you, too?"

"Um, yes?" said Milford.

"Good then," said the huge man, and he looked at his cigar, blowing on the lighted end.

"Ask away," said Addison. "We are open books."

"Open books?" said the big man.

"Yes, uh," said Addison. "Like, uh –"

"Okay. My question is this," said the large man, looking at Addison, and then at Milford, and then back to Addison, and thence again to Milford. "My question is, where could two losers like youse possibly have to go to that is so fucking important."

"Look, sir," said Milford, "we've just been through all this with two gentlemen at the bar –"

"I don't give a shit what you've allegedly been through with two random fuckwads at the bar," said the big guy. "This is here and this is now, and I am asking you where the fuck you think you are going."

"We have to meet some ladies," said Addison.

"What?"

"There are some ladies we want to meet."

"Ladies."

"Yes," said Addison. "Nice ladies."

"Oh. 'Nice' ladies."

"Yes."

The man looked at Milford.

"Nice ladies?"

"Yes," said Milford. "I mean, pretty nice."

"Okay," said the big man. "Can I just say something?"

"Of course," said Addison.

The big man pointed his cigar at Milford.

"It jake with you if I say something?"

"Um, yes."

"What I have to say is simply this," said the man.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"This and only this."

"Okay," said Milford.

"What I have to say is that youse two don't have to fucking lie," said the man. "Youse don't got to lie about meeting some ladies, 'nice' or otherwise. Because, A, nobody is gonna believe you, and, B, nobody really gives a shit if you are lying. Nobody cares. I don't care. You want to leave? Fine. Leave. But don't give me some blatant horseshit about meeting ladies, 'nice' or otherwise. Okay? Do not insult my intelligence." 

"Sorry," said Addison.

"Look around you," said the big man. "Go on, turn around and look at every motherfucker in this place."

Addison and Milford obediently turned around and looked, or pretended to look, and then turned back to face the big man on his stool.

"Good," said the man. "Now what did you see?"

"A lot of fellows?" said Addison.

"Doing what?"

"Drinking?"

"Yes," said the big man. "A lot of fellows, drinking. And did you see a single lady?"

"Um, no," said Addison.

"And do you know why you didn't see a single lady?"

"No," said Addison.

The big man looked at Milford. 

"What about you, half-pint, you know why there ain't no ladies in here?"

"Is it a 'gentlemen only' establishment?"

"No, it is not a 'gentlemen only' establishment, schmuck. There ain't no ladies in here because there's only losers in here, and ladies don't like losers. And can you blame them?"

"No," said Milford.

The big fellow looked at Addison.

"What about you, pal? You blame 'em?"

"Um, no?" said Addison

"Okay," said the big man. "All right." He took a drag on his big cigar, the sort of drag that the cheap novelists both Milford and Addison really preferred to the literary kind would call "a contemplative drag".

"So we can go?" said Addison.

"Did I say you couldn't go?" said the big man.

"No," said Addison. "So –"

"'So' what?" said the big guy.

"So we can go?"

"You already asked me that."

"So, I guess we can go then?" 

"Am I stopping you?"

"No."

"Okay, well, goodnight then," said Milford.

"Hold on just a second, sonny," said the huge man.

"Yes?" said Milford.

"Let me just ask youse one more question."

"Both of us?" 

"Did I not employ the plural 'youse'?"

"Uh, yes, you did," said Milford.

"So my question as I say is for the two of youse."

He paused. The cheap novelists would say "paused for effect".

"Yes?" said Addison.

"Are youse implying that youse two are not losers?"

"What?" said Addison.

"Do I have a speech impediment? Did I mumble or speak too softly?"

"No," said Addison.

"Then answer the mother fucking question, or maybe I don't let youse out of here after all."

"No," said Addison.

"No what?"

"No, we do not imply that we are not losers," said Addison. "Far from it."

"Good answer," said the big man. He cast a cold eye on Milford. "What about you, shorty?"

"I was a loser the moment I was pulled, kicking and screaming, from my mother's womb," said Milford. "And I have not ceased to be a loser since then. And now may we leave?"

The man paused again, taking another great drag on his cigar.

"Very well," he said. "I take you both at your woids."

"Our what?" said Milford.

"You heard me," said the man. "Your woids."

"Oh," said Milford. "Our 'words' you mean."

"That's what I just said. Your 'woids'."

"Um, okay," said Milford.

"So," said Addison, "we bid you good night then, sir."

"My name ain't sir. My name is Gargantua."

"We bid you goodnight, uh, Gargantua," said Addison.

"That's better," said Gargantua. "And your name is Pattinson, right?"

"Uh, yes," said Addison, just wanting to escape.

"And you're Pettiford," said Gargantua to Milford.

"Right," said Milford.

"Well, listen, Harkington and Pufford," said Gargantua, "before I let youse go, I just want youse to promise me one thing."

"Yes?" said Addison.

"Just one thing."

"Okay," said Addison.

"One thing," said Gargantua, looking at Milford.

"Yes?" said Milford.

"Promise me this," said the big man, "that wherever you go, and for the rest of your lives, that you will continue to carry the banner of loserdom, high and proud. Because being a loser ain't nothing to be ashamed of." He paused again for a moment, looking from Addison to Milford and then back to Addison and again to Milford. "Will youse promise me this?"

"We promise," said Addison.

"What about you, Guildford," he said to Milford.

"I promise," said Milford.

"High and proud," said the big man called Gargantua. "And you know why?"

"Um," said Addison.

"You know why?" said Gargantua, staring at Milford.

"Uh," said Milford.

"Because," said the man. 

"Because?" said Addison.

"Because," said Gargantua. He looked at Milford again. "Because."

"Because?" said Milford.

"Because we all fucking lose in the end," said the big man.

"Oh," said Addison.

"Um," said Milford.

"Now get out of my sight," said the huge man. "The both of yez. And please enjoy the imaginary company of these imaginary 'nice' ladies. Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes?" said Addison.

The big bearded man fixed his eye on Milford.

"Just one more little thing."

"Um, yes?" said Milford.

"Just this. When you are making the imaginary beast with two backs with these imaginary nice 'ladies', I want youse both –" again he looked from Addison to Milford, then back to Addison, then to Milford, and back to Addison, "I want youse both to think of me. Will yez do that?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"What about you, Potford? Will you do that for me? When you're committing the imaginary act of darkness with these imaginary 'nice' ladies, will you think of me, if only just for one brief flickering moment?"

