Down the bar Addison went, and when he came to the end of it he turned right, but a wall was there, so that must be the wrong way, and he did an about-face and tacked onward, saying, "Excuse me" when he bumped against the corner of the cigarette machine and "I beg your pardon" when he came up against the side of the jukebox and "Sorry" when he collided with a large fellow in a top hat, who said, "Hey, watch it, Mac," but Addison was already gone, and a few chaotic minutes later he entered a narrow and dim hallway.
Where was he going, anyway?
And then he remembered.
Men's room.
He had to pee.
And not for the first time he thought how much simpler life would be if one did not so inexorably have to void oneself of urine, and, less frequently, feces. But life was full of woe and hardship, and then you died, and so there was nothing to be done but find this alleged men's room, and hope for the best, or at least for the not worst.
Soon enough, there to the left (but hadn't Henry James said it was on the right?) was a door with a sign on it saying
POINTERS
and below the word a crude silhouette of a pointing dog of some sort.
Addison hesitated, swaying slightly back and forth and side to side, while within his skull his consciousness sloshed gently also side to side and up and down and forward and back.
He had not had good luck with men's rooms in his time on this earth. No, he'd had very bad luck with men's rooms, which was why he much preferred whenever possible just to go outside to a convenient alleyway and pee in peace against ancient city bricks in the darkness, luxuriating in the cool air bathing the thin skin of his supposed manhood.
A woman in Puritan costume emerged from a door at about the ten yard line down the hall. She took a cigarette case from her shoulder purse, and Addison's eyes met hers.
"Hello," he hailed.
"And hello to you, sir," she replied.
"May I ignite your cigarette?", called Addison, who, no matter how drunk he was, remained always a gentleman.
"You may," said the lady. "But before I allow you to do so, I will ask you bluntly: are you a cad, a bounder, or a rogue."
"I have always aspired to a modest roguishness," said Addison, "but no doubt have failed consistently; however, I can assure you that I am about as far from being a cad or a bounder as one can be without wearing the robes of a Trappist monk."
"You may approach," said the lady, who, if Addison were the sort to make such observations, which he was not, was somewhere probably between the ages of thirty to sixty.
Addison approached, trying not to stagger or reel, or fall headlong. By the time he had reached the lady he had a book of paper matches at the ready. She already held the end of a cigarette to her lips, and after only four tries Addison managed to strike a match and hold it to her cigarette without burning himself or her.
"Thank you, sir," said the lady, exhaling smoke only slightly to the side of Addison's head. "I hope you won't think me a dreadful quidnunc, but what were you doing lurking outside that Pointers room door. You're not one