"The Meaning of Life"

 

 

"Let us start with Mr. Charrington," the tiny old man said to Addison.

"Me?" said Addison.

"Yes, please. Tell me of your life, such as it has been, not forgetting your hopes, your dreams, and of course your accomplishments."

"Well," said Addison, "for starters, I'm afraid my name isn't Charrington."

"Then may I ask why you said that it was?"

"Well, you see, I didn't actually say my name was Charrington, sir."

"Please, call me Happy, Mr. 'Charrington'."

"Happy," said Addison.

"That's better. So, you say your name is not really Chaffington. But I gather that is the name which you are, as they say, 'operating under'."

"Well, no, not actually –"

"Oh, I get it now."

"You do?"

"There's just something about your demeanor, your manner of speaking and your mode of dress. Am I wrong in guessing that you are a literary man, sir?"

"No," said Addison, "on that point I do plead guilty."

"A novelist, I daresay!"

"Yes, for my sins."

"I knew it! As soon as I saw that rumpled and worn flannel suit and the fedora looking like it's been through a war, I said to myself, 'Happy,' I says, 'there is a novelist if there ever was one!'"

"You have a most discerning eye, Happy," said Addison.

"Bleary my eye may be," said the old fellow, "clouded and cataracted and occluded with glaucoma as well, but I can still tell a novelist from any common chancer or pool parlour jackanapes. Chalk it up to a long lifetime, rich with experience and the observation of and intercourse with – I speak of social intercourse, not sexual, not that I am prejudiced against chaps of a bent bent, mind you – mankind. And also, to an admittedly lesser extent, womankind."

"Um," said Addison.

"And so we have established then that you are indeed a novelist and that Chadsworth is the latter part of your nom de plume. But what is the first and perhaps also middle part of it? I ask so that I may look for your works at my favorite bookshop."

"Um, uh, Bertram Collingswood," said Addison.

"So your full pen name is Bennett Coleman Hapsworth?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"And is there any particular favorite of your novels that you would suggest that I read?"

"Yes," said Addison. "You might want to try The Diary of an Illiterate, Volume One."

"Diary of an Inveterate Anglican?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"So it is a religious work."

"Somewhat, yes," said Addison. "Although I would call it more a philosophical work in its themes."

"Theosophical you say! Splendid. It's good to know that the young scribes of today do not shy away from spiritual matters. That it's not all rutting and rioting." 

The old fellow now cast his illegible gaze at Milford. 

"What about you, Milbert?" 

"I write poems," said Milford. "With neither reason, purpose, nor rhyme."

"Poems of seasons, porpoises, and limes?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"And something tells me that they are quite good poems indeed."

"No, they're all pretty bad, actually."

"Of course your poems are sad. Life is sad. And then we die. You know, I think I can help you lads in your literary endeavors."

Neither Addison nor Milford said anything to this.

"Do you want to know how I can help you?" prodded the old man.

"Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison.

"Do I what?"

"Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison, almost shouting.

"Yes, of course I keep good company, although, alas, as you can see, it consists mostly of chaps with one foot – if not both of them – in their graves. It is such a delight to converse with two bright young fellows like yourselves, and so I am glad to impart my wisdom to you. Perhaps you will then avoid at least a modicum of the mistakes I have made, indeed that most men make. I mean if you want to hear it."

"Please, Happy," said Addison, "in the words of the bard of Avon, 'Unmuzzle your wisdom.'" 

"Well, I don't know who this Bart O'Mahon is, but I will gladly share my wisdom, and indeed I shall tell you lads the meaning of life."

"Well, that's certainly a tall order, sir," said Addison.

"You can order a tall water if and when Lucullus ever arrives with our drinks. But shall I tell you?"

"What's that?" said Addison.

"Shall I tell you the meaning of life?"

"Oh, by all means, sir," said Addison.

The old man looked at Milford, or at least turned his withered face in Milford's direction.

"What about you, sonny? Want to know what it's all about, this whole dog and pony show we call life?"

"Yes, thank you," said Milford.

"Very well then," said Happy. "I will tell you. I will tell you both. No more fruitless searching, no more agonized midnight lucubrations, no more endless dark nights of the soul in the bright and harsh noonday sun. Save you both a lot of botheration and wasted time. Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Addison.

"What about you, my poetic young friend?" he said in Milford's direction.

"I'm sorry, what?" said Milford, whose attention had wandered for some reason, or reasons.

"Do you want to know the meaning of life?" said Happy.

"Yes, please," said Milford.

"Then bend an ear my friends, and I shall tell you."

He paused. He looked at his pipe, which had gone out. In the background the room hummed with ancient conversations and monologues, and with the singing and playing of a forgotten song by the old piano player in the hazy blue light. 

"The meaning of life," said the old man called Happy.

"Yes?" said Addison.

"The meaning," said the old man, again.

Addison said nothing now, wary of leading the witness. 

Milford also said nothing. There was nothing to say, not that there ever was.

"Of life!" said Happy.

He paused again, but this time the pause did not end.

His little bald head bowed forward, and it was hard to tell, but it seemed that his eyes had closed.

"Is he dead?" asked Milford.

"Perhaps just asleep," said Addison.

"He doesn't seem to be breathing."

"Maybe he's so old that he doesn't need to breathe that much."

"I think we should leave," said Milford.

"But we have drinks coming," said Addison.

"Addison," said Milford. "There are other things in life besides free drinks."

"I know, but still," said Addison.

"If he's dead, do you want to sit here and drink with a dead old man?"

Addison paused. Was it so bad after all to drink with a dead old man?

"Maybe he'll wake up and tell us the meaning of life," he said.

"Maybe he won't wake up," said Milford.

Addison paused again.

"I can't believe I'm going to forfeit a free Falstaff and a shot of Cream of Kentucky."

"Look," said Milford, "you can stay if you want to, but I'm leaving."

"Oh, all right," said Addison.

"If it will make you feel better, I will buy you a beer and a shot when we get to where we're going."

"Really?"

"Yes, now please, let's leave." 

"Very well." 

They both stood up from their chairs.

The old man was still sitting there, his head slumped forward, his dead pipe still gripped in his tiny hand. Was it a death grip?

"Come on, Addison," said Milford.

"All right," said Addison, sadly, turning down free drinks for the first and no doubt last time in his life. 

The two companions stepped away from the table and headed back in the direction of the door, breathing in the smells of smoke and old men and of wisdom unimparted, as the piano player sang and played his unknown song.

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