"That's How You Do That"

They walked down the hallway into the darkness, and then they bumped simultaneously against what seemed to be a wall.

"What the deuce," said Livingston. "Could Pompey have given us a bum steer?"

"Livingston," said Harry, "I don't mean to cast blame, but you said that Pompey told us to make a left at the end of that other hallway, but when we came to its end, you made a right."

"I did?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"No, I suppose I'm not very assertive by nature."

"Wait a minute," said Livingston.

Harry heard a knocking sound from Livingston's direction in the near total darkness.

"Do you hear that?" said Livingston.

"Yes," said Harry.

"Does that sound hollow to you?"

"Sort of," said Harry, not wanting to commit himself and possibly commit another blunder, either of commission or omission. 

He heard another knocking sound.

"Is that you knocking?" asked Harry.

"Yes, it's me," replied Livingston. "And I think that's a hollow sound."

"Could it be a hollow wall?"

"What is a hollow wall?"

"Well, I mean a thin wall," said Harry.

"It could be," said Livingston. "You never know in these old buildings. Or even new ones I suppose. One moment."

Harry waited several moments, hearing what might have been the sound of a rat climbing up and around Livingston's plump small body, but then he heard a scratching sound accompanied by a flash of light and saw that Livingston had lighted one of his Ohio Blue Tip kitchen matches.

"Ah ha," said Livingston. "I was right after all."

He held the match to what they had thought was a wall and saw a faded and dirty hand-painted sign, reading

NO ADMITTANCE

"See?" said Livingston. "This must be the door to the basement. We're on our way now."

"It says NO ADMITTANCE though," said Harry.

"Yes, but you know what the motto of Her Majesty's Special Air Service is, don't you?"

"Not offhand," said Harry.

"'Who dares wins.' And so shall we dare."

"But wouldn't that be trespassing?"

"Look, the fees I pay for membership in this club, they wouldn't dare charge me with trespassing."

"Maybe we should just go out the front way."

"Nonsense," said Livingston. "Not after we've come this far. Here, let me just try this doorknob."

There was indeed a doorknob, and, transferring the match from his right hand to his left (which still held the box of matches), Livingston turned the knob and pulled, but the door failed to open.

"Okay," said Harry. "It's locked, so, uh, maybe we should, uh –"

"Hang on," said Livingston, "Pompey said no one ever locks this door, didn't he?"

"I'm not sure."

"I'm pretty sure. It's probably just stuck, on account of the wood's so old and decrepit, just like all those half-dead farts out there in the club. Here, hold this match. And the matchbox."

Harry did as he was asked to do, and then he saw Livingston grip the doorknob with both hands, turning it and pulling it and yanking it, and then with a dull popping sound the door opened onto more darkness.

"There," said Livingston. "It's open."

"I think you might have broken the lock."

"Look, Harry," said Livingston, "if I could break that lock, I who have never performed any physical exercise more strenuous than opening a beer bottle, then I think it's high time that the lock needed to be replaced."

"It's awfully dark in there," said Harry.

"Absolutely Stygian," said Livingston. "Hold the match closer."

Again Harry did as he was ordered, perhaps his three unheroic years as a typist in the army had not been entirely wasted.

"Ah," said Livingston, "just as I had hoped. Look."

A light bulb hung from the ceiling inside, and a thin chain hung from the socket the bulb was attached to. Livingston pulled on the chain, and the bulb gave forth light, not a great deal of light, but enough to illuminate a spiral staircase leading down from the doorway, into dimness surrounded by further darkness.

"Voilà," said Livingston. "And Bob's your uncle. Let's go."

"I'm afraid," said Harry.

"We're all afraid, Harry," said Livingston. "And with good reason. We're all going to die. Now let's go."

"What do I do with the match?"

"Give it here."

Harry handed him the still burning match and Livingston flicked it down the stairs.

"Do you want the matchbox back?"

"Hold onto it. I have a back-up. I'll go first."

