The two companions walked down the dim corridor in silence until they came to a junction where the corridor continued straight ahead into darkness, but was now bisected by another corridor going to the right into distant darkness and left also into darkness.
"Didn't that fellow say to turn right at the corner?" said Addison.
"You're kidding me, right?" said Milford.
"In what sense?" said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields.
"In the sense that I already told you I was barely listening to him, and, even had I been listening, intently, or as intently as I am able to listen to anyone, I have never in my life been able to follow the simplest directions."
"Me neither, to be quite honest," said Addison. "Chesterfield?"
"No thanks," said Milford. "I might as well have another 'Husky Boy'."
He took out his pack of Husky Boys, and Addison gave him a light with one of his Bob's Bowery Bar matches and then ignited his own cigarette.
"Did you ever wonder what people did before they invented cigarettes?" said Addison.
"No," said Milford.
"I mean," Addison blew the match out and flicked it away, "did people just exist? Just stand around doing nothing?"
"Yes," said Milford. "They just stood there, arms at their sides, staring into space."
"Like dumb animals," said Addison.
The two friends stood there and smoked, like sentient animals.
"Oh, well," said Milford. "Let's just pick a direction and resume walking."
"Okay," said Addison. "Right or left?"
"You decide," said Milford.
"Right then?"
"Okay," said Milford. Then, "No, let's go left."
"Sure, why not?" said Milford.
They turned left, walked farther, then turned right at the next corner, then right again at the corner after that. They reached a dead end, with another corridor, or the same one, going to the left, and so they walked on, turning left at the third corner they reached, and then they walked down a narrow hallway that grew increasingly darker, then completely dark, but they continued on, carefully, walking slowly, their arms brushing, until the darkness grew less dark, and then became merely dim, and up ahead they saw a light, and they walked toward it.
"If that's a doorway there, I'm going through it," said Milford.
"Yeah, I'm with you," said Addison.
"Because this is insane," said Milford.
"One could say," said Addison, in that particular "George Sanders" voice he used for philosophical pronouncements, "that this is a metaphor for modern man, walking aimlessly down dim corridors, searching for but never reaching his supposed destination."
"Yeah, and you know what else?" said Milford.
"What's that, old chap?" said Addison.
"All of life is a metaphor for all of life."
Addison said nothing to this.
They walked on towards the light, which turned out to be a bare bulb above a door that had a hand-painted sign on it which read
The Bore-Ass
with a crude painting of an ass or a donkey seen from behind, the animal's head turned to look back sadly at the viewer.
"This isn't the place," said Addison.
"I know," said Milford.
"Shall we go in anyway?"
Milford's Husky Boy had burnt down to a half-inch stub. He sucked one last lungful of smoke from it, and dropped it to the floor. He ground it out with the sole of his workman's brogan.
"Yes," he said. "Let's go in."
Addison let his own Chesterfield butt drop to the floor.
"Yes," he said. "This is our fate, to wander from unknown place to unknown place. To meet strange unpleasant people. And then to go to other unknown places, to meet more unpleasant people. But, perhaps – perhaps I say – in due time, we shall indeed reach our destination, and the lovely ladies we left behind, and then –"
"Addison," said Milford.
"Yes, old man?"
"Can we just go in, without the commentary?"
"Ha ha, yes, of course."
Milford walked over and stepped on Addison's cigarette butt. He looked at Addison.
"Ready?"
"Willing and able," said Addison.
The door had a curved tarnished-metal handle, with a thumb press, Milford put his hand on it, and managed to pull the door open.
A wave of soft nameless jukebox music, the babble of dull voices, the all pervasive smells of smoke and whiskey and beer, humanoid forms in dimness, pinpoints of light like despairing stars, and another man sitting on a stool next to a table for one by the doorway.
"Hi," he said.
"Hello," said Addison. "May we come in?"
"That depends," said the man, who looked like a dead weed disguised as a man, wearing a grey suit and a black tie, and what looked like a garnet-colored toupée. He held a smoking pipe in his thin bony hand. "First you must answer a few questions."
"Of course," said Addison.
"First question. What is the meaning of life?"
He was looking at Milford.
"I haven't the faintest idea."
"Wrong answer," said the man. He looked at Addison. "Your turn. What is the meaning of life?"
"To sit in bars, drinking, and speaking nonsense?"
"How did you know?"