"Yes, sir," said Milford.

"'Yes, Gargantua'."

"Yes, Gargantua."

"All right, now get out of here, both of yez. I don't know where yez think you're going, and, frankly, I don't give a shit, but get out of here anyways – and, please, enjoy your little 'imaginary' escapades. Something tells me you'll be back here soon enough. Where you belong. With all the rest of the losers. Now go. You disgust me, the pair of yez. Although in some weird way I admire yez, a lot, and I don't know why. Now go on, fuck off outa here before I change my mind."

The two friends began to pass tentatively by the big man, when abruptly Addison stopped.

"Oh, by the way, Gargantua is it?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if I may ask you a question."

"Addison," said Milford, "let's just go."

"No," said Gargantua. "It's all right. What's your question, Archerman?"

"Do you happen to know this bar, it's a Negro bar, I think it's called the Hideyway?"

"The Hideaway?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Sure I know it. Nice stopping place. What about it?"

"Oh, thank God. Could you tell us how to find it?"

"Certainly. Just go out the door, and then go left. Pretty soon you're gonna reach a corner, and make another left there. Actually you got to make a left there, because that's the only direction you can go in. Keep going and after a while you're gonna reach a sort of crossroads, where you can go straight ahead or to the right or left. Go right. Keep going and then you're gonna get to a dead end, but there will be another corridor going right and left. Go right, and keep going until you see the sign for the Hideaway. You can't miss it."

"Okay, thanks," said Addison.

"Tell 'em Gargantua sent you, and even though youse are white they should let you in."

"Oh, they know us there."

"No kidding. I am impressed. Maybe youse two ain't such losers after all."

"Oh, no, we're still losers all right, ha ha."

"Ha ha, now get the fuck out of here."

"Okay, good night," said Addison. "And thank you."

The big man turned away.

"Addison," said Milford, in a low voice, "let's go."

"Okay," said Addison, also in a low voice. 

They stepped to the door, Addison opened it, Milford went through, and Addison followed him, closing the door behind him.

The sounds of the jukebox and of laughing and shouting drunken men, which they had barely been aware of, just as fish are presumably unaware of the water in which they live, these noises were now muffled, and the hallway in which they stood was silent, and dim.

Addison's Chesterfield had burnt down to its last half-inch, and he dropped it to the floor. 

"Which way did he say?"

"I wasn't really listening," said Milford. He could see that Addison's cigarette butt was still burning, and so he stepped on it with the sole of his sturdy workman's brogan.

"Okay, whatever, let's go this way," said Addison, gesturing to the right. "It must lead somewhere."

And they headed to the right, both of them realizing that there was an even chance they were headed in the wrong direction, but, on the other hand, it was an even chance that this was the right way.

{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Let's Go"

 

"Right," said Addison. "I'm ready now."

He climbed off his stool, not falling, and Milford climbed off his stool, also without falling.

"Wait," said the fat man to Addison's left, "where are you chaps going?"

"Yes," said the weaselly man to Milford's right, "please don't leave."

"Sorry, gentlemen," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields, "but duty calls."

"What duty?" said the fat man, Addison had already forgotten his name.

"Indeed," said the weaselly man, Milford had forgotten his name, barely having taken note of it in the first place, "what possible duty could be more important than sitting at this bar?"

"Um," said Milford.

"Uh," said Addison, shaking the pack of cigarettes, and putting one in his thin lips, the only kind of lips he had.

"Oh," said the fat man. "I get it."

"You do?" said the weasel man.

"Yes," said the fat man. "I know what it is, Quintillius."

"Pray tell, Petronius," said the man presumably named Quintillius, "because unless our young friends are headed for the men's room to void their bladders, I can think of nothing warranting their leaving."

"Cherchez la femme," said the fat man apparently named Petronius, "or, in this case, les femmes."

"What?" said Quintillius. "Is this true?" he said to Milford. "You and your friend go in search of the females of the species?"

"Um, uh," said Milford.

"Yes, look at them, the fires of lust in their eyes," said Petronius. "Am I wrong, Radisson?" he said, addressing Addison.

Addison had just finished lighting up his cigarette with one of his paper matches from Bob's Bowery Bar, and he waved the match out and tossed it towards the nearest ashtray on the bar, missing it by six inches.

"You are not wrong, sir," he said. "We go in search of the divine female, or females, and, failing divinity, we shall accept gladly the merely human."

"Well, I only hope you have some money then," said the fat man. "Because, speaking only from what I have read in the popular magazines, female company does not come cheap, sir."

"I had female company once," said the weasel fellow. "I was very young, well, thirty-four to be exact, and sought to lose my virginity, just to find out for myself what all the fuss was about. It cost me two dollars, which back then was no small amount, I needn't tell you!"

"I think they'll need more than two dollars nowadays," said the fat man Petronius. "What with inflation, I daresay the price now could be as high as five dollars."

"Five dollars!" said Quintillius. "That's outrageous. Do you know how many imperial pints of lager one could purchase for five dollars?"

"Maths have never been my forte," said Petronius, "but I'm going to guess that's approximately twenty imperial pints of this delicious house lager."

"Preposterously overvalued," said the weasel guy. "Listen," he said, to Milford, touching his arm with a claw-like finger, the only sort of finger he had, "save your money, Pilford, it's not worth it. For more decades than I'd care to say I have regretted spending that two dollars, and for what? Just to shed my virginity? I should have kept my chastity and the two dollars and spent it on beer instead. I implore you, resume your seat and let us continue our conversation."

"Sorry," said Milford.

"Damn you for a young fool!" said Quintillius.

"Hey, there," said Petronius, "no need for such harsh words, Quintillius."

"I shall not take them back," said Quintillius. He addressed Milford again. "I apologize for the necessity of saying 'damn you', Mugford, but I feel very strongly in this matter, and so curse you I must if you persist in this folly. Do you not realize that this –" he waved his hand and his arm grandiosely, "this is the very essence and meaning and veritable quiddity of life, yea, of existence? To sit here, in this bar, losers among fellow losers, speaking nonsense endlessly and drinking untold imperial pints of lager, with perhaps the occasional shot of inexpensive bourbon to alleviate the monotony?"

"Maybe you're right," said Milford, "but we're going anyway."

"Petronius!" said Quintillius. "Talk to them. Don't let them waste their young lives."

"He's right you know," said Petronius, addressing Addison and Milford together. "I myself have never spent one penny for a woman's favors, and I have not the slightest regret."

