Dan Leo's Blog, page 3

"Into Darkness"

How far away was that faint glow of light? It was impossible to say, but there was nothing else to do but to walk toward it. What was the alternative? There was none.

"I think," said Addison, "that the thing to do is to try to find a stairway."

"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, in the darkness.

"It seems we're in some sort of basement."

"Yes, so it seems."

"But if we reach that light up ahead we should probably find a way out of here."

"So one might presume," said Milford.

"Well, don't you think that's a reasonable presumption?" said Addison. 

"Yes, it's reasonable," said Milford.

"I mean, don't all basements have stairways?"

"I don't know," said Milford. "I am hardly an expert on basements."

"You mean there might not be a stairway?"

"I don't know," said Milford. "What if this basement is only accessible by elevator?"

"I hadn't thought of that," said Addison.

"But I'll tell you one thing," said Milford, "I'm not getting back in that elevator we just got out of."

"No, that was rather –" Addison paused, "disconcerting."

They kept walking, the tips of their cigarettes providing their only immediate illumination.

The glow of faint light in the distance gradually formed the shape of a doorway, and after several minutes during which neither Addison or Milford said a word, each for their own reasons (fear, and the fear of saying something fearful, or something boring or stupid, or simultaneously fearful, boring, and stupid) they reached what was indeed a doorway, without a door. Addison stepped through first, Milford followed him, and they found themselves in yet another hallway, this one with walls of unpainted brick. Above them hung the source of the light they had seen, a bare bulb hanging from a high ceiling, and the corridor ran otherwise unlighted to the right and to the left.

"Which way now?" said Addison. 

Both directions seemed to lead only to darkness.

"I don't know," said Milford. 

"Some sort of ancient impulse deep within me suggests that we should go to the right."

"In that case we should probably go to the left," said Milford.

"Ha ha, that dry Milford wit," said Addison.

"You're the one with the alleged wit," said Milford. "One thing I have never been accused of is possessing wit."

"Ah, but moi, j'accuse, mon ami!" said Addison, dapperly tapping the ash of what was left of his Chesterfield to the floor.

"Addison," said Milford, after a slight pause, "may I ask you one small favor?"

"Anything, old chap."

"Oh, never mind."

"No, please, ask away!"

"I was going to ask you to stop speaking French."

"Oh, pardonnez-moi, mon vieux."

"Ha ha."

"No, but if it bothers you, I'll stop, I promise."

"Oh, never mind, I don't care, really."

"Vraiment?"

"Yes," said Milford. "Who am I to ask you not to speak odd phrases in French?"

"Well," said Addison, "at the risk of waxing sentimental, I like to think you're my friend. And that I am your friend. And so if it is in my power to be even slightly less annoying, it would be my pleasure to attempt to do so."

Milford bit off a sigh before it could fully achieve itself.

"Okay," he said.

"You mean, okay that I think of myself as your friend?"

"Yes," said Milford, looking away.

"You know, mon pote, I've never really had a friend," said Addison. "Have you?"

"I think you already know the answer to that," said Milford.

"Oh, I've had acquaintances," said Addison. "My classmates at school and college, who always seemed to be in cliques that I was banned from. And, during the war, my co-workers on the assembly line at the parachute factory, to whom I would say hello, and receive a curt nod in response, if that. And now of course, the fellow tipplers who frequent my local caravansary, Bob's Bowery Bar, but who always seem to have trouble staying awake when I attempt to converse with them. But a friend? Someone who does more than tolerate my presence?"

"Okay," said Milford. "I get it."

His Husky Boy had burnt down to a nubbin, and he let it fall to the floor.

Almost seeming to commit an act of solidarity, Addison also dropped his cigarette.

"I'm so glad," said Addison.

"What?"

"I said I'm so glad."

"Glad about what?"

"That we have become friends."

"Oh," said Milford. "Yes."

It occurred to him that it might possibly be a fire hazard just to toss their cigarette butts to the floor, and so, just to be on the safe side, he ground out his own discarded butt with the sole of his workman's brogan, and then stepped over and put his foot on Addison's still-burning dog end as well. Never being one to take much notice of anything outside the confines of his own skull, he now belatedly observed that the flooring seemed to be made of ancient bricks, and so there probably had been no great danger of a conflagration. No matter, what was done was done.

He became aware that Addison had said something.

"Don't you agree?" said Addison.

"About what?" said Milford.

"About what I just said."

"Do you mind repeating it?"

"Don't you agree, and again at the risk of waxing sentimental," said Addison, who had long ago grown used to people drifting off while he talked, "that it feels good to have a friend, at long last."

"Oh, right," said Milford. 

"Not to wax sentimental."

"No, of course not."

"Damon and Pythias. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer."

"Right."

"Holmes and Watson."

"Yeah," said Milford.

"Friends," said Addison. "After all the lonely years. After a lifetime of –"

"But you know why we've never had any friends," interrupted Milford.

"Is that a question?" said Addison.

"More a statement of fact," said Milford.

"Oh," said Addison.

"Yes," said Milford.

"Because we are, both," said Addison, "I confess I hesitate to say it –"

"We're both douchebags," said Milford.

"Yes," said Addison. "Might as well call a spade a spade."

"And a douchebag a douchebag," said Milford.

"Which still leaves us with the question," said Addison.

"Why we exist, or persist in existing?" said Milford.

"Well, that," said Addison, "but actually, on a perhaps more prosaic plane, I meant we are left with the question of which way to go, right or left?"

"You choose," said Milford.

"Well, as I said previously, my deepest impulse, or intuition if you will, tells me we should go to the right."

"Okay then," said Milford.

"So, then," said Addison, "to the left then?"

"Yes," said Milford, after only the slightest of pauses.

And the two friends headed down the dim hall to the left, toward the darkness, gradually entering into the darkness, which had no seeming end, and when they had walked in darkness a further minute, as if communicating telepathically, they stopped as one and brought out their cigarettes. Milford lighted them both up with his Ronson, their faces pale in the small light, which he extinguished with a click, and then on they walked, once again the tips of their cigarettes providing their only illumination.

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

"Fancy Dans and Chancers"

 

"My story might be considered a sad one," said the little old man, "but aren't all stories sad in the end?"

He had sat down on a stool in the back corner of the vibrating and whirring elevator, and he was filling his corncob pipe from a leather pouch.

It occurred to Addison that the man was waiting for an answer to his question.

"Do you mean," he said, "in the sense that every life ends in death?"

"Smart young fella," said the old man. "What about you, sonny?" he said, pointing the mouthpiece of his pipe at Milford. "You a smart young fella also?"

"If I were smart I wouldn't be trapped in this elevator," said Milford.

"Which statement proves you're a smart young fella," said the little man. "Or at least not a braggadocious young fella."

He stuffed the pouch back into his green and red elevator-operator's jacket, and then brought out a little box of Blue Tip kitchen matches. He took one out, struck it, and put the flame to his pipe, drawing slowly and deeply.

"How much longer, by the way?" said Milford.

"How much longer?" said the little man.

"Yes," said Milford. "How much longer until we get to the next floor?"

"Not too long," said the little man. "Where was I?"

"You were going to tell us a story," said Addison. "A sad story."

"Ah, yes," said the little man, and he puffed on his pipe.

"Hey," said Milford. "Is that marijuana in that pipe?"

"Sure is," said the little man. "You want a hit?"

"No, thanks," said Milford, although he actually did want some.

"Suit yourself," said the old guy, and he raised his eyebrows at Addison. "What about you, sir? It's good shit. Or at least not bad shit. You want a toke or two?"

"No, thank you," said Addison, put off by the ancient slobber he noticed on the stem of the pipe. "I'll stick to my Chesterfield."

The old man drew again on the pipe, and then slowly exhaled a great cloud of smoke. This smoke combined with that from Addison's Chesterfield and Milford's Husky Boy filled the small car with a thick grey haze. He coughed disturbingly for a full minute, then abruptly ceased, and began speaking again.

"My story begins with two young fellas, gentlemens much like yourselves, one no longer young but the way he was going hardly fated ever to grow old, and one a bit younger but already old at heart. One of them's name was – what'd you say your name was?" he asked, looking at Addison.

