It was a tavern, a saloon, yet another one, dark and choked with smoke, packed with people sitting at tables and booths and at a long bar. There was no music to be heard, only a dull babble of voices.
Addison and Milford turned and watched the little fat bald bearded man turning the button of a deadlock, thrusting home the bolt of a barrel lock and then securing a chain lock above it. He then turned to the two companions.
"There," he said, taking his pipe from his mouth. "That should keep the douchebags out."
"Thank you, sir," said Addison.
"And the door itself is quite secure I think," said the little man. He rapped the wood of the door with his tiny chubby fist. "Go ahead, give it a knock."
"Oh, I believe you," said Addison.
"That's solid three-inch oak you're looking at there," said the man.
"Yes," said Addison, "it does look quite stout."
"You need stout wood for a door," said the man. "And perhaps you are concerned with the hinges?"
"Um, uh," said Addison.
"What about you, young man," he said, turning the thick lenses of his glasses on Milford. "Know anything about door hinges?"
"Not really," said Milford.
"Really?"
"Yes," said Milford.
"You really know nothing at all about door hinges?"
"I know that they attach a door to the wall."
"It's called a jamb."
"Yes, sorry, the jamb."
"Well," said the little fat bald bearded man, "may I then direct your attention to these door hinges." He gestured vaguely with his little hand. "Solid stainless steel. With screws also of the finest quality alloy. Let those douchebags pound and kick to their hearts' content, they're not getting through this door!"
"Well, that's very, uh –"
"Comforting?" said the little man.
"Uh," said Milford.
"Yes, it's comforting," said Addison.
"And you, young sir," said the man, looking at Milford. "Do you not feel comforted?"
"Yes," said Milford. "Thanks."
"I know what you're both thinking, by the way."
"Um," said Addison.
"Yes," said the little fat man, "I know very well what you're thinking." Again he turned those thick glasses in Milford's direction. "You can't hide it."
"Uh," said Milford.
"Especially you can't hide it," said the man. "Your friend is a little better at playing the game, and bully for him, but not you, you can't play the game, can you? Can't, or is it won't? But one thing is undeniable, and that is that you don't."
"Pardon me?" said Milford.
"You are pardoned," said the man. "For thinking so apparently that I am boring you with my talk of doors and locks and hinges. Do you deny it?"
"No," said Milford.
"Good fellow." He turned to Addison. "See, he admits he's bored. As are you."
"Um," said Addison.
"We can learn from the young people, my friend. Because they have not yet learned how to 'play the game'. The 'game' that society would have us play."
"Um, yes," said Addison, "I have always felt that we have much to learn from the youth of today."
"Not that we cannot also learn from our elders."
"Yes, of course," said Addison. "The elders have much to, uh, you know, impart to, um –"
"And as well we can also learn from our coëvals," said the little fat man. "Or do you disagree?"
"Um, uh, no, uh," said Addison.
"What about you, young fellow?" the fat man said to Milford.
"I'm sorry, what?" said Milford.
"Do you also agree that we have much, potentially speaking, to learn from our coëvals?"
"I neither agree nor disagree," said Milford.
"You have no opinion?"
"I have no opinion, nor interest, nor do I have any interest in having an opinion, nor even an interest in having an interest."
The little fat man put the stem of his pipe into his lips and drew on it, as if pensively. The pipe had gone out, and it made a noise like a mouse's death rattle. He withdrew the pipe and addressed Milford again.
"I'm beginning to like you, my lad. You remind me of myself when I was your age, young and full of nihilism. But look at me now."
"What do we have here, Bormanshire?" said a new voice.
Addison and Milford turned to see another little fat man.
"Oh, hello," said the first little fat man. "Mr. Bogman, meet my new friends whose names I have not yet been so privileged as to ascertain."
"Bogman is the name," said the new little fat man, extending his fat little hand in Addison's direction. He was smaller than the first little fat man, yet proportionately fatter, and he wore a toupée the color and seeming texture of a ferret's fur.
Addison reluctantly but resignedly took the man's littler fat hand in his own larger but much thinner hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Mister, uh, Bogman."
"And your appellation, sir, if one may know it?"
"Well, it seems my friends all call me Addison, but in point of fact my actual name –"
"Well, if that's what your friends call you, then so also shall I, by George."
The little man called Bogman continued to hold onto Addison's hand, but now he turned his round face toward Milford.
"So you must be Steele then?"
"What?" said Milford. "No, my name is –"
"Ha ha," said the first fat man, apparently named Bormanshire. "I get it, Addison and Steele! Well-played, Bogman!"
"But all jesting aside," said Mr. Bogman to Milford, still holding tight onto Addison's hand. "What's your moniker, young man?"
"Milford," said Milford.
At last the little man called Bogman slipped his hand out of Addison's with a squishing sound and now extended it to Milford.
"Slide me five, Clive," he said.
Reluctantly Milford gave the man his hand, although it should be made clear to the reader that Milford never gave his hand to anyone willingly.
"A weak hand," said Mr. Bogman, "and a weaker grip. Not that I pass a moral judgment, because I suspect that you are a poet. Do you deny it?"
"Would it do any good if I did?" said Milford.
"None at all, my dear Milfold, none at all, because everything about you screams not only 'poet', but 'bad poet'. And again, I make no moral judgment, merely an observation."
"He's a bad poet," said Mr. Bormanshire. "And Addleton here is a bad novelist."
"Splendid. You have done your usual yeoman service as gatekeeper, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman, and he allowed Milford to withdraw his hand from his own, the squishing sound repeating itself. "Shall we then proceed to the formal initiation of these young chaps into the ranks of the Society of the Prancing Fool?"
"Forthwith," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Come with us, gentlemen," said Mr. Bogman.
"Um," said Milford.
"Uh," said Addison.
"Don't be afraid," said Mr. Bogman.
"Yes, fear not," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"But, uh," said Milford.
"Lookit," said Mr. Bormanshire, "you're a bad poet, aren't you?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford.
"And you," said Mr. Bogman, pointing his fat little forefinger at Addison, "are a bad novelist, n'est-ce pas?"
"Well," said Addison, "I think that remains to be –"
"He's writing an epic novel about the Old West," said Mr. Bormanshire, "but it's actually by way of being an in-depth exploration of man's search for meaning in a meaningless world."
"Right, so, bad novelist," said Mr. Bogman. "Swell, now come with us, gentleman."
"But where are you taking us?" said Milford.
"We're not taking you anywhere," said Mr. Bogman.
"That's right," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We're not taking you anywhere, because you're already here."
"Yes," said Mr. Bogman, waving to the barroom before them, the tables and booths and the long bar, all filled with people and smoke and the indecipherable rumbling of human or humanoid voices. "You're here, you see."
"At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"You're home now, lads," said Mr. Bogman.
"Home at last," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Home sweet home," said Mr. Bogman.
"At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Home," said Mr. Bogman, with what sounded like a tone of finality.
{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}