"Well, look, Petronius is it?" said Addison.

"Yes," said Petronius, "I am honored you remembered my prénom, Hoberman."

"Yes, well, anyway," said Addison, "the ladies we go in search of are nice ladies, and so, not only will we possibly not have to pay for their favors, but it is also in the realm of faint possibility that they would refuse payment even were we to offer it."

"Now, my friend," said Petronius, "you have entered the realm of the fantastic."

"Perhaps I have, but if I have, nevertheless I am in possession of a ten dollar bill, just in case."

"Ten dollars, you say?" said Petronius.

"Yes," said Addison. "And I'm sure my friend has some of the ready on him as well."

"How much, if I may ask?" said Petronius, to Milford.

"I don't know," said Milford.

"Is it more than ten?"

"Yes, I think it's more than ten."

"Is it more than twenty?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"It is more than twenty!" said the fat man.

"Okay," said Milford, to Addison, "let's go, Addison."

"Excuse me," said Petronius, "you're telling me that you have at least thirty dollars between the two of you, and yet still you are leaving? Do you have any idea of the number of imperial pints you could buy with that largesse?"

"It was nice meeting you," said Milford.

"What about me?" said Quintillius. "Was it not nice meeting me?"

"Uh, yes," said Milford. "Nice meeting you, too."

"And yet you persist in this folly."

"Yes," said Milford. "Good night."

"Mark my words," said Quintillius. "You will be back."

"Come on, Addison," said Milford.

"You still have time to change your minds," said Petronius. "Think of all the imperial pints! Not to mention the occasional shot of reasonably-price bourbon. Why, good heavens, you could even order some food! Just wait until you try the all-you-can eat spicy chicken wings, a bargain at only one U.S. dollar!"

"Pretty good, hey?" said Addison, tapping the first inch of ash of his Chesterfield to the floor, littered as it was with sawdust, spittle, and the butts of innumerable cigarettes and cigars.

"Not bad at all," said Petronius. "Go ahead, my lad, sit back down. The wings go really well with the house Loser Lager. The only thing is the bartender doesn't like it if you let other people share your wings, so maybe if you don't mind you could just go ahead and request four orders of the wings, that way we can all have some."

"Can you get them not so spicy?" asked Addison.

"Sure, just tell the bartender you want the mild spicy wings."

"Do they come with French fries?"

"Well, the French fries are à la carte actually, but for two bits you can get a very commodious basket."

"Pretty good fries? Crispy? I loathe soggy French fries."

"Addison," said Milford.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"Let's go."

"Oh," said Addison. "Okay."

"You're going to regret leaving," said Petronius.

"I've rarely done anything I haven't regretted," said Addison.

"But," said Petronius, "you haven't had the all-you-can-eat wings here, and that is something you will not regret, my friend. Good plump juicy chicken wings, their skin fried to just the perfect crackling consistency, slathered in either the spicy or mild proprietary sauce, and with heapings of eminently crispy browned French fries on the side, with your choice of either ketchup or house-made dipping aïoli."

"I hope the aïoli isn't too garlicky," said Addison.

"Not at all, my good fellow! Frankly I prefer good old Heinz ketchup myself, but the aïoli has only the most subtle lacing of fresh and fragrant garlic."

"Well," said Addison, who hadn't eaten since his long ago noontide breakfast of two glazed doughnuts and chicory coffee at Ma's Diner, "that does sound appetizing –"

"Addison," said Milford, and he touched Addison's arm, "look, you can stay if you want to, but I'm going."

Addison seemed to hesitate for a moment, thinking of the happy prospect of lashings of golden lager washing down unlimited mild spicy chicken wings, crispy French fries on the side, with just the occasional filip of a shot of inexpensive bourbon, but then he remembered the ladies, especially that one lady, Emily, although that other one Harriet wasn't bad either…

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

And the two friends turned away from the bar.

"You'll be sorry!" called Petronius. "The both of you!"

"You'll be back!" called Quintillius. "Tails betwixt your legs!"

Addison and Milford kept walking, through the smoke and the noise of the jukebox and the shouting of drunken men, towards the exit.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Dear Diary"

 

This was the thing about sitting with an alleged friend at a crowded and noisy bar. Invariably some guy sitting next to your acquaintance would start talking to him, you could barely hear anything either of them said, and soon you were left alone with your beer and the noise and the jukebox music, and maybe it was just as well, since all barroom conversations were by their very nature tedious and meaningless. 

But then some new stranger sitting on your other side started talking to you, and a new insanity began.

"I beg your pardon," said a voice to Milford's right.

Milford turned. It was never a beautiful girl. No, it was always a man, and usually a homely and unprepossessing one.

"Yes?" said Milford, despite himself.

"I couldn't help but notice you and your friend," said the man.

What did the man look like? He looked like a weasel. Small, with beady eyes behind thick glasses, a sparse goatee, a broad-brimmed hat of the sort that people wore who wanted other people to know that they weren't like other people. He might have been fifty, or seventy, he might have been dead but just too stupid to fall over.

"My name is Quintillius T. Jasper," said the man. "My friends call me Quintillius. I hope you don't think I am a homosexual trying to pick you up. I am merely a literary man who loves to meet other people, especially other literary men, and I overheard your friend saying you are a poet."

"Um," said Milford.

"Did he say your name was Milberd?"

"What?" 

"I heard your friend say your name, and I believe it was Milborne. Is that correct?"

"No," said Milford.

"Then why, if I may ask, did he say your name was Redburn?"

"He said Milford," said Milford, with that familiar feeling of ennui that could only grow more unbearable.

"Milford, you say?" said the man.

"Yes," said Milford. "Not Milberd, or Milborne, or Redburn, but Milford."

"Milford," said the man.

"Yes," said Milford.

"Do you remember my name?"

"No," said Milford.

"It's Quintillius T. Jasper. But please call me Quintillius. All my friends call me Quintillius."

"Okay," said Milford, deliberately not saying the name. 

"I am always glad to make acquaintance with an up and coming young literary man. I'll bet your poetry is quite exciting."

"It's not," said Milford.

"Please allow me to disagree," said the man. "It is only the poets who despise their own work who are capable of writing the really good stuff. Or don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know," said Milford. "The only kind of poetry I know how to write is the bad kind."

"Your very words are proof that your poetry is of the highest caliber."

"A cursory glance at a page of it would prove you wrong," said Milford.