"I didn't say," said Addison, "but everyone calls me Addison, although in fact my name is –"

"Let's call the older fella Addison then," said the old man. "And the younger chappy, well, we'll call him – pardon me," he looked through his thick horn rims at Milford, "I didn't catch your moniker, young fella."

"Who, me?" said Milford.

"What do they call you, if I may be so bold as to ask."

"You mean besides douchebag?"

"Yes, besides that, what do your friends call you?"

"They call me asshole."

The old man began coughing again, perhaps in hilarity.

"Look," said Addison, "they call him Milford, okay?"

"Milford it is then," said the old man, his coughing subsided. "So, my story concerns these two fellas, what did you say their names was?"

"Milford and Addison," said Addison.

"Addison and Milford?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"Right. Now, some people called these two fellas douchebags. Other people called 'em assholes. Some folks called them losers. Other folks just called them clowns. But they was just two fellas trying to make their way through life as painlessly as possible, no different from anybody else. 'Ceptin' one fateful night they walked into the wrong bar. A bar full of douchebags. And the douchebags in this bar, they didn't want these two fellas, what was they names?"

"Addison and Milford," said Addison.

"The douchebags in this bar didn't want to let Addison and Milford leave, ever. They wanted 'em to stay there, for all eternity, two douchebags in a bar full of douchebags, till the end of time."

"Okay, look, sir," said Milford. "We already know this story."

"You should," said the old man. "It's your story, ain't it?"

"Yes, it's our story, and we know we're assholes, and losers, and douchebags, okay?"

"So you don't want to hear the rest of the story?"

"No," said Milford. "It's bad enough having to live our story without having to hear someone else tell it."

The old man puffed on his pipe, and then he addressed Addison.

"You feel this way too?"

"Yes," said Addison. "If I am to be quite honest, I would just as soon get on to the next chapter without knowing what's in it."

"You might not like the next chapter," said the old man.

"I don't care," said Addison.

"What about you, sonny?" said the old man, to Milford.

"I just want to get out of this elevator," said Milford.

"Oh, okay," said the old man. "Leave me here then. All alone in my ellyvator."

Suddenly the elevator car lurched, and with a dithering bang it seemed to stop its descent.

"What was that?" said Milford.

"Ellyvator reached the floor," said the old man, and indeed the car slowly ceased vibrating and whirring.

"Oh, thank God," said Milford.

"I reckon you two fellas want to get out now," said the old man.

"Yes," said Addison.

"Yes!" said Milford.

"I ain't finished my story yet," said the old man.

"Look, we're sorry," said Milford, "but we have to go."

"Sorry?"

"Yes," said Addison. "We're sorry, but we really do have to go."

"Got some place important to go," said the old man.

"Well, maybe not important," said Addison, "but still –"

"You wants to go."

"Yes."

"Leave me here, all alone like."

"Well, it's just –"

"Just what?"

"We have some ladies who are waiting for us," said Addison.

"Ladies waiting for yez?"

"Sort of, yes," said Addison.

"They good looking?"

"Yes, they are rather, I think," said Addison. "Wouldn't you say so, Milford?"

"What?" said Milford.

"Wouldn't you say the ladies who are waiting for us are good looking?"

"Better looking than we deserve," said Milford.

"Well, that's different," said the old man. "Don't want to keep them good looking ladies waiting. They just might get tired of waiting and strike up with some fancy Dans and chancers."

"Um," said Addison.

"Lots of fancy Dans and chancers out there," said the old fellow.

"Uh," said Milford.

"Guess youse better go then," said the old fellow. "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right."

"Okay, then," said Addison.

"Maybe next time," said the old man.

"Next time?" said Addison.

"Yes, sir, maybe next time I'll tell you the rest of my story."

"Sure, next time," said Addison. 

"If there is a next time," said the old man.

"I wonder, sir," said Milford, "can you open the doors now?"

"Open the doors?"

"Yes," said Milford. "Open the doors. So we can get out."

The old man heaved a long rattling sigh.

"Are you all right?" asked Addison.

"Sure," said the old man. "Nothing wrong with me."

"Well, then, at the risk of sounding annoyingly repetitive, could you open the doors for us? Or should we just open the doors ourselves?"

"No, no," said the old man. "It's my job. Besides, you don't turn the handles just the right way they won't open, then you'll be stuck in here. You gotta turn the handles and push in simultaneous like and then pull 'em and jiggle 'em just the right way, you got to know how to do it, it takes good old fashioned American know-how to open them doors."

"So could you open them for us?" said Milford.

"Certainly," said the old man.

Addison and Milford stood there, but the old man continued to sit on his stool, smoking his pipe.

"Sir?" said Milford.

"Yes, sonny?"

"Can you open the doors, please?"

"What? Oh, sure."

He sprang to his feet with surprising agility, given his apparent great age. He went to the expandable iron gate, pulled on its handle and opened it, and then pulled the handle on the outside door and opened that, revealing what looked like the vast dark reaches of outer space.

He turned and faced our two heroes. 

"You wanted to leave, go on and leave. Oh, and that next chapter of my story?"

He paused, seeming to expect a response.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"Welcome to it," said the old man.

Addison and Milford looked at each other, but stepped bravely out into the darkness. They turned and watched as the old man shut the elevator door, and then they heard the car lurch and bang and then apparently begin its slow and vibrating ascent.

The only illumination visible was that emanating from the tips of our two friends' cigarettes. 

"Now what?" said Milford.

"On to the next chapter," said Addison. 

There was a hint of vague pale light somewhere ahead in the darkness, and Addison and Milford set forth slowly toward it.

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

"Elevator"

 

The two friends staggered and then stopped as one, panting and sweating.

"Well!" said Addison, when after a minute he was able to say anything.

"Yes," said Milford.

"That was a close call."

"Yes."

"Bastards thought they had us," said Addison, "but we showed them."

"Wait," said Milford.

"What?"

"Listen."

Addison cocked his head and listened, and heard the sound of trampling feet and shouting from somewhere beyond a corner they had turned perhaps a hundred feet back.

"Oh, dear," he said.

"They're coming after us," said Milford.

"Damn."

"We're doomed," said Milford.

"We were already doomed," said Addison. "Everyone is doomed."

"You're dealing in semantics when we're about to be torn limb from limb by a mob of, of –"

"Of douchebags?"

"Yes," said Milford.

"Well, there's nothing for it but to try to outrun them."

"All right," said Milford, "but I'm already exhausted."

"You're not exhausted until you fall to the floor, unable even to crawl another inch."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"So buck up, boyo, and let's go."

The noise of the shouting and trampling was growing louder, and so Milford and Addison began running again, after a minute turning another corner, and two more minutes later and just at the point of collapse they came to the end of the corridor, where there was what seemed to be a door. 

"A door," panted Milford, the sweat streaming down his face.

"Yes, I see it," said Addison, sweating and panting equally. "Another door."

"But there's no doorknob or handle," said Milford.

"Yes, I see that too," said Addison.

"Now we're really doomed," said Milford, as the shouting and trampling echoed louder from back down the hall.

"There's a button there," said Addison gesturing toward what at least appeared to be a button to the side of the door. "Should we press it?"

"Yes," said Milford, "for God's sake!"

"There you go with that God business again," said Addison, but he pressed the button.

The trampling, the thudding, the shouting grew louder still, and a voice rang out from down the hallway, yelling.

"There they are!"

"Let's get 'em!" came another voice.

"Fuckin' douchebags!" opined another harsh voice.

Milford and Addison both turned and looked back, and there coming around the far corner was the huge fat man called Big Daddy thudding along like a maddened rhino, and right beside him was that other nasty guy from the podium, and behind them came a whole pack of a dozen or more men, their fists raised, some of them wielding what looked like baseball bats and clubs and bicycle chains.

"Oh, shit," said Milford.

"Well, it was nice knowing you," said Addison.

"I never thought it would end like this," said Milford.