Without hesitation Livingston entered the staircase and commenced descending. For a brief moment, just a second, Harry considered turning around, going back down the hallway, out through the bar and the lounge to the entrance of this place and then outside, into that raging blizzard. But then he remembered the brutal severity of the blizzard, and he also felt a twinge of shame even stronger than his innate cowardice, and so he entered the staircase.

"Oh, and better close that door," called Livingston, over his shoulder. "We don't want staff to get suspicious."

"All right," said Harry, and he turned and closed the door, which did feel as if its lock had been broken.

"Follow me," called Livingston. "We're on our way now."

Yes, but where to?

Nevertheless, Harry put the matchbook in his coat pocket and followed Livingston down, keeping one hand on the iron railing. The bulb from above the staircase only illuminated a small area of the surrounding floor at its bottom, and beyond this pool of faint light was only darkness, thick, black, and silent, with a faint reddish glow off to the left.

When Harry got to the foot of the staircase Livingston stood there looking around.

"Our basement smells just like this. Like burnt coal and moldering old stacks of National Geographics, and stale semen."

"I think there's a light switch on the wall there," said Harry, pointing to the right of the staircase.

"Flick it."

"Okay."

Harry went over and flicked the switch, and about thirty feet ahead a single overhead bulb came on, exuding a progressively faint pale light over the basement, revealing hundreds of shelves and boxes and bleak tarpaulin-covered hillocks, and to the left the source of the faint reddish glow, a large furnace, and near it what appeared to be a big black coal bin. 

"Oh, I say, look over there," said Livingston, pointing to the right, "the wine and brandy!"

Indeed on the wall to the right were shelves upon shelves with bottles laid on their sides.

"Yes, I see," said Harry.

"Should we grab a couple bottles?"

"Listen, Livingston," said Harry, "do we really want to walk around carrying a couple of wine bottles?"

"It doesn't have to be wine," said Livingston. "We could take some brandy. I happen to know there are some very fine bottles of Napoleon brandy and Armagnac on those shelves. Not to mention some excellent ports, madeiras, and sherries." 

"Let's not," said Harry.

"Oh, all right," said Livingston. "Come on, let's find that secret door, shall we? Follow me."

Livingston strode purposefully ahead, and Harry followed. Was this to be his fate, to be a follower? And was not everything he had ever written merely following in the steps of far better writers who had gone before him? Was he nothing more than a lowly epigone both in his work and in his life?

He trailed Livingston across the basement, past the brighter section under the overhead light, and into the dimmer area beyond, where he found Livingston shoving on the side of a large open cupboard full of cardboard boxes China-marked XMAS DECORATIONS.

"Give us a hand here, Harry boy. Pull on the other side."

Again Harry obeyed orders, and, working together, after a few minutes of huffing and puffing they managed to move the heavy cupboard a few feet to the left.

"Okay, I see it now, God damn it," said Livingston. "Just a bit more now. Heave ho."

Not two minutes later they had pulled and shoved the cupboard aside to reveal a door, a plain wooden door, all covered with dust and cobwebs.

"This is it," said Livingston. "The secret door. Pompey definitely said it was never locked, so let's go."

"I'm afraid, Livingston," said Harry.

"Yes, you said that already," said Livingston. "But we must conquer our fears."

"Why?" said Harry. "Aren't our fears there for a reason?"

"Ha ha, yes, I suppose so. Now let's go."

There was a doorknob, an old wooden one, and he put his hand on it and turned and pulled.

"That's odd," said Livingston. "I'm certain Pompey said it wasn't locked."

"Let's go back," said Harry.

"Nonsense," said Livingston. "Not after we've come this far."

"That's what Napoleon said at the gates of Moscow."

"Ha ha, that's why I like you, Harry, always one with a witty riposte." He yanked and turned and pulled on the doorknob again.

"It must be locked, Livingston," said Harry.

"No," said Livingston, "it's just like that door upstairs, stuck from the bloating of this ancient wood in the damp." 

"But –"

"Just a mo," said Livingston, and he reached into his mackinaw pocket. "I know just the thing."