"The more you protest, the more you convince me that your work will assure you pride of place in literary Valhalla."

"Okay, fine," said Milford, and he turned his gaze to the beer in his imperial pint mug. On the one hand he didn't even want the beer, but on the other hand he wanted to lift it to his lips and down it in one go, and then request another, and a shot of cheap bourbon to go with it.

"I myself do not write poetry," said the man, who was obviously not the sort to take a hint.

Milford said nothing. Maybe if he continued to say nothing the man would give up. 

"I wish I could write poetry," said the man. "You know who I'd like to be able to write poetry like?"

Milford continued to say nothing. It was nearly always better to say nothing, especially when being accosted by a bore, and the vast majority of people were bores, especially the ones who accosted you in bars.

"Carl Sandburg," said the man, relentlessly. "That's who I'd like to be able to write poetry like. Muscular poetry, y'know? I'd like to be able to write poetry about those guys who work building skyscrapers, or digging coal, or maybe those chaps who operate jackhammers in the streets or on the great highways. That's the kind of stuff I'd like to write. Not this effete, sensitive, limp-wristed crap. But, unfortunately, poetry is not where my talent lies."

Milford stared into his beer. To his left he could hear Addison and that fat guy talking, about what he didn't know or care.

"Guess where my talent lies," said the man on his right.

Milford picked up the big mug and took a drink, only his second drink from it so far. It was beer, like any other beer, neither great nor horrible, but the thing was you had to drink it while it was cold, or else it really was horrible.

"Okay, you give up," said the man, "so I'll tell you. You'll never guess, but I am a diarist."

Milford put down the mug. He shouldn't be drinking at all. What he should do was tell Addison they should leave, and then try to find that other place where the ladies were. Maybe that girl Lou would still be there. Maybe she would relieve him of his virginity, if not tonight, then some other night, maybe.

"My life's work," said the man, "is to keep a meticulous diary, and I have kept it up since I was fourteen years old. Every night before I go to bed I get out my diary and record in exhaustive detail the events of the day, no matter how seemingly mundane. I have now accumulated some forty-five thousand pages of 'material' in this fashion. And when I get home tonight I will get out my diary – I write in these enormous leather-bound ledgers by the way, using a quill pen – and I will recount this very conversation we are having now, verbatim. And so you see, all the life I have lived is contained in these ledgers, these diaries, and the diaries themselves are my life, my life feeding off the diaries and the diaries feeding off my life. It is all one. I have been shopping it around, intending to publish it in completely unexpurgated form in a uniform series of separate volumes, totaling in number at least fifty, but so far I haven't been able to find a publisher willing to meet my demands. I don't know why. I am sure there would be a market for it. Who else is writing a diary consisting of a man's life whose sole raison d'être is to write a diary recounting every moment of his life, and not just his waking moments, but his dreams, at least the ones he can remember. Who, I ask you, who?"

"What?" said Milford, roused from his own reveries.

"Who else is writing such a mammoth epic work?"

"What mammoth epic work?"

"The one I'm writing," said the man. "My diary in which I recount my entire life in exhaustive detail."

"Oh," said Milford.

"And do you know what I'm calling it?"

"Calling what?"

"Do you know what the title of my life's work is, my monumental undertaking, recounting my entire life since I was fourteen years old, nearly all of which has been spent sitting at this very bar?"

"No, I don't," said Milford.

"Guess."

"The Diary of a Lunatic?"

"No, that's good, but guess again."

"The Diary of an Insufferable Bore?"

"Pretty good again, but wrong. Try again."

"The Journal of a Man Who Should Never Have Been Born?"

"Wrong again. Do you give up?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"My book, my masterpiece," said the man, "is called – drumroll, please – The Diary of a Dickhead."

"Oh," said Milford. 

"Diary of a Dickhead."

"Okay."

"Because, yes, I know I'm a dickhead. I am not that deluded. But answer me this, is not a dickhead's life worthy of being recorded?"

"Um."

"Well, I'm here to say it is. And I'll fight the man who disagrees with me. And I will lose, but I don't care. The dickheads of this world need a voice, same as anyone else, and I intend to be that voice. Do you gainsay me?"

"No," said Milford.

"The Diary of a Dickhead, by Quintillius T. Jasper."

"Right."

"Kind of got a ring to it, don't you think?"

"Uh," said Milford.

"My marketing plan is that people can purchase it gradually in separate volumes, using S&H Green Stamps they will pick up at their local supermarkets. Collect so many stamps, get another volume, until eventually you have the whole fifty-volume set. Pretty smart, huh?"

"Yes," said Milford. 

"I figure to make a pretty penny from the project, keep me comfortable in my golden years, as I continue to churn out more volumes. Who knows, maybe eventually the thing will be a hundred volumes long."

The man had one of those extra-large mugs in front of him, half-full, or half empty, depending on how you looked at it, and he now lifted it, took a sip, put the mug back down again.

"Diary of a Dickhead," he said, "by Quintillius T. Jasper. Look for it on display at your local A&P."

"I will," said Milford.

"Not now, but after I get my publishing deal."

"Okay."

"And you'll be in it, Moffatt. It is Moffatt, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"You'll be in the book, Mofford."

"I will?"

"Of course. Which means you'll be famous too."

"Oh."

The man turned away, to look down into the golden depths of the big beer mug that sat on the counter in front of him.

Milford turned to Addison and touched his arm.

Addison had been saying something to the fat man, but he allowed himself to be interrupted, not really minding because he had been boring himself actually.

"Yes, Milford?"

"Let's go," said Milford.

"Now?" said Addison.

"Yes."

"But you've hardly even touched your beer."

"I don't want it. Let's go."

Addison's own large mug was empty.

"Okay, buddy," he said. "But, waste not, want not."

He picked up Milford's mug, raised it to his lips, and forty-five seconds later when he put it back down on the bar top it was empty.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"The Sacred Confraternity"

 

"May I ask," said the fat man with the huge white moustache, "if you two gentlemen are members of the sacred confraternity of letters?"

"You may indeed, sir," said Addison, "and, yes, we are."

"By thunder, I knew it!" said the man. "Just something about your demeanor, and I speak, sir, not merely of your some might say shabby suit of mud-colored flannel, nor of your fedora liberally rumpled and stained with what might indeed be mud, and one hopes that's all it is, nor of your young companion's ostentatiously proletarian peacoat and newsboy's cap, in such telling contradistinction to his delicate infantile hands which have obviously never done physical labor more taxing than lifting an imperial pint beer stein to his thin lips, nor of your matching pallid complexions, calling to mind the oily morning mist clinging to the dockyards of a grim and unforgiving February, no, sirs, it is that immaterial air exuded from the both of you, that faint but unmistakeable spiritual odor of paper and ink and midnight lucubrations." 