"Personally I always rather thought I'd die in a charity ward," said Addison, "but I liked to think I had at least ten more years, or five at least –"

"Good evening, gentlemen," said a voice behind them. "Coming in?"

The two friends turned and saw what looked like an elevator operator, uniformed in green and red and with a black-billed cap on his head, standing in what appeared to be a small elevator car. Quickly they tumbled inside.

"Up or down, good sirs?" said the man, who was very tiny with thick horn-rimmed glasses and who looked to be eighty years old if he was a day.

"It doesn't matter!" cried Milford. "Close the doors, please, and get us out of here!"

"Got some guys chasing yez, hey?"

"Yes!" said Milford, "now please, close the door!"

"You got it, boss," said the little man, and he grabbed a handle and slid the outside door shut. Inside that door was an expandable iron gate, and he also pulled that shut, and just in time, because they could now hear the sounds of pounding on the outside of the door, and shouting, and a chorus of voices blending as one with shouted words.

"Douchebags! Motherfuckers! Open that fucking elevator up!"

"Wow," said the little man, turning to our two sweating and panting friends, "them is some pissed-off individuals. What the heck did you two fellers do to 'em?"

"I threw a lit cigarette butt into the eye of one of them," said Addison.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because he was threatening to trap us in a barroom full of douchebags for all eternity."

"Well, then," said the little man, "I can't say as I blame ya, then."

The pounding on the door and the angry shouting from outside continued unabated.

The little man turned toward the door and now he shouted.

"Hey, you bums! Stop pounding on that door! You're gonna break it!"

"Fuck you!" yelled a voice that sounded to Addison and Milford like the podium guy, and the pounding and shouting continued.

"Look, sir," said Milford, "can you please get this elevator moving before they break the door in?"

"They ain't gonna break that door in," said the little man. "That's a solid steel door you're looking at there."

"But you just said that they could break the door," said Milford.

"Yeah," said the little man. "Sure, they might break it, like maybe break the mechanism or something, call for a repair job, but they ain't gonna break it in, unless maybe they got a sledge hammer or something."

Suddenly a loud metal clanging sound resounded from the door.

"What was that?" whined Milford.

"Sounded like a goddam sledge hammer," said the little man. "Or maybe a fireman's axe. I don't know. Do I look like Superman, like I got X-ray vision?"

The metallic pounding continued.

"Please, sir," said Milford, "can you please get this thing moving?"

"Sure," said the little man. "That's all you had to say."

"Please," said Milford.

"'Please'," said the little old man, "it's the magic word, ain't it?" There was a large handle attached to the wall near the front of the car, and he put his hand on it. "Up or down, gents?"

"It doesn't matter," said Milford.

"I got to know," said the man.

"Okay," said Addison. "Take us down then, please."

"Down it is," said the little man, and he pulled on the handle, the car whirred and lurched, and then seemed very slowly to descend as the pounding and shouting continued from outside.

"How far ya want to go down?" said the little man.

"Just one floor, I suppose," said Addison.

"One floor it is then," said the man.

They could still hear the shouting and the pounding, as the car whirred and vibrated.

"Is this thing even moving?" said Milford.

"It's moving, but it moves slow," said the elevator man. "It's a slow ellyvator. You got to be patient with this old baby, but you give it enough time, and she'll get you where you want to go, yes sir. Perhaps you gentlemen would like to hear a little story to pass the time."

"To pass the time?" said Milford. "How long is it going to take to go down one floor?"

"Not too long, but like I say, this ol' ellyvator's slow, and it's a long ways down to the next floor down."

"Oh, my God," said Milford. "Why didn't you tell us it was a long way down to the next floor?"

"You didn't ask, sonny. Now if'n you want we can go back up, and go past the floor you was on to the next floor up above that, we can do that if you want."

"And how long will that take?" said Addison.

"Not too long." 

"Will it take longer to go up to that floor than it will to get to the floor below?"

"I reckon about the same," said the little man, "give or take five minutes thereabouts."

"Oh, Christ," said Milford.

"Just say the word," said the little man, "and I'll reverse direction. It don't make no never mind to me."

"Okay, fine," said Milford. "Just keep going down then."

"So you fellers want to hear my story?"

"Sure," said Addison. "Tell us your story."

"All righty, then," said the little old man. He took a corncob pipe out of his jacket pocket. "Relax, gents, and smoke 'em if you got 'em."

There was nothing else to do, and so Addison took out his pack of Chesterfields, and Milford brought out his Husky Boys. 

The shouting and the banging and clanging continued, but now the noise was coming from above, as the elevator car continued to whir and hum and slowly to descend to whatever lay below.

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

"Breakout"

 

This is it, thought Milford. I am in hell. I don't know how I got here, and I don't remember dying, but I am in hell.

"And so," said the fat man called Big Daddy, "if you two gentlemen will be so kind as to accompany me."

"No," said Milford.

"What'd you just say?" said the man at the podium.

"I said no," said Milford.

"How fucking dare you," said the guy. He pointed the old-fashioned key attached to the dirty rabbit's foot at Milford. "You are cruising for a bruising, punk." 

"Well, fuck you," said Milford.

"What'd you just say?"

"I said fuck you," said Milford.

"Oh, boy," said the podium guy, and he turned to Addison. "You better talk to your little boyfriend, fella. You better talk to him quick."

"What do you want me to say to him?" asked Addison.

"I want you to tell him that he is putting himself into a world of trouble. And pain. A whole fucking universe of trouble and pain."

Addison took a drag from his cigarette, which had now burnt down to its last inch and a half, but he always smoked his cigarettes down to the last half-inch at least.

"I am waiting," said the podium man.

Addison slowly exhaled a gentle cloud of Chesterfield smoke before responding.

"In the words of Melville's Bartleby," said Addison at last, "I would prefer not to."

"Who the fuck is Melville's Bartleby?" said the podium man.

"All right," interposed the fat man, tapping an inch of cigar ash to the floor. "We have tried to be patient with you two. But you have forced our hands. I will give you both one more chance to come peacefully with me to my table, like the consummate douchebags you are, where we will sit and drink and talk shite, or, alternatively, we shall be forced to, in your parlance, 'play rough'."

"I say we play rough right now, Big Daddy," said the podium guy. He was now gripping the rabbit's foot in his fist, with the jagged key protruding between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers like the tip of a miniature halberd. "Just give me the go-ahead, please."

"Not yet, Cerberus," said the fat man. "But stand at the ready."

"Oh, I'm ready," said the podium man. "I am so ready. I'd like to ram this key right into this little twerp's eye socket, and twist it around."

"Oh, please," said Milford.

"Please what?" said the podium guy.

"You don't look that tough to me," said Milford. 

"What?"

"I mean, I'm a total weakling, and have never won a fight in my life, but you look like an only partially re-animated corpse."

"Oh, wow," said the podium guy. "Just you wait."

"Okay," said Milford. "I'll wait."

"I'm gonna come around from this podium and show you how animated a corpse I am."

"What are you waiting for?"

"All I'm waiting for is the word from Big Daddy."

"So you take your orders from him?"

"Yes. I do."

"Why?"

"Why? Because he's Big Daddy, why do you think why?"

"So you do everything this fat tub of lard tells you to do?"

"Oh, man," said the podium guy. He turned to the fat man. "Big Daddy, did you hear what he just called you?"

"I did," said the fat man.

The podium man turned back to Milford.

"That was extremely hurtful," he said. "You shouldn't talk about Big Daddy that way."

"I shouldn't call him a fat tub of lard?"

Addison snorted, and coughed, then looked at his cigarette.

"What are you laughing at, wise guy?" the podium man said to Addison.

"Well," said Addison, "you have to admit that 'fat tub of lard' is a not inaccurate description of Mr. Big Daddy."

"Oh, boy," said the podium man.

"I'll have you know, sir," said the fat man to Addison, "that I may be somewhat heavyset, but if I choose to set upon you, you will know that you have been set upon."

"Do you mean you're going to sit on me?" said Addison. "That would be uncomfortable, I must admit."

"Please, Big Daddy," said the podium man. "I beg of you. Just give me the word."