And Harry saw with horror that Livingston was taking out and putting on what could only be a set of brass knuckles, and rearing back he slammed his fist against the doorknob with a dithering crack that broke the knob off the door, which popped open inward, revealing a dark and seemingly endless passageway.

"Bingo," said Livingston, and he turned with a smile to Harry. "And that's how you do that, my chum."

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

"The Secret Door"

 

{We continue with our fortnightly serial epic of the early years of the Beaten Generation. Please enjoy responsibly if at all…}

They came to the end of the hall and to a door on which was painted in cursive gilt letters: 

W.C.

Livingston pushed open the door and gestured for Harry to go first, and Harry did, entering a spacious lavatory of marble and granite, porcelain and dark wood, and at the head of a row of sinks to the left a tiny old Negro man in a white jacket sat on a stool reading a paperback book.

"Ah, Mr. Lovechild," said the little man, putting a bookmark into the book and rising.

"How's it hanging, Pompey?" 

"By a thread, sir, but who am I to complain, at my advanced age. It is a privilege of sorts still to be alive."

"It is indeed, Pompey. By the way, this is my friend, Mr. Harry Beachcroft, the renowned author."

"Extraordinary," said the little man. "As I just happened to be reading one of the gentleman's novels." 

He held up the book, which was Harry's Dames Spell Trouble, a novel he only vaguely recalled writing about five years previously.

"How is it?" said Livingston. "I can't say I've read that one."

"Pretty good," said the man.

"May I borrow it when you're finished?"

"Sure, Mr. Lovechild."

"Anyway, we're just gonna take a quick leak."

"Leak away, sir."

"This way, Harry," said Livingston, and he led him over to a row of urinals, cracked and yellowed with age.

"Livingston," said Harry. "This is awkward for me to say, but would you mind if we do not use adjoining urinals?"

"I assure you I don't have cooties, old man."

"It's not that," said Harry. "It's just that I feel uncomfortable urinating next to another man."

"Oh, so it's nothing personal," said Livingston.

"No, not at all."

"It's actually a very common condition," interposed the tiny old man. 

"Really?" said Livingston.

"Yes, sir. Some gentleman turn around and leave if even one other gentleman is standing at the urinals."

"Oh, okay," said Livingston. "So I shouldn't be offended."

"Not at all, sir," said the old man. "You know what they say?"

"No."

"It takes all kinds, Mr. Lovechild. And some gentlemen just can't bear to make water in the presence of another gentleman. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"No, I suppose not."

"Whereas other gentlemen take seemingly great relish in relieving themselves in the close company of other gentlemen."

"Yes, I've noticed that," said Livingston. "I must say it's a matter of indifference to me. As long as chaps don't try to grab my johnson in mid-pee."

"Ha ha, you are a jester, sir."

"I feel we must jest, Pompey, if we are to make this life at all bearable."

"A little jesting never hurt nobody, sir."

"Livingston," said Harry.

"Yes, Harry."

"I really have to go, so if you don't mind –"

"Sure, go right ahead, chum," said Livingston. "You take whichever end you prefer, and I'll take the other one."

Harry quickly went over to the urinal on the far right. Why hadn't he asked to use the bathroom before leaving Livingston's house? He knew why. It was because he had been too foolishly shy to ask where the bathroom was. He was a fool, he always had been a fool, he would doubtless remain a fool, and he would die a fool. 

He unbuttoned his fly and tried to put the fact that there were two other men in this restroom out of his mind. But the problem with this was that the one way to insure that something stayed in the forefront of his mind was to try to put it out of his mind. 

He sensed that Livingston had taken a stand down at the other end of the line of five or six urinals, and then he heard Livingston's voice, singing, to a nameless tune:

Oh, I am a bold young mountebank,

some call me Fred, some call me Frank,

and I wander around from town to town

and ne'er will you see me wear a frown.

I knew a young lass from Boston, Mass.,

she was full of fun and also sass;

she would brook no nonsense nor no crap,

and she gave me a dose of crabs and clap.

