"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…}