"I'll have you also know," said the big man, still addressing Addison, "that I am possessed of a glandular condition which is entirely congenital in nature. And I think it is quite insensitive of you to speak thus so rudely."

"You mean my saying that 'fat tub of lard" is an accurate, if figurative, description of you?"

"You go too far, sir."

"Well, you said that my friend Milford and I are douchebags, what did you expect?"

"Even a douchebag must observe some proprieties, sir."

"I can only assume," said Addison, "that you are a past master of the proprieties of douchebags."

"Very well," said the fat man. "Enough badinage. I give you two gentlemen – and I use that term in its most liberal sense – I give you two 'gentlemen' one supernumerary but absolutely final chance to avoid physical violence and to come peacefully with me."

Addison took a drag from what was left of his Chesterfield, looked at its glowing stub, and then flicked it into the fat man's eye, who dropped his cigar and clapped his enormous hands to his face while staggering backwards and emitting a great roar.

"Big Daddy!" screamed the podium guy, coming around and embracing the fat man. "Big Daddy!"

The fat man emitted another great roar, like that of a rhinoceros fatally wounded by a great white hunter's high-powered rifle. 

Milford noticed that the podium guy had left his key and its rabbit's foot on the ledge of his podium. Quickly he grabbed it and went to the door.

The fat man continued to roar, while the podium man embraced what he could of his enormous torso.

"Big Daddy!" whined the podium man again.

"Addison!" shouted Milford.

Addison turned. 

"Yes?"

Milford had successfully inserted the key into the lock, and had opened the door.

"Come on," said Milford.

"Oh, right," said Addison. He turned and looked again at the roaring fat man and the podium guy embracing him and crying the fat man's name.

"Addison!" said Milford again.

"Yes, I'm coming," said Addison, and he turned and hurried through the doorway.

Leaving the key in the lock, and with one last glance at the bellowing fat man and his whining minion, Milford followed Addison, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Which way?" said Milford.

"Does it matter?" said Addison.

"No," said Milford, and they ran down the dim hallway to the right (or was it to the left?) and kept running until they ran out of breath not two minutes later.

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

"Forever"

 

Milford tried the knob again, but it wouldn't turn. Then he tried pulling on it, to no avail.

He turned around.

"I think this door is locked," he said.

"No shit, Sherlock," said the man at the podium.

"But we want to leave," said Milford.

"Maybe you shouldn't have come in here in the first place," said the guy at the podium.

"What the fuck," said Milford.

"Hey, watch your language, buddy," said the podium man.

Addison addressed the enormous fat man.

"Look, can we please just leave? We have some ladies who are waiting for us."

"Ladies?" said the fat man. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, it's true, believe it or not," said Addison.

"Very well, I don't believe it then."

"Ha ha, good one, Big Daddy," said the podium guy. And now he turned to Milford. "Did you hear that, sonny? Big Daddy don't believe him. And neither do I."

"We don't care what you believe," said Milford. "Now please unlock this door and let us leave."

"Or what?" said the podium man.

"Or – or –" said Milford. "Or –"

"Or nothing, you little dweeb," said the podium man. "You and your boyfriend gonna make us let you out? Go ahead and try. Go ahead. I dare you, dipshit."

"Okay, Cerberus," said the man who was apparently called Big Daddy. "No need to threaten violence. Not yet, anyway."

"But punks like this piss me off, boss."

"They piss me off, too, Cerberus."

"Look," said Addison. "We're sorry, we really are. We meant no trouble."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," said the fat man.

"But we really are expected elsewhere, by some good ladies."

"Prostitutes?"

"No," said Addison, "these are nice ladies, and we left them in this other bar, and –"

"Why don't you just say you want to leave?" said Big Daddy.

"I think we did say that," said Addison.

"I mean," said Big Daddy, "why didn't you just say you want to leave without making up this fairy tale about how some nice 'ladies' are waiting for you?"

"Um," said Addison.

"Okay," said Milford. "Look, if it will make you happy, we'll say that. 'We just want to leave.' Okay?"

"Well, that's better," said Big Daddy.

"A little better," said the podium guy.

"Great," said Addison. "And we're really sorry about the misunderstanding. Right, Milford?"

"Yes," said Milford. "So now can we go?"

"No," said Big Daddy.

"Why not?"

"My dear young fellow, is it not obvious?"

"No, it's not obvious," said Milford.

"But it must be obvious to you, Mathewson," said the fat man to Addison. "You who are older, and one might presume, possibly wiser, or at least less obtuse."

"No," said Addison. "I confess that none of this is obvious to me in the slightest. And by the way, my name is not Mathewson –"

"Don't correct Big Daddy," said the man at the podium.

"But my name is not –"

"Look," said the big man, "whatever your name is – or, more likely, whatever your pseudonym or alias might be, I think there's one inalienable truth we may all agree on."

"Is there?" said Addison.

"Yes," said the fat man. "Do I have to say what it is?"

"Please do," said Addison.

"The one thing we can all agree on is that you two are a pair of prime, one might say extreme, one might say quintessential – can you guess what I'm going to say?"

"Oh, fuck this," said Milford.

"No, fuck you, punk," said the podium guy.

"If I may continue," said the fat man. "The one thing we can all agree on is that you two fellows are supreme examples of that which men call – guess."

"I don't know," said Addison.

"He knows," said the podium guy. And he addressed Addison. "You know."

"Fuck this," Milford repeated.

"Hey, kid, I ain't gonna warn you again," said the podium man.

"Look," said Addison, to the fat man, "I don't mean to be rude, but can you just say whatever it is you want to say and get it over with?"

"Certainly I can," said the huge man. "Why? Do you want me to?"

"Yes," said Addison."

"You want me to come right out and say it?"

"Oh, Christ," said Milford.

"You," said the podium guy, pointing to Milford. "Do not make me come around from this podium."

"It's all right, Cerberus," said the big man. "They want to hear what I have to say, so I will tell them."

"Tell 'em good, Big Daddy."

The fat man took a good draw on his enormous cigar and then slowly exhaled a great cloud of smoke. He tapped the cigar's ash with one of his sausage-like fingers, and then spoke.

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

He paused, as the world crashed and roared all around him.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"You're douchebags," said the fat man.

"What?" said Addison.

"You heard him," said the podium man. "Douchebags, douchebag."

"Okay," said Milford. "Great. We're douchebags. Now, can you please unlock the door and let us out of here."

"Sure we can," said the big man. "Right, Cerberus?"

"That's right, Big Daddy," said the podium guy. He reached into his suit jacket and took out an old-fashioned key attached to a dirty-looking rabbit's foot. "I got the key, right here."

"Super," said Addison. "It was very nice meeting you, both, and now –"

"Sure we can unlock the door," said the fat man. "But."

"But what?" said Addison.

"But just because we can doesn't mean we will."

"Ha ha," said the podium man. "Good one, Big Daddy. You hear that, punk?" he said to Milford. "Just because we can don't mean we will. You hear that?"

"Yes, I heard it," said Milford.

"And so, now, if you will, gentlemen," said the fat man, "please accompany me."

"Where?" said Milford.

"To my table."

"What for?" said Milford.

"To talk, to chat," said the big man. "To have a libation or two. On the house I might add."

"But we don't want to," said Milford.

"Watch it, twerp," said the podium guy, pointing the key at Milford. "Don't make me warn you again, again."

"But we just want to leave," said Milford.

"Oh really?" said the fat man. He addressed Addison. "And do you also wish to leave, sir?"

"To be quite honest, yes," said Addison.

"You mean to say you are turning down free drinks?"

"I know this might sound slightly fantastic," said Addison, "but yes."

"You're actually saying you don't want to sit and chat congenially like gentlemen, and drink for free?"

"For free?"

"Absolutely free, gratis, and for nothing."

"Just chat?"

"Chat and drink, yes."

"For free?"

"On the house."

"Well, for how long?"

"Addison," said Milford.

"Well, I was just wondering how long Mister, uh –"

"Big Daddy," said Big Daddy.

"I was just wondering how long Mr. Big Daddy wanted to chat for?"