"And something tells me, sir," said Addison, "that you also are an écrivain de métier."

"Attempted, my dear sir," said the fat man, "striving or would-be one might say, indeed an unkind critic might dub me a lifelong manqué, but in point of fact I have been working on my chef-d'œuvre, lo, these forty years or more."

"And what is the nature of this life's work?" asked Addison, although in truth he could barely care less, but he believed in being polite up to a point.

"It is a novel, sir," pronounced the man, "a roman fleuve if you will, now totaling some twenty thousand pages, with no end in sight."

"And may I ask," said Addison, "what is the subject of your novel, if it's possible even to say?"

"Of course you may ask, my good fellow. But, by the way, before I continue, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Quilby, Petronius Z. Quilby. And may I know your appellations, dear sirs."

"This is my friend Milford," said Addison, gesturing to the young fellow, who was looking into the gently dissipating head of his beer. "He does have a Christian name, but he prefers to be called simply Milford."

"Put 'er there, Gilford," said Petronius Z. Quilby, extending his hand, which was as rubicund and bulbous in its own way as his face.

"Milford?" said Addison.

"Yes?" said Milford.

"Mr. Quilby is offering you his hand."

"Oh, sorry," said Milford, and he took his own hand away from the handle of his mug and allowed it to be enveloped in Mr. Quilby's.

"Very pleased to meet you, Grimley," said the fat man.

"Oh," said Milford, "yes, likewise," and he quickly withdrew his thin small hand with a sound like a garden snake slithering away across damp grass.

"And your name, sir?" said Mr. Quilby, to Addison.

"Well, it seems that all my acquaintances call me Addison," said Addison, "but in fact the name on my birth certificate is –"

"Very pleased to meet you, Harrington," said Mr. Quilby, and now he offered his hand to Addison.

"And I you as well, sir," said Addison, allowing his hand to be swallowed by the older man's. The hand was sticky, and it felt as if it were made of plum pudding still warm from the oven. Fortunately the fat man held onto Addison's hand for no longer than half a minute.

"You asked," said Mr. Quilby, picking up his own huge beer mug, which still had a few ounces of yellow liquid in it, "the subject of my magnum opus. It is quite simple really. It's a novel about a man writing a novel."

"Oh, well, that sounds promising," said Addison.

"That is to say," said Mr. Quilby, after taking a moustache-wetting sip, "it's a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel. And guess what that man is writing a novel about?"

"A man writing a novel?" 

"My God, sir, you are a sharp one," said Mr. Quilby. "But you'll never guess what that man is writing a novel about."

"Well, I can only make an attempt at a guess, but may I venture that this man is writing a novel about a man writing a novel?"

"Ah ha, there's where the twist comes in. Because, no, sir, that man is writing a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel. Nice little curve ball there, hey, my lad?"

"Yes, very much so," said Addison.

"But here's the thing," said Mr. Quilby, "and this is where I think the themes of the book thicken into a gloriously rich ragout: that last man who's writing a novel is writing a novel about a man writing a novel about a man writing a novel about another man writing a novel about a man who is also writing a novel about a – guess what?"

"A man writing a novel?"

"How did you know?"

"Just a wild surmise," said Addison.

"But there's really so much more to the work," said the fat man. "I could go on and on, but I don't want to bore you. Unless you insist."

"Um," said Addison.

"What about you, Bernard?" said Mr. Quilby, looking at Milford, who was back to looking at his beer. 

"Milford?" said Addison.

"Yes?" said Milford. 

"Mr. Quilby asked you something."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Milford. "What was the question?"

"I asked," said Mr. Quilby, "if you would like me to tell you more about my novel."

"Oh," said Milford. What novel? "Um, you know, I really think I'd rather wait until it's published, so that I can come to it fresh."

"Oh. Without preconceptions or prejudice you mean."

"Yes, exactly."

"Smart lad. May I ask what sort of thing you write?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just whining, despairing, foolish and instantly forgettable poetry."

"Oh, but I'm sure it's wonderful. You know what they said about Swinburne, when he was just starting out?"

"No."

"They said his work was hopelessly boring and jejune. But look at his reputation now! One of the unassailable giants."

"Um," said Milford.

"And you, Harpyman," said Mr. Quilby, addressing Addison. "Don't tell me – you are a fellow novelist."

"I plead guilty as charged," said Addison.

"I'm going to guess you're one of these modernist chappies, or is the term post-modern? I honestly can't tell the difference myself."

"Well, I suppose my work might be called post-post-post-modernist," said Addison. "So much so that I might even have come full circle to be considered a traditionalist."

"Interesting. May I ask if you've published."

"Not yet," said Addison, "but you see I'm still working on my début novel, which I envision as –"

"No, don't tell me," interjected the fat man. "It's a tale, autobiographical in a sense, of a young or no longer in the first flush of his youth would-be novelist living in squalor in the big city, supported by occasional remittances from his elder female relations, spending most of his time sitting blathering with other failures at his local bar on the Bowery, but his days and nights nonetheless are filled with incident, which some might consider inconsequential, but to him they possess all the import of the  adventures of Odysseus. Nevertheless, despite his drinking and his penchant for idleness, he persists in spending at least a half hour each day, or most days, at his trusty Olivetti, tapping away at his incipient masterpiece, somewhat autobiographical in nature, a novel of a no longer quite young chap in the big city who's writing, or attempting to write his first novel, but who meets a beautiful but doomed poetess who for reasons known only to herself enters into a passionate affair with our hero. The descriptions of their sexual dalliances are vivid, but tasteful, and informed, if not by actual experience, then by the author's deep reading of the popular novels of the day, featuring the liberal use of such phrases as 'his bold, pulsating manhood', and 'her musky, moist, and beckoning recesses', as well as 'the soft clamor of their ecstasies'. Am I far off?"

"Well, actually," said Addison, "I'm writing a novel set in the Old West, about a wandering gunslinger named Buck Baxter…"

"And that's all well and good," said Mr. Quilby, "but have you considered making it a novel about a no-longer quite so young novelist living on the edge of poverty on the Bowery, who is writing a novel about an Old West gunslinger that turns into a novel about a fellow in his late thirties, living on scant means in a city slum, who writes a novel about another fellow wasting his time writing a novel about another chap writing a novel of the Old West, a subject he knows nothing about, and which will never be finished, let alone published?"

