"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…}