"But the ladies," said Milford.

"Ladies, ha," said the podium guy.

"I'm sure the ladies will still be there," said Addison, "if we're not too long." He addressed the fat man again. "So how long did you want to chat for?"

"How long you ask?"

"Yes," said Addison. "I mean, I guess we could stay for a quick drink, but only a quick one, maybe two –"

"How long you ask?" said the fat man.

"Yes," said Addison. "I mean, we I guess we could stay fifteen minutes or so –"

"Addison," said Milford.

"How long?" said Big Daddy.

"Yes," said Addison. "Like, for how long?"

"How about forever?" said the fat man. 

"Ha ha," said the podium guy.

"What?" said Addison.

"I think you heard me," said the fat man.

Addison and Milford said nothing for the moment, as the noise of harsh laughter and the babble of shouting rolled continuously over them on thick waves of smoke and as a jukebox blared a popular song from twenty years previous.

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

"Welcome to the Club"

 

A hand-painted signifier on the lintel, faintly illuminated by a stained fixture in the wall above it, read

"The D.B. Club" 

"This isn't the right place," said Milford.

"Yes, but it's a place," said Addison.

"Any place is a place," said Milford.

"Your point is well taken," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields, "but by 'place' I mean it's not the maze of dimly lit or completely dark corridors in which we have just been wandering these past thirty minutes."

"Let's go."

"Wait. Let's go in here, and maybe they can tell us how to get back to the Negro bar and to our lady friends."

"I don't know –"

"What do we have to lose?"

"Our sanity?"

"My dear chap," said Addison, "how can we lose something we do not possess?"

"Look how dirty this door is," said Milford.

It was true. The door was coated with cracked and peeling paint which might once have been a bright Kelly green, but was now reminiscent of nothing less than dried vomit.

"A lot of these venerable old establishments have unprepossessing exteriors."

"What's that little sign say?"

Milford referred to a small placard on the door, on which cursive words had been painted on a grey background. The words were barely legible in the dim light, but the two companions stepped closer to decipher them, which were

If you be the person all deride

as an example of idiocy,

and not without good reason,

turn the knob and come inside

to where douchebaggery

is always in season.

"Well," said Addison, having lighted a cigarette and tossed the match to the floor, "if that isn't an invitation I don't know what is."

There was knob on the door, and he turned it.

"Wait," said Milford.

"For what?" 

"Maybe we really should just keep walking, and look for that other place –"

"My dear Milford, what's the worst that can happen if we just go inside and inquire for directions?"

Milford in the space of three seconds thought of several possibilities, each worse than the one previous, but he left these misgivings unvoiced, and, sighing, for the twelve-thousandth and thirty-third time since he had last been unconscious, he said simply, "All right. Open the door."

Inside of course was a bar, another bar, another crowded smoky bar that seemed to extend to infinity, and blaring jukebox music and the humming and babble of voices enveloped our friends like a wave eternally crashing.

There was a man sitting at a podium to the right of the entrance.

"Hi there, fellas," said the man. His face was the color of an old potato sack, and he wore a faded brown suit and a dull garnet bowtie. His hair was thin and strangely black. He had horn-rimmed glasses that magnified his eyes, which looked like the eyes of a dead octopus. "First time here, huh?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"So you're interested in membership."

"Well, actually," said Addison, "we were –"

"You two young fellas look like just the sort of guys we're looking for. And just between you and me and the wall we could use some fresh blood in this joint, ha ha."

"Well, really," said Addison, "we just stopped in to ask –"

"Allow me if I may, as part of our screening process, to ask you two good gentlemen a few questions."

"Um, excuse me –" said Milford.

"You," said the potato-sack man, to Milford, "judging by your peacoat, your newsboy's cap, the round Trotskyite spectacles, the Hemingwayesque fisherman's sweater –" he leaned over the edge of the podium to take in the lower part of Milford's corporeal host, "the dungarees and the scuffed workman's brogans, I'm going to say you're a poet. Am I right?"

Milford hung his head, and said nothing.

"Ha ha, I'm right," said the man. "And you, sir," he said, addressing Addison, "the baggy colorless old suit and crumpled fedora that a maiden aunt probably bought for you when first you went off to an inglorious and disgracefully truncated college career, the general air of ill-fed dissipation, you, my good man, are obviously a novelist."

"Bingo," said Addison. "Now, as I was saying –"

"So far so good," said the man. "Now, the million dollar question. Have either of you published?"

He looked from Addison to Milford, and then back to Addison.

"Well, uh –" said Addison, "the thing is, I'm still rather in the beginning stages of working on my novel, which I envision as a true American epic in the tradition of  –"

"I thought so," said the man. "How about you, buddy?" he said, cocking his head at Milford. "Any poems in small fly-by-night literary quarterlies?" 

"Well, I haven't really submitted much yet thus far," said Milford.

"I'll take that as a no, then," said the man. "Okay, you're both accepted, provisionally, as members of 'the club'."

"Great," said Addison. "So, as I was saying –"

"That'll be a buck apiece. Oh, and I'll also need your names or at least your noms de plume for our official roster."

"Look," said Addison, "we appreciate it, I think I speak for my friend here, but we actually just just came in here to ask for directions."

"Yeah, sure, that's what they all say," said the man. "Listen pal, don't try to bullshit a bullshitter. You know you're a douchebag and I know you're douchebag, and we both sure as hell know your little pal here is a douchebag, and that's why you're both here. Welcome to the Douchebag Club, and like I said, that'll be a buck apiece."

"Wait a minute," said Milford. "We don't want to join your club."

"You telling me you and your boyfriend here ain't douchebags?"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort, I'm only saying we don't want to join your club."

"Yes," added Addison, "and if you would have only had allowed me to finish a sentence –"

"Oh, wow," said the man.

"What do you mean, 'Wow,'" said Addison.

"I mean, 'Wow, you two really are a couple of douchebags, aren't you?' I mean, even by my standards, which, believe me, are quite liberal, that's how long I been working here, you two really are a pair of prime douchebags."

An enormous fat man came over, holding an enormous cigar.

"We got a problem here, Cerberus?"

"Just a couple of real prime douchebags," said the man at the podium.

The big fat man took a look at our two friends.

"They sure look like prime douchebags." He had an English accent, but it might have been an affected one. "So what's the trouble, fellows?"

"We only came in here to ask for directions," said Milford.

"Bullshit," said the man at the podium.

"Be cool, Cerberus," said the big fat man, and he took the measure again of the two friends.

"They call me Big Daddy," said the big man. "And I know a couple of fellow prime douchebags when I see 'em. What are your names, chums?"

"Well, they call me Addison," said Addison, "but my real name is –"

"Pleased to meet you, Addison," said the big man. "Put 'er there."

He extended his enormous fat hand, like the paw of a rhinoceros.

Addison was unable by constitution to refuse a handshake, and so he allowed his thin hand to be enveloped in the fat man's fat hand, which squeezed his own just up to the point of pain, but then allowed it to escape.

"And you," said the big man called Big Daddy to Milford. "What's your moniker, young fella?"

"Milford?" said Milford.

"You don't sound too sure."

"It's Milford."

"And may I take your lily-white hand in a firm grasp of potential friendship, Milford, if that is indeed your name?"

"Please don't crush it."

"I'll try not to."

Milford extended his small hand and in turn allowed it to be swallowed up in the man called Big Daddy's paw, and at the very verge of screaming in agony, his small hand was allowed to be pulled away.

"Follow me, gentlemen," said the big man called Big Daddy.

"But," said Addison.

"Yes, but," said Milford.

"We just want directions," said Addison.

"Yes," said Milford.

"I will give you directions," said the big man, "if that's what you want. I will give you very detailed directions. I'll give you directions to any place you want to go. I will even draw you a map. If that's what you want. Now come with me."

"They didn't pay their membership fees yet," said the man at the podium.

"Don't worry about that now," said the man called Big Daddy. 

"I'm sure they're good for it."

"Look, I think we're just going to leave," said Addison. "Thanks anyway."

"Yeah, thanks," said Milford, and he turned around, went to the door and turned the doorknob.

