"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…}
