"And so you see, Mr. Stevens," said Addison, "in my view, the primary duty of the poet of today is not just to express the personal despair of his paltry existence, but the despair of the universe which gave birth to itself out of an overwhelming sense of boredom at its own previous nonexistence, that is to say, in a sense, but a very real sense, it was so bored that it could conquer its boredom only by compounding it, and this I think is the essential theme of my novel in progress, which I would love for you to read –"
"Hey, Patcherman," said Bubbles, who was sitting to Addison's right.
"Yes, dear Bubbles," said Addison, turning.
"The guy's passed out, so you can save the blather."
Addison turned to look, and, indeed, the large man's chin rested on his chest, and his eyes were closed like those of an enormous sleeping infant.
"Oh, a pity," said Addison. "I felt I was on the verge, too, of some profound insight."
"Yeah, well, save it for later, pal. Come on, I need my beauty sleep."
"Perhaps just one more for the road?"
"Not unless you want to carry me out of here."
"Oh, very well."
The combo was still blowing and crashing away, the people all around them still laughing and shouting, and one sad strangled voice suddenly shouted, "Go, man, go! Don't stop now, daddy-o!"
Addison raised a finger and caught the bartender's attention.
"Sir, are we all paid up here?"
"Mr. Stevens got all them rounds, buddy," said the bartender.
"Oh, splendid," said Addison, "and I did leave a tip earlier, did I not?"
"Yes, sir, if I recall it was sixty-five cents, and very generous of you at that."
"Let's go, Adelbert," said Bubbles.
Addison took out his wallet and opened it. Inside was a ten dollar bill and two singles. He removed the two singles and proffered them to the bartender.
"Please add these to your hope chest," he said.
"I will do that," said the bartender, taking the two dollars.
"Come on, big spender," said Bubbles.
It was true, Addison had never tipped a bartender so much in all his life, but then hadn't Mr. Stevens bought them three Hennessy VSOPs apiece?
Addison and Bubbles had never removed their coats and hats when the large gentleman had offered to buy them cognacs, and so now they both dismounted from their stools, grabbing onto each other as they did so.
And the beauty of it all was that Addison still had that beautiful ten-dollar bill in his wallet, and he knew just how he was going to spend it, too.
As drunk as they both were, Bubbles nevertheless looked magnificent in her red fur-like pillbox hat, her red coat, her matching shiny red purse over her shoulder, with her red lips and her dark eyes.
"You look magnificent, dear Bubbles," said Addison.
"Yeah, right," she said. "Let's barrel."
She took his arm, and off they forged to the entrance and out the door where they stood for a moment in the areaway, illuminated by the vertical neon letters in the window to their right which spelled the word BAR, and the snow still fell heavily down on the whiteness of MacDougal Street, and across the vague swirling street was another electric light, an orange one spelling the word RHEINGOLD.
"Rheingold!" said Addison. "What a beautiful word! Should we cross over there and each have a nice tall beaded pilsner glass of the golden beer of the Rheinland, just to wash down that delicious Hennessy?"
"No, you fool, you can if you want to, but if I have anything more to drink I'll explode."
"Oh, very well," said Addison, suddenly remembering what he wanted to save that ten dollars for anyway.
And so off they trudged through the falling gusting snow and through the fallen foot-deep snow on the sidewalk.
Down at the corner when they reached the entrance of the San Remo glowing orange and red with its own neon sign, Addison suggested another nightcap again, but once more Bubbles was adamant in her refusal.
Another stumbling trudging half block down Bleecker and they were at the snow-humped stoop of her building.
"Thanks, pal," said Bubbles. "Go right home now."
"Oh, Bubbles."
"Yeah, what?"
"Bubbles, I still have ten dollars left."
"Good for you."
"I wonder if I might, that is if you're not too tired."
"What?"
"Well, do you still charge ten dollars for a 'throw', as you call it?"
"You want to pay for a throw?"
"Yes, and gladly, but only if you're, you know, not too tired."
"So you're finally ready to graduate from the three-buck Baltimore handshake?"
"Yes, I think so."
"You kill me, Albertson. Where'd you get all that moolah, anyway? I never saw you buy so many drinks before."
"My friend Milford gave me a twenty."
"That was generous of him."
"Yes, it was."
"Why'd he give it to you?"
"May I be honest?"
"Sure."
"I told him I had never actually committed the, shall we say, 'act of darkness' with a woman, and so he gave me twenty so I could, you know –"
"Get a throw from me."
"Yes."
"But I only charge ten."
"Yes, he gave me ten extra."
"Maybe he figured if he just gave you ten you would only spend it all on booze."
"Yes, perhaps."
"Well, okay, what the hell, come on up."
"Oh, Bubbles, thank you so much."
"Think nothing of it. But, look, afterwards, you have to split, because I like to sleep alone, and I intend to get me at least a good twelve hours snooze after this blow-out."
"Certainly."
Soon enough they were up in Bubbles's cozy little flat, warm and comfortable with the hissing radiator and the smells of perfumes and chocolates and movie magazines.
"I so love this little place," said Addison. "I would like to hide in here forever."
"Don't get any ideas, buster," said Bubbles, sitting on the bed and rolling down her stockings. "You gonna take your hat and coat off?"
"Oh, yes, of course," said Addison, and he put his hat on the coat tree, and then his old worn coat.
Outside Bubbles's window the snow still fell on Bleecker Street, through the hazy yellow light of the street lamp.
So this was the time, at long last. He must savor the moment, and try not to think of something else while it was happening. Although he could forgive himself if he took a few mental notes for possible use in his novel-in-progress, Six Guns to El Paso. He had been considering including a passionate love-making scene between his hero Buck Baxter and the proprietress of the saloon, Mademoiselle Fifi, but he had been holding off until he could acquire some first-hand experience of his own, and not just have to rely on his own imagination and that deck of French playing cards in the drawer of his night table in his room.
He turned from the window, loosening his tie in what he hoped was a debonair way, and there was Bubbles already curled up in her bed, and under her voluminous blankets and quilts.
He walked over.
"You know, Bubbles," he said, "you don't know how long I have looked forward to this moment, how many nights I have dreamed, how often I have –"
He stopped, because he could see that her eyes were closed, her mouth with its ruby red lips was open, and from that lovely mouth and equally lovely nose came the gentle but distinct sound of snoring.
Oh well.
She looked beautiful in sleep, beautiful even in her gentle snoring.
Addison allowed himself to touch her cheek, and she said, "Ah ma, za za, mm."
He switched off the bedside lamp, then went to the clothes tree for his coat and hat. He put them on and took one last look at Bubbles sleeping peacefully and soundly, and gently snoring, in all her beauty, and then he switched off the overhead light and let himself out, closing the door behind him.
Downstairs on the snow-humped stoop the snow still fell through the lamp light, and a dump-truck came lumbering slowly by.
He still had that ten dollars in his wallet, and the night was, if not still young, then still alive, and he descended to the sidewalk and turned right, in the direction of the land of the sparkling golden nectar of the Rhine.
{Please go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}