The door wouldn't open.

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

"A Tale of Two Tales"

 

"I wonder," said Addison, after they had walked without speaking through the darkness for a minute, "if I might tell you a little story."

"Yeah, sure, why not?" said Milford.

"It's a chapter from my past that I have never shared with anyone before."

"Okay."

"It's a sad story, and I suspect it will be at least somewhat unpleasant for me to relate, but, perhaps in the telling there will be some catharsis."

"Um," said Milford, if one can be said to "say" the vocalism "um".

"At the very least," continued Addison, "the tale might help to pass the time until we find our way back."

If we find our way back, thought Milford.

"I think I mentioned to you that I spent a couple of years during the war working in a parachute factory."

"Yes," said Milford, already thinking of something else, although of what exactly he would not have been able to say.

"It was in the town of Fayetteville, North Carolina. Have you ever been there?"

Milford said nothing, because he was thinking of something that he was in the process of forgetting about even while he thought it.

"I say have you ever been there, old chap," said Addison, who had assumed his full-blown George Sanders voice.

"Where's that?" said Milford.

"To Fayetteville, North Carolina."

"No," said Milford. "Why?"

"No reason, really, except that that town is the location of the sad tale I am about to tell."

"Oh, okay," said Milford.

"If I may continue then."

"Sure," said Milford.

And Addison went on, in his George Sanders voice, which became more his Ronald Colman voice, something about this factory he had worked in, and a bar the factory workers and the soldiers in the nearby army camp drank at, it all sounded very tedious, and Addison's narration didn't make it any less tedious to hear about, even if it was in his Ronald Colman voice, and so Milford thought about many other things, remembered many things, rehashed many things, and eventually he and Addison came to another intersection of corridors in the darkness, which they had become more used to now, and once again there was the question of which way to go, straight ahead, or to the right or left. There seemed to be a faint glimmer of illumination to the left, and so Milford spoke up.

"Should we turn left?" he said. 

"What?" said Addison, who had been in the middle of a long sentence with numerous parenthetical asides and digressions.

"I think I see light to the left down there, so maybe we should go that way."

"Oh, yes, of course. So, as I was saying –" and Addison went on as they turned down the corridor to the left.

Milford's Husky Boy had burnt down to a stub, and so he tossed it to the floor, and stopped to grind it out with the sole of his stout workman's brogan. Addison had continued on, still telling his story, and Milford hitch-stepped quickly to catch up. Now it was Addison's turn to toss his Chesterfield butt away, but so absorbed was he in the telling of his tale that he didn't bother to grind it out with his shoe. Milford thought briefly of retreating and stepping on the butt, but he let it go, then felt guilty after a few more paces and went back and ground out the butt. Addison didn't even notice, but kept on walking and talking as Milford hurried to catch up.

They came to another turning, and this time the corridor to the right was dimly lit by what looked like a bare lightbulb fifty-some feet ahead, and so without discussing the matter they went that way.

"And so," said Addison finally, after they had turned down yet another dim corridor, "there you have it. I've never told that story to anyone else, but, well, I like to think of you as my friend, Milford."

"Pardon?" said Milford, aroused by the mention of his name.

"Yes," said Addison. "I hope you don't think it presumptuous of me."

"Um, no," said Milford, because it was easier to say than to say he had no idea what Addison was on about.

"I'm so glad. And I hope you don't feel ill of me now."

"No," said Milford.

"I am afraid that others would not be so open-minded after hearing such a sordid tale."

"Oh, I like to think I'm open-minded," said Milford, wondering if he possibly had missed something slightly interesting by ignoring nearly every word Addison had uttered for the past fifteen minutes.

"And I should like to say also," said Addison, still speaking in his full-on Ronald Colman voice, "that if there is ever anything you wish to get off your chest, well, feel free, my friend."

"Oh, why bother," said Milford, "I've shared so much of my pathetic personal history at Alcoholics Anonymous that even I'm sick of hearing my boring stories."

Addison was glad to hear this, as he had only made the offer out of politeness, and rather doubted that Milford had any interesting stories to tell anyway.

"But there is one story, though," said Milford. "And it's so humiliating that I not only never shared it at AA, but I never even told it to that horrible psychiatrist my mother sent me to. Would you like to hear it?"

"I should love to."

"Okay. Well, it was when I was at Andover, in my first year there, and, boy, how I hated that place –"

And as Milford went on, Addison drifted off, still thinking of the story he had just told, which in fact he had told quite a few times over the years, embellishing often, and adding or subtracting details and dialogue and philosophical asides as his creative genius might urge him. 

Some ten minutes later, Milford was saying, "So you see, I think it might have been that incident which set the course for the whole rest of my miserable life, a turning point which –"

"Excuse me," said Addison, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I see a door up ahead."

"A door?"

And now Milford saw it, down at the end of this current dim corridor, a door, with a light above it.

"A door," said Addison. "And where there is a door, there must be something behind it."

"Oh, thank God," said Milford. "Not that I believe in God."

"Of course not," said Addison. "Oh, but do continue with your story."

"I've finished it," said Milford. "I hope I didn't bore you."

"Oh, not at all," said Addison.

"As I said, I've never told it to anyone."

"Well, I assure you, I will never repeat it to anyone," said Addison, which was true, because he hadn't been listening.

Now further bonded by the confessions neither had heard, the two friends quickened their steps toward the unknown door.

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

"Two C-Words"

 

On they walked, without speaking, until neither could bear not speaking one second longer, despite having nothing interesting to say, a consideration that had never stopped either of them before.

"Y'know –" said Addison.

"By the way –" said Milford, simultaneously.

"What?" said Addison.

"No, you go first," said Milford.

"No, by all means –" said Addison.

"It was nothing," said Milford.

"But it must have been something," said Addison.

"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford.

"Then what was it?" said Addison.

"Um," said Milford.

"Yes, go on."

"Uh."

"Please, expand. I am on tenterhooks."

"Okay," said Milford.

"What are tenterhooks, anyway?" said Addison.

"I have no idea," said Milford.

"Y'know," said Addison, assuming his George Sanders "intellectual" voice, "someday, they'll invent little devices that you can carry in your pocket, and all you'll have to do is ask it a question on any subject, and it will give you an answer."

"Oh?" said Milford.

"Yes," said Addison, "so you can just ask it, what's a tenterhook, and it will tell you."

"Okay," said Milford, after a moment's pause, "but –"

"But what?"

"Will it tell you the meaning of life?"

"Possibly," said Addison.

"Will it give you a reason to get out of bed in the morning?"

"To urinate?"

"Yes, there's that," said Milford.

"So what were you going to say?" said Addison.

"I haven't the faintest idea. What were you going to say?"

"Me?"

"Yes. You started to say something."

"I have no idea either," said Addison.

"Have you noticed something odd?" said Milford.

"I notice very little," said Addison, "but what I do notice is unfailingly odd."

"We have been walking for five minutes at least and we haven't gotten anywhere."

"Yes," said Addison.

"We've turned down two or three corridors, at random."

"Seemingly at random, yes," said Addison.

"Seemingly?" said Milford.

"Well, yes, at random, touché," said Addison.

"We're lost," said Milford.

"Do you mean in the existential sense?"

"That, yes, but also in the literal sense."

"All right, granted," said Addison. "But we must get somewhere if we keep going."

"What if we reach a dead end?"

"Then I suppose we'll just have to turn around and go back the way we came."

They walked on, and after three or possibly four minutes they came to another intersection of dim hallways.

"Now which way?" said Milford.

"Right, I think," said Addison.

"May I ask why you think right is the right way?"

"Okay, how about left then?" said Addison.

"We're lost," said Milford, again.

"Yes, this is true," said Addison. He took out his Chesterfields, and offered the pack to Milford. "I suppose you don't want a Chesterfield?"

"No, thanks," said Milford. He patted his peacoat pockets, and brought out his pack of Husky Boys.

"What happened to your Woodbines?" said Addison. 