"Perhaps," said Addison, "I should consider that."

"I really think you should," said Mr. Quilby. "But what do I know?"

"Um, uh," said Addison.

"There are so very few ways to succeed in the literary game," said the fat man, "but so many ways, so infinitely many ways to fail."

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Loser Lager"

 

A bartender came over, a thin, haggard man of indeterminate age, wearing a stained red vest and a black bowtie.

"What do you want?"

"Hello," said Addison.

"Hello," said the man. "Now what do you want?"

"How are you?" said Addison.

"How does it look like I am?"

"Somewhat harried, I should say."

"I am harried, because I got a full bar full of losers to deal with, and now I got you two, too. Now what the fuck do you want?"

"Could we have two beers?"

"This is a bar, isn't it?"

"Ha ha, yes, indeed," said Addison. "Well, then, may we have two beers please in the largest receptacles you have?"

"You may, but would it be too much to ask what kind of beer you want? And don't say cold, because I have heard that a million times if I've heard it once, and it hasn't been witty since a thousand years before the first time I heard it."

"Very well," said Addison, "do you have a bock beer?"

"No, we do not have a bock beer. We don't carry that fancy shit."

"I should hardly call bock fancy shit," said Addison.

"Look, pal, I'll tell you what we got and make it easy for you. We got Rheingold beer. We got Ballantine ale. And we got our own house lager."

"Oh, a house lager? What's it called?"

"We call it Loser Lager."

"Okay, make it two Loser Lagers then," said Addison, "in the largest –"

"Receptacles we have, I heard you the first time."

"Yes, thank you," said Addison.

The bartender went away.

"Nice guy," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields.

Milford took out his Husky Boys.

"I shouldn't really have a beer," he said.

"Dear God, man, after all we've been through, why in heaven's name not?" said Addison.

"Addison, cast your memory back into the distant past of a week or so ago. Where did we first meet?"

"Well, let's see," said Addison, accepting a light from Milford's Ronson, "oh, I remember, it was at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in the basement at Old St. Pat's!"

"Yes," said Milford, now lighting his own cigarette. He exhaled, wearily, or at least seemingly wearily. "Alcoholics Anonymous. I am an alcoholic. And that's why I shouldn't be having a beer. Not to mention that in the course of this night I have smoked marijuana and hashish and eaten the supposedly sacred mushrooms of the American Indians. And then this Negro fellow Jelly Roll gave me a couple of hand-rolled cigarettes composed of a mixture of Bull Durham tobacco, Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum."

"But at least you didn't have alcohol," Addison pointed out.

"No, I did," said Milford. "I have had grog laced with rum for one thing."

"Oh, that sounds good."

"Not if you're an alcoholic."

"You're too hard on yourself, old man."

"I've also had whiskey, wine, and beer, and now that I think of it, I had some sarsaparilla infused with ambrosia, the supposedly legendary food of the ancient Greek gods."

"Oh, how was that?" 

"It was okay, Addison, but you're not taking my point, which is that I shouldn't be drinking any alcohol or taking any drugs at all –"

"Here's your beers," said a voice, and the bartender was there, laying down two very large mugs filled with sparkling golden liquid with creamy foaming heads.

"Ah, splendid," said Addison. "Here, let me get this," and he made a vague slow gesture with his right hand in the general direction of his pocket.

"That's okay, I've got it," said Milford, and he pulled out his old Boy Scout wallet. "How much?" he asked the bartender.

"Two imperial pints of the house lager at two bits each."

"So, fifty cents?"

"I see you were paying attention in arithmetic class."

"Heh heh," said Milford, with false mirth. "Okay, great." He took out a dollar bill and laid it on the counter, which was unwiped and sticky. "Keep the change."

"Thanks," said the bartender, and he scooped up the bill, and turned away, muttering something.

"Did you hear that?" said Milford to Addison.

"No, what?" said Addison.

"He called us cunts."

"Maybe you misheard him."

"No, I distinctly heard him say cunts, and that was after I left him a fifty cent tip for a fifty cent round." 

"How dare he," said Addison, but with no great force, and, picking up his large mug, he put it to his lips and drank, and when he put the mug down half a minute later it was only half full, or half empty, depending on how you looked at it. He sighed deeply, emitting the single long exclamation, "Ah…"

For his part Milford took a single good gulp, and he had to admit that the brew tasted good, and even better was the feeling it produced in his corporeal host and the tortured spirit that resided or was trapped within it.

"Hang it all!" said Addison, out of the blue. "We may well be douchebags, I grant you that. But. There is one thing that we are not. Do you know what that is, dear fellow?"

"I can think of innumerable things we are not," said Milford. "Like talented, amusing, tolerable in anything more than the smallest of doses, and those doses occurring no more than once in a season, and I speak of the seasons of the earthly calendar, not that eternal season of tedium in which we essentially exist –"

"Yes, of course, but I make reference to one thing in particular that we are not. And do you want to know what that is?"

"Okay," said Milford and put his hand to his mouth in a halfway successful effort to stifle a combination of a yawn and a sigh, and he forced a belch just to be polite. "Sorry," he said, "a touch of gas, from the beer."

"That one thing which we are not," said Addison, "and which we shall never be –"

Even as bored as he was getting, Milford could tell that Addison was pausing for effect, and so to hurry him along he said, "Yes?"

"We are not cunts," said Addison. 

"No?" said Milford.

"No, sir. We are not cunts. This is the hill on which I will gladly expire, defending my position until my last bullet is spent, at which point I shall fix my bayonet and let them come for me."

"And who is it that would come for you?" said Addison, proving that two can play the annoying douchebag game.

"I shall tell you who will come for me," said Addison. "The cunts, that's who. Because if it's anything a cunt hates and would destroy, it's a man who is not a cunt. And again I say, we may be losers, we may be failures, and, yes, we might well be douchebags, but we are not cunts."

"Excuse me," butted in a fat old man sitting to Addison's left. Addison and Milford both adjusted their heads so they could look at him. His face was red and round like a pomegranate, he sported an enormous white moustache, he had thick glasses with wire frames, and he wore a foggy blue beret. "I could not help but overhearing you just now. And I want only to say, I admire your sand, young man."