"Just a wild guess."
"Okay," said the weedy man. "Second question. What's better, to speak nonsense or to say nothing at all." He looked at Milford. "You go first."
"I choose to say nothing at all in answer to your question."
"Wrong answer again." He looked at Addison. "Your turn. What's preferable, speaking nonsense or keeping quiet?"
"Speaking nonsense, of course," said Addison, taking out his Chesterfields.
"Correct," said the man. "Third question, and last. Which is better: to be dead, or to live and speak nonsense." He looked at Milford.
"To live but not to speak nonsense," said Milford.
"Wrong, and doubly wrong, because you only had two choices, and living and not speaking nonsense was not one of them." He looked at Addison again. "What's better, being dead or living and talking nonsense?"
Addison lighted his Chesterfield, waved the match out and placed it in a dirty ashtray on the table next to the weedy man.
"Could you repeat the question?"
"Which is preferable, being dead or living and talking nonsense."
"Living and speaking nonsense?"
"Correct again. You can come in."
"What about my friend?"
"He got all three questions wrong, so he is banned for life."
"That hardly seems fair," said Addison.
"Since when is life, or death, fair?"
"Let's go, Addison," said Milford. "This was a mistake."
"But wait," said Addison. He addressed the man on the stool. "Ask my friend one more question. If he gets the answer right, can he come in then?"
"That would be against the rules."
"He's young. Give him one more chance."
The man said nothing at first. He looked into the bowl of his pipe, which had apparently gone out, then picked up a box of Ohio Blue Tip kitchen matches from his table, extricated a match, struck it, then applied the flame to his pipe. After puffing and sucking for a few moments he finally spoke.
"Very well," he then said. "One more question." He gazed at Milford. "Have you ever had a person – man, woman or child – look at you and say, 'Please, tell me more?'"
"No," said Milford.
"Good answer," said the man.
"Great," said Addison. "So can he come in now?"
"I suppose so. What are your names, anyway?"
"They call me Addison," said Addison. "But, in point of fact, that appellation is by way of being a sobriquet, a nickname if you will, although I have come to look on it more as my nom de guerre, its origin being –"
"Look, pal, I didn't ask for a whole long disquisition, I just wanted to know what to call you."
"Addison will do."
"Fine, great. Paddington it is then." He looked at Milford. "What about you, sonny Jim?"
"Milford," said Milford. "It's actually my last name, but I prefer it to my alleged Christian name, not that I consider myself a Christian, but –"
"Dilford?"
"Milford, actually."
"Fine. Provisionally pleased to meet you, Quilford. My name is Ben, but everyone calls me Ben the Bore."
"Why is that?" said Addison, with a straight face.
"To differentiate me from one of our regulars, known as Boring Ben."
"Oh, okay," said Addison. "Thank you. So, can we just grab a couple of seats at the bar?"
"Sure, unless you want a table."
"Are there any tables available?"
"No."
"So I guess we'll just find seats at the bar?"
"I don't care what you do. Once you're in here, you're on your own."
"Oh, okay."
"Just don't cause any disturbance. If you do I will have to throw you out. I might not look like much, but I have a sap in my pocket, and I'm not shy about using it."
"We'll behave, Ben."
"'Ben the Bore'."
"We won't cause any, uh, disturbances, 'Ben the Bore'."
"See that you don't."
"Okay, well, thanks again."
"You're welcome. By the way, if you're hungry, we have a baloney and American cheese on white bread sandwich special tonight, with your choice of Gulden's yellow mustard or Hellman's mayonnaise. It's a bargain at two bits."
"We'll bear that in mind," said Addison.
"Enjoy yourselves. If you can."
"Yes, well, thanks again. Again."
"You're welcome, again."
For some unknown reason, or reasons, Addison seemed unable to disengage from the weedy man, so Milford, as much as he disliked touching anyone, put his hand on Addison's arm.
"Let's go, Addison," said Milford.
"Oh, yes," said Addison, and they headed toward the bar, which was long, and packed with hunched humanoid shapes.
"Just one beer," said Addison. "Just to regroup, and marshal our forces, plan out our next maneuver."
"Okay, fine," said Milford.
There only seemed to be two contiguous empty stools at the bar, right near the middle, and the two companions claimed them.
It felt better to be seated at a bar again, or, if not better, not worse.
{Kindly go here to read the unbowdlerized "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}