"Oh," said Milford. "Well, earlier tonight I met this old poet who told me I was a – please pardon the word, but it was his locution, not mine – he said I was a – and, again, I quote – a 'cunt' for smoking English cigarettes, and he crumpled up my pack of Woodbines and threw them to the floor."

"Oh, dear," said Addison, who could well sympathize, having been called a cunt himself on more occasions than he could possibly count.

"So," continued Milford, "when I went to buy a new pack I saw these Husky Boys in the machine and bought them."

"So, no more Woodbines for you then?"

"No. I may well be a cunt, but I don't want to be thought a cunt."

"An admirable ambition I think."

Addison lighted up both their cigarettes with a match from his book of Bob's Bowery Bar matches.

"Thank you," said Milford.

"You're welcome," said Addison. "Y'know, perhaps in a sense, but in a very real sense," he was speaking in his full-blown Ronald Colman/George Sanders voice now, "perhaps not being thought a cunt is the first step in not actually being a cunt."

Milford had no response to this proposition, and he made none.

"You disagree?" said Addison.

"I neither agree nor disagree," said Milford. "But since I apparently am a cunt, my opinion is probably worthless."

Now it was Addison's turn not to respond.

After a long and echoing minute, he did speak.

"So, on that note, which way?"

"Straight ahead," said Milford, stifling a sigh with a drag of Husky Boy smoke.

"Straight ahead it is," said Addison, and they continued onward, the corridor growing dimmer and dimmer until they were walking in almost complete darkness, the only illumination the tips of their two cigarettes.

From the corner of his eye Addison saw the red glow of Milford's Husky Boy leave its wobbling position where presumably it had been in front of Milford's face and swerve in an arc downward.

"If this were happening in a novel," said Milford's voice in the darkness, "the critics would say it was a metaphor for the absurdity of life."

Addison said nothing, as he saw the red glow rise up again to the height of Milford's mouth, and for thirty seconds the only sounds were that of the two friends' footsteps in the darkness.

"Y'know, Milford," said Addison, after these thirty seconds had elapsed, "critics really are the consummate cunts of the world."

Milford had no reply to this remark, at least none that he voiced, and the two companions walked on in the darkness that was relieved only by the glowing red tips of their cigarettes. 

{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 Two Friends"

 

Once again the feeling of floating, and Milford rose up into the night through the heavy falling snow, and he looked down on the city vaguely sprinkled with stars, and he fell through outer space and into the mouth of an enormous snake and came to the edge of the earth, and he looked over the edge into bottomless darkness and thought why not, and he stepped over and tumbled down and down.

"Hey, buddy."

It was Addison, reappeared out of the fog of smoke, gripping his arm.

"Oh, hello," said Milford.

"You awake?"

"Now I am."

"Good, let's get you out of here."

"All right."

Addison pulled him along, they came to a door, Addison pulled it open, and then shoved Milford gently through.

They stood in the dim hallway as the door closed behind them, and from behind the door came the sounds of Jelly Roll's piano and his singing and the babble of drunken voices.

"Okay," said Addison, "first thing, get your sweater and peacoat on, it's like the North Pole out there."

The process took no more than three minutes, maybe four, with Addison helping by buttoning up Milford's peacoat for him, because Milford's fingers had trebled in size.

"Okay, great," said Addison. "Now let's get you home."

"Wait," said Milford.

"What for?"

"Why are you helping me?"

Addison paused before answering.

"Y'know, Milford, I may be a drunk, and a pathetic remittance man, and a talentless poseur, but I like to think I am not a total reprobate, and that I am in my own small way, yes, dare I say it, a gentleman. I saw a friend in need, so I thought why not help him out?"

Now it was Milford who paused.

"I can't say that is something I've ever done," he said. "Help a friend in need. But then –"

He said nothing.

"But what?" said Addison.

"I've never had a friend," said Milford.

Addison brought out his pack of Chesterfields. One thing he hadn't mentioned was that his little beau geste in offering to walk Milford home would undoubtedly raise him in the estimation of the three ladies at his table, at least one of whom might just possibly, if not tonight, then perhaps in some vague futurity, relieve him of his virginity before he died. Even someone as loquacious as Addison knew it was possible to say too much sometimes, and why cast oneself in a bad light when so many others were willing to?

"Well, my good fellow," he said, "I hope you will consider me your friend," and he gave the Chesterfield pack a shake. "Coffin nail?"

"Thanks," said Milford, "but I prefer Woodbines."

Addison expertly inserted a Chesterfield into his lips directly from the pack.

"What is it with you and Woodbines?" he asked. "I've always been interested in other people's little pretensions."

"I saw Dylan Thomas give a reading one time at the Jewish Y, and he was smoking Woodbines."

"Well, that explains it," said Addison, taking out his book of Bob's Bowery Bar matches, "and the burly sweater and peacoat, I suppose."

"The peacoat is more an attempt to express solidarity with the working class."

"But have you ever worked yourself?"

"Never."

"Well, count yourself lucky, my lad." Addison lighted his cigarette, and tossed the match to the floor. He exhaled a great cloud of smoke, and semi-consciously assumed his "poetic" voice, which he had honed by watching Ronald Colman and George Sanders movies. "When the war ended and I was finally laid off from my job at the parachute factory, it was the happiest day of my life, and I swore never again, not if I could help it. Trust me, young Milford, there is nothing more horrible than a job."

"I have sometimes thought of shipping out on a tramp steamer."

"Why?"

"To gain experience of life?"

"Take it from me, boyo, a bruised veteran of well more than two years on the assembly lines, some experiences are better left unexperienced. No, there is nothing better than idleness. But come on, let's get out of this. You need to hit the hay, and I need to get back to that table and those three lovely ladies."

"All right."

"Do you remember how to get out of here?"

"No," said Milford.

"Me neither," said Addison, "so let's just start walking until we find an exit." 

The dim hallway went to the right and to the left, and another hallway led directly ahead.

"Might as well go this way," said Addison, pointing, and they started walking straight ahead.

They walked on into the dimness, the hallway seeming to curve very gradually, and they saw neither a doorway or an ending. They continued walking and after several minutes came to another interior crossroads, the hallway they were in leading straight ahead, and another hallway crossing it and going to the right and to the left.

"I think we turn left here," said Addison. "What do you think?"

"I have no idea," said Milford.

"Okay, let's go left."

They turned left and wandered along another gently curving hallway barely illuminated by widely spaced low-wattage lightbulbs in the ceiling until after some five minutes they came to a bifurcation, one passage curving to the right, the other to the left.

"Which way?" said Addison.

"Wait a minute," said Milford.

"Okay," said Addison.

They stopped. Addison came to the end of his Chesterfield, dropped it to the floor, and ground it out with the sole of his shoe. He looked at Milford, who was staring at the floor.

"What is it, old boy?" asked Addison.

"I feel as if I am becoming dissociated from my corporeal host," said Milford.

"I know that feeling," said Addison. "It will pass."

"What if it doesn't pass."

"That moment will come to all of us, my friend. One name for it is death."

Milford sighed.

"That," he said, "was the twelve-thousandth and thirty-second sigh I have heaved since awakening from my troubled night's sleep this morning."

"And it probably won't be your last," said Addison, "not until you fall asleep again. And then when you awaken you can start the whole process over once more."

"Maybe we should go back," said Milford.

"You mean you don't want to go home? To your presumably cozy bed?"

"Back at the bar I was sitting with an intelligent and attractive woman. And I left her there to go home and go to bed? What is wrong with me?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Addison.

"Can we go back?"

"Why not?"

"There is no reason why not."

"I agree," said Addison.

"Let's go back," said Milford.

"Okay," said Addison. "Do you remember how to get back?"

"No," said Milford.

"I suggest we turn around and attempt to retrace our steps."

"Okay."

"Shall we hie us hence then?"

"Yes."

And so they turned around and headed back the way they had presumably come. There was nothing else they could do. Or, rather, there were countless other things they could do, but this was the course they chose, and on the two friends forged through the gently curving and dim hallway.

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

"Your Life Starts Now"

 

Miss Alcott pulled Milford along through the tables and to the bar, which was filled with laughing and chattering Negro people.