"You do?" said Addison.

"I do indeed, sir. And may I say, let no man call you a cunt."

"Really?" said Addison.

"Nor your young friend there," said the fat man.

"Wow, that's really nice of you to say, sir," said Addison.

"I speak only the truth, my friend. I may not know much, but I know a cunt when I see one, and you two fellows may indeed be losers, possibly douchebags, and, maybe – I say maybe – chronic onanists of the first order, but, no, sirs, cunts you are not."

"Well, thank you, sir," said Addison.

"Not at all," said the fat old man.

 "And may I ask how you can tell?"

"How can I tell that you are not cunts?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"The species known as Cunnus sapiens," said the man, "is recognizable at once to the trained eye, nose and ear by a sense, both physical and moral, of overwhelming revulsion. But I look at you two lads and feel no such revulsion. Indeed I see versions of my own younger self, when I was full of beans, not to mention piss and vinegar. As opposed to your garden variety cunt who is full of nothing less nor more than shit."

"Gee," said Addison, and he turned to Milford. "Did you hear that, buddy? Turns out we're really not cunts. That's something, isn't it?"

Milford was on the verge of bringing up again what the bartender had muttered as he walked away, but he held his tongue, lest he should sound like a cunt.

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"The Bar With No Name"

 

Addison held the door open, Milford passed through, and Addison followed him, the door closing behind them. 

An enormous bearded burly fellow sat on a high stool to the right of the doorway.

"Hold on, fellas," he said.

"Hello," said Addison.

The man wore a watch cap such as longshoreman and sailors wear, and a thick grey turtleneck sweater. He had a lighted cigar in one hand, and next to his stool was a small high table with a box of Ohio Blue Tip kitchen matches on it and an ashtray filled with cigar butts.

"First time in here, right?"

"Yes, sir," said Addison.

"You guys know how to read?"

"We do, sir," said Addison. "In fact, we are both literary men, myself a novelist and my friend a poet."

"So if you can read," said the man, "I take it you read the sign on the door."

"You mean," said Addison, "the sign saying, 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here'?"

"There ain't no other sign on it," said the man.

"Yes, well, we did read the sign," said Addison.

"And so," said the big guy, "am I to assume you have abandoned hope?"

"Look," said Milford, "we've just been chased by an angry mob of douchebags out for our blood, then we were trapped in the world's slowest elevator with the world's oldest elevator operator, after which we wandered all through a dark basement and a warren of dim corridors, and all we want now is to sit quietly, have a few minutes of peace and rest, and then we'll be on our way."

"Feisty little fella, ain't ya?" said the man.

"Far from it, sir."

"You say you was chased by an angry mob of douchebags."

"We was," said Milford, "I mean, yes, we were."

"Must've done something to rile 'em up."

"Look," said Addison, "can we just go sit at the bar and have a beer?"

"You got money?" said the man.

"Yes," said Addison. "We got, I mean, we have money."

The big man took a drag on his cigar.

"You don't know where youse are, do yez?"

"Well, it seems to be a bar," said Addison.

"I guess you noticed that there weren't no name outside the bar, just that sign, just that sign about abandoning hope."

"Yes, in retrospect, I suppose I did notice that," said Addison.

"And you know why there weren't no sign with no name on it?"

"No," said Addison, "but I suspect you are going to tell us."

"There weren't no name on no sign because this bar ain't got no name."

"Well, I suppose that makes a sort of sense," said Addison. "And so now, if we could just step over to the bar –"

"And," said the man, "the reason this bar ain't got no name is because it is strictly a bar for the nameless ones of the universe, the losers, the eternal failures, the ones fated not to be remembered by no one, the faceless ones, the anonymous ones, the spear carriers, the supernumeraries in the great Cecil B. DeMille production of life."

"Um, okay," said Addison. "So, can we come in?"

"Keep your shirt on, pal," said the big man. "I'm asking the questions here."

"Sorry," said Addison.

"Am I to assume, since you say you was being chased by these alleged douchebags, that youse yourself are not douchebags."

"Um," said Addison.

"No, we are not douchebags," said Milford.

"You sure of that?" said the big man.

"I'm not sure of anything," said Milford.

"Good answer," said the man. "But let me ask yez this. You may not be douchebags, but are youse cunts."

"What?" said Addison.

"You heard me, pal. Don't make me say it again."

"You mean cunts?"

"That's the word, although it's not a word I like to use, and never in mixed company."

"No, sir, we are not cunts," said Addison. "Jesus."

"Leave Jesus out of this, buddy. Because in here we may be the losers of the world, the forgotten of the forgotten and the damned of the damned, but one thing we are not is cunts. So let's just get that one thing straight."

"Look," said Milford, "we're not cunts, okay?"

"But," said the big man, "you just told me a second ago you wasn't sure of anything, so how can you be sure you ain't a cunt?"

"Okay," said Milford. "Fine. Let's go, Addison."

"Wait a minute," said the big man.

"What?" said Milford.

"I like your style."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I don't know what it is, but I kinda like both you guys. Maybe you are cunts. Maybe on the other hand you're just douchebags. Or, maybe, just maybe, youse two are members of the great fraternity of the losers of the universe."

The big man paused, looking Addison and Milford over. He took another drag on his cigar, took it out of his mouth, exhaling an enormous cloud of smoke, then looked at its end and turned and tapped its ash into his ashtray. Milford, who constitutionally noticed very little in the physical world, noticed that the ashtray had printed on its side in flaked gold the legend THE ST CRISPIAN HOTEL WHERE THE SERVICE IS SWELL.

The big man sighed, and without looking at either Addison or Milford, he said, "All right. What the fuck. What do I know, anyway?"

"You mean," said Addison, "we can come in?"

The man turned and looked again at Addison and Milford.

"Yeah," he said. "Sure. Why not?"

"Oh, good," said Addison. "Thank you."

The man said nothing.

"So," said Addison, "I guess we'll just grab a couple of seats at the bar then."

"Sure," said the man. "Unless."

"Unless?" said Addison.

"Unless you want a table, or a booth."

"Oh," said Addison. "Well, actually, I think just two seats at the bar would be fine."

"Suit yourself. But if you want a table or a booth you could wait here and the waitress will come over and seat you."

"No, I think just the bar will be fine," said Addison.

"We serve the full food menu at the bar if you're hungry."

"Okay," said Addison. 

"I recommend the all-you-can-eat chicken wings."

"Okay, good," said Addison.