So sing ye high and sing ye low

as down, down, and down we go,

sing a happy song and a roundelay,

sing a song and then go away…

As Livingston sang, at last Harry felt his bladder let loose and a great stream of urine came out of him and splashed against the stained porcelain. 

Three minutes later he was finished, and Livingston seemingly was also, as he stopped his song in the middle of a line and flushed.

Harry re-buttoned and joined Livingston at the sinks.

"Hope you didn't mind my singing," said Livingston, turning a  tap handle. "But I love to sing while peeing. I don't know why. But do I know why I do anything? Not really."

"I didn't mind," said Harry, punching some liquid soap from a bulbous dispenser on the wall in front of him.

He looked at his face in the mirror as he washed his hands. Yes, he was no longer young, and to be quite honest he looked at the very least five years older than he was. In another ten years he would look twenty years older than he was. But would he even live another ten years? People dropped like flies these days, possibly due to excessive consumption of alcoholic beverages and tobacco, not to mention lack of physical exercise and poor diet. Perhaps he should stop drinking and smoking, and begin each day with a brisk and bracing mile's walk? The odd push-up wouldn't hurt either. But what would he do with himself if he couldn't enjoy two packs of cigarettes a day, and spend at least three hours every night drinking bock? Was such a straitened and abstinent life even worth living?

"To dry your hands, sir."

This was the little man, standing next to him and offering a white towel.

"Oh, thank you," said Harry, and he took the towel.

"You're quite welcome, sir."

Livingston was already drying his hands with a towel.

"Say, Pompey, maybe you can help us out. We want to sneak out quietly without running into some of the old boys out there."

"An Irish goodbye, sir."

"Yes, exactly. Do you think it would be okay if we sneaked out the servants' entrance into the back alley?"

"Normally I would say yes, but, alas, the back entrance and the alleyway are completely choked with snow. Even I had to come in for my shift today through the front door. However, there is another way."

"There is?"

"Yes. In the basement there is a secret door leading to a tunnel, its provenance unknown."

"And where does this tunnel lead to?"

"It runs westward all the way under MacDougal Street to another secret door, opening into yet another basement, and from there you can simply go up the stairs and you will be free to go where you will."

"Splendid," said Livingston. "And can you tell us how to get to this secret door in the basement?"

"Of course, sir. I would take you there myself, but, alas –"

"You can't leave your post."

"Exactly, sir."

"I quite understand."

"So, how do we find this secret door?"

The little man rattled off detailed directions, and when he had finished he said, "The door should be unlocked. If it sticks, just give it a good pull, but close it behind you, as no one is supposed to know about it. The tunnel will be dark, so be prepared to illuminate your way with cigarette lighters or matches, or both. It should take you only a matter of minutes to reach the end of the tunnel and the other secret door at its end."

"Sounds good," said Livingston, "and, Pompey, thank you for everything."

Livingston had his wallet out, and he removed a five-dollar bill and offered it to the little man.

"This is entirely too much," said the man. 

"Not at all," said Livingston. "You're a lifesaver, Pompey. Otherwise we would have had to go back out there and get trapped by those old bore-asses for another hour or two. Now please, take it."

"Very well, sir. And thank you."

The little man took the five and stuck it in his jacket pocket.

"I wish you godspeed, gentlemen," he said, "and only the best of luck."

"Thanks, Pompey." Livingston turned to Harry. "You ready, buddy?"

"Yes," said Harry. He held up the towel. "What should I do with this?"

"Just leave it on the side of the sink, sir," said the little man. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you," said Harry.

"All right, Harry," said Livingston. "Let's go find this secret door, shall we?"

"Okay," said Harry.

They said goodnight to the little man, who said goodnight back to them, and they left the W.C. and went out again into the dim hallway hung with faded portraits.

"He said to bear to the left, didn't he?" said Livingston.

"I'm not quite sure," said Harry, who had not been paying close attention, and who had never in his life been able to follow directions anyway.

"I think he said left," said Livingston. "So let's go."

They came to the end of the hallway, and Livingston turned right, and Harry almost said something, but didn't, and went along with him, down another dim corridor, which seemed to end in darkness.

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