Back on the stage Jelly Roll continued to play and sing.

Yes I got a big bottomed mama

and she ain't no prima donna.

She gives me everything I need

and she makes my poor heart bleed…

There was one empty stool in all the bar and Miss Alcott dragged Milford over to it. She let go of his arm, climbed up onto the stool, and laid her purse on the bar.

"Hope you don't mind standing."

"No, not at all," said Milford. He was squeezed in quite close to her, the front of his torso touching her left arm.

"You're probably wondering why I brought you over here."

"I - yes, I suppose –"

"Your reefer stub has gone out."

"Oh," said Milford, looking at the brown stub in the fingers of his right hand.

"You should light it."

"I should?"

"Might as well. I'm going to have a Lucky myself."

She reached into the pocket of her dress and brought out her pack of Lucky Strikes, shook it so that the end of one cigarette protruded, and extracted it with her ruby red lips.

Milford stared, and then remembered his manners as she clicked open her purse.

"Oh, wait, let me light that," he said. He put the reefer stub in his own pale narrow lips, the only kind he had, but he realized that his lighter was somewhere in his peacoat, which he still carried over his left arm, along with his bulky Hemingwayesque fisherman's sweater. Awkwardly he fished within the folds of the peacoat, trying not to drop it or the sweater.

"Milford," said Miss Alcott.

"Yes?" said Milford. "Just one moment –"

"Milford, look."

He looked.

She held up a slim elegant lighter.

"Oh," he said.

She clicked the lighter, a narrow flame emerged, and she lighted up her Lucky Strike. Slowly she allowed the smoke to leave her lips as she looked at Milford with her dark eyes, the only kind of eyes she had.

"I think you are the most awkward person I have ever met," she said. "Would you like me to light your reefer butt?"

She didn't wait for an awkward response, but put the flame to the butt. Milford felt the flame almost burning the tip of his nose, but he didn't complain.

The large shaven-headed bartender was standing there on the other side of the bar.

"Another Amontillado, Miss Lou?"

"Why, yes, hello, Clyde, thank you, I think I would like one."

"What about you, buddy," Clyde said to Milford. "Another sweet tea, or are you ready to join the big boys' club and have a real drink."

"I, uh," said Milford, "nothing for me, thanks, I was just getting ready to go."

"You got a fine looking gentlelady like Miss Lou here, and you're, and I quote, 'getting ready to go'?"

"Well, you see, it's been a very long day, and night, and -"

"No offense, man, and please don't take this the wrong way, but what the fuck is the matter with you?"

"That's something I've been wondering all my life."

"Your life starts now, motherfucker." Clyde turned to Miss Alcott. "Pardon my language, Miss Lou."

"That's quite all right, Clyde," said Miss Alcott.

"I just can't understand jive white motherfuckers like this."

"To be honest, Clyde," said Miss Alcott, "neither can I."

"All right," said Milford. "I'm sorry. I'll have a drink."

"What?" said Clyde. "Another sweet tea?"

"No, what the hell – pardon me, Miss Alcott –"

"That's all right," said Miss Alcott.

"I'll take a real drink," said Milford.

"You should try the corn liquor," said Miss Alcott. "The spécialité de la maison."

"Okay," said Milford, "I'll have one of those."

"Now you're talking like a man," said Clyde. "Or, at least, a reasonable simulacrum of one. You want a shot, a small jar, or a regular jar?"

"Um –"

"Give him a small jar," said Miss Alcott.

Milford sighed. He had lost count, but he would guess that this was possibly his twelve-thousandth and thirty-first sigh since he had reluctantly crawled out of the world of dreams into the supposed real world the previous morning, which seemed now at least two years ago.

He realized that the stub of reefer was now starting to burn his lips, and so he took it out and placed it in a glass ashtray that was conveniently there on the bar top. He noticed that the ashtray bore on its beveled sides a gold-painted legend. 

The Hideaway: Leave your cares behind and your bullshit too

"Just didn't want you to walk out before we could say a proper goodbye," said Miss Alcott. "After all, it has been –" she paused, and as she paused Milford could hear the surrounding chatter, the shouting and laughter, and the voice of Jelly Roll back there on the stage, singing.

Yeah, I got a big bottomed mama

and she sure is a charmer.

She sure knows how to please 

and she brings me inner peace.

The bartender Clyde was there, and he put a small glass of tawny liquid in front of Miss Alcott and a small jar of clear liquid in front of Milford.

"Amontillado and a small jar of corn," he said.

"Thank you, dear Clyde," said Miss Alcott. "Put it on my tab, please."

"Sure thing, Miss Lou," said Clyde, and he went away.

Miss Alcott picked up the little glass of yellow liquid.

"What was I saying?"

"I can't remember," said Milford. "I feel as if, each passing second, all of reality disappears down a swirling whirlpool into oblivion, leaving only the vaguest of traces, both visual and auditory, and, yes, olfactory, and –"

"I remember," she said. "I was about to define our brief relationship in a word, and that word, I've now decided, is: 'amusing'."

She took a sip of her Amontillado.

Milford reached for the jar of white liquid, brought it to his lips, took a great gulp, and a fire descended into his throat, causing him to gasp.

"Are you quite all right?" said Miss Alcott.

"Dear God," Milford managed to say.

"A bit strong, is it?"

"Oh my God," he said.

"Do you believe in God?"

"No, he said," after another deep gasp. "And now less than ever."

He put the jar back on the bar top.

"I can't drink that," he said.

"I thought you were an alcoholic."

"Yes," I am, he said, panting, "but even I have my limits."

"Ha ha," she said. "You really are amusing, Milford."

"Thank you," he said.

"For what? For simply stating the truth? You are amusing."

"I meant thank you for calling me by my correct name."

"So it actually is, what – Milford?"

"Yes."

"Good, I'd been just on the verge of saying Woolford, or Dumford, or maybe Gifford."

"Well, I'm glad you didn't. It means something to me. To have someone remember my name."

"It's my pleasure, Gilford."

"Oh."

"Just jesting!" she said, with a smile. "Milford – there!"

"Oh, heh heh," he said.

She gazed at him, as if kindly.

"Oh, all right, I give you leave to go now, dear boy. Your instinct telling you to go home is probably a wise one. And so I shall say, no, not goodbye, but au revoir."

"Thank you, Miss Alcott, for being understanding. It's just that I fear that if I don't go now that I will regret it, if I even live to regret it."

"Quite all right."

"Do you mind if I don't finish this jar?"

"Not at all. Maybe I'll give it to your friend Addison."

"Yes, he'll probably like it."

"Go on, there's a good chap."

"I hope we meet again sometime," said Milford.

"So also I."

"All right, I'm going now."

"I won't kiss you, because we've had one good kiss, and that should be more than enough."

"It will be for me."

She raised an eyebrow, and then turned away.

Milford wondered for a fraction of a moment if he should ask for Miss Alcott's phone number, if she even had a phone, or if perhaps he should try to arrange for some sort of future meeting, maybe at the automat across the alley from the Hotel St Crispian, but then he felt, no, enough was enough, learn when to leave, he really should just go now, and so he did, his legs carrying him away towards where he hoped there would be an exit from this place, walking through the laughing and chattering people and through the swirling clouds of smoke, his feet seeming not to touch the floor, as Jelly Roll played his piano and sang.

I got a big bottomed mama,

she's my one and only dharma.

When night falls upon the world

she's my one and only girl…

Milford felt faint, and his breath grew short. He shouldn't have drunk that clear liquor in the jar, he really shouldn't have. He stopped, swaying, backward and forward. 

Someone took his arm.

"Hey, buddy."

It was Addison.

"You okay, Milford?"

"I, um –"

"You were staggering all over the place like you were about to pass out."

"I – I –"

"Gee, I think you really do need to go home, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Look, stand here and don't move. I'm just going to go back and tell the ladies I'm going to walk you home."

"You're going to walk me home?"

"Sure, it's not far, right?"

"No, not far."

"Good, wait here, I'll be right back."

Addison went away. 

How very strange, thought Milford. Did he really have a friend after all?

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