"The egg and onion sammitch ain't bad, on your choice of white bread or rye."

"We'll bear that in mind."

"They call me Gargantua."

"Hi, uh, Gargantua," said Addison. "They call me Addison, and this is Milford."

"Hi," said Gargantua.

"So, uh, we'll just be heading over to the bar then," said Addison.

"Not so fast," said Gargantua.

"Yes?"

"Don't make me look bad."

"Oh," said Addison. "Well, we'll try not to."

The man Gargantua pointed his cigar at Addison, and then at Milford.

"Losers, failures, faceless drones, hopeless bores, these are all welcome here. Just no douchebags."

"Right," said Addison.

"No douchebags," said the big man. "And, especially –"

"Yes?" said Addison.

"No cunts," said Gargantua. 

"Oh," said Addison. "Right."

Gargantua pointed his cigar at Milford.

"You sure you ain't a cunt, sonny?"

"Uh," said Milford.

"I assure you, Gargantua," said Addison, "that neither I nor my friend Milford are cunts."

"Good," said Gargantua. "Keep it that way. And try the fried Spam-and-cheese sandwich on toast if you get hungry after a while."

"Thank you for the recommendations," said Addison.

Gargantua turned away, seeming to stare off into a distance only he could see.

Milford touched Addison's elbow, and the two friends walked over to the bar, which was crowded, but they found two adjoining barstools, and climbed up onto them.

{Please to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}

"Let's Do It"

 

After some several minutes of walking in the darkness they saw another faint glow up ahead. They came to a corner and turned it, and way down another brick passageway they saw what looked like a stairway, the entrance illuminated by another hanging light bulb.

"We are saved," said Addison.

"That remains to be seen," said Milford.

Another minute brought them to the stairwell and to a narrow spiral staircase, unpainted, dirty, stained with rust, and festooned with cobwebs.

"After you, my friend," said Addison.

"Why me?" said Milford.

"There's only room for one at a time, and one of us must go first."

Milford bent forward, craned his neck and looked up. 

"I see a light up there," he said.

"Grand," said Addison. "Go right ahead and I shall be hard on your heels."

"I don't want to go first," said Milford.

"May I ask why?"

"Isn't that obvious? Because I'm a coward."

"It's only a staircase," said Addison. He put his hand on the iron rail and gave it a tug. "See? Quite sturdy."

"I saw it move a little bit," said Milford.

"But only a little."

"I'm afraid of heights."

"It can't be more than thirty feet high."

"I'm also afraid of the dark."

"So is everyone, but it's not completely dark. Light your lighter if you're afraid."

"But then I would only have one hand to put on the rail."

"Good God, man, it's only a plain ordinary spiral staircase, now go on."

"Why don't you go first?"

"I'm quite willing to go first," said Addison, "but someone has to bring up the rear."

"I think I would prefer to bring up the rear," said Milford.

"Well, I suppose we could do that," said Addison.

"Good," said Milford. "Please go right ahead, and I will be right behind you."

Now Addison bent forward, craned his neck and looked up.

"Well, okay," he said. "But you will be right behind me?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"You won't abandon me?"

"No," said Milford.

"Because I am your only friend, you know."

"Yes, I am all too well aware of that."

"Okay, by George, I'll do it. I'll go first."

"Good."

"But look," Addison turned to Milford, "if anything happens to me, will you please write my Aunt Edna and let her know. You'll find her name and address on an envelope in my breast pocket. It contains a check for five dollars which she sent me for Christmas, but I haven't gotten around to cashing it yet. Send her the check back and tell her that I wished to thank her."

"Okay," said Milford. 

"Her full name and address are on the return address on the envelope."

"Right."

"Tell her – tell her I was thinking of her. And that I appreciated all the checks she has sent me over the years, as well as those sent me by my Aunts Enid, and Edith, and Sarah, and Kate, her sisters."

"All right."

"I should not have survived this long without their help, their kind remittances on holidays and birthdays."

"Okay."

"You'll remember?"

"I'll remember," said Milford.

"Also, in my wallet you will find the ten dollars I have left from that twenty you lent me."

"It wasn't a loan, it was a gift."

"Well, anyway, please take the ten, in repayment."

"In repayment for what?"

"For being my friend. And for writing my Aunt Edna."

"Look, Addison, I appreciate the thought, but nothing is going to happen to you."

"But in case something does."

"Okay," said Milford.

"All right, I'm going now," said Addison.

He took one more drag on the butt of his Chesterfield, and dropped it to the dank brick floor. He sighed, deeply, and took the first step. 

Milford let Addison take three more steps, and then he threw his Husky Boy dog end to the bricks and mounted the first step, and then another, and another. It occurred to him that he had neglected to grind out the two cigarette butts with the sole of his brogan, but he let it go. It was too late to turn back now.

After all that, it was only a matter of a minute before they reached the landing above. The staircase continued upward, but Addison stepped out of the stairwell, and Milford soon followed him.

It was another dimly lit hallway.

"Which way?" said Addison.

"I see a vague light down there," said Milford, pointing to the right.

"I hope it's not that place full of douchebags again," said Addison.

"If it is, we'll just keep going," said Milford.

"All right," said Addison. 

They walked down the hall, turned a corner to the right, and about fifty feet farther along this hallway they saw another door, with another light over it. They continued on and when they got to the door they saw a hand-painted sign on it which read 

Abandon hope 

all ye 

who enter here

"Should we go in?" said Addison.

"Speaking only for myself," said Milford, "I abandoned all hope when I was three years old. So, yeah, let's go in." 

There was a handle on the door with a thumb catch, and Addison put his hand on the handle, pressed the catch and opened the door.

Inside was a bar, yet another shadowy bar, the murmur of voices, the haze and smell of smoke, the thick aromas of whiskey and beer, the playing of a forgotten song on a jukebox.

"Another bar," said Addison.

"I see that," said Milford.

"We'll just go in and ask directions."

"Okay."

"What could go wrong?"

"I think a more appropriate question," said Milford, "might be, 'What could go right?'"

"Ha ha. Again that bone dry Milford wit."

Milford said nothing. Despite himself, despite all he knew about himself, he had a strange desire for a tall glass of beer, any kind of beer, just so long as it wasn't disgustingly warm. Would it be so terrible just to have one glass of beer?

"Shall we?" said Addison.

"Yes," said Milford. He had already said "no" more than enough times for one lifetime. "Let's do it."

{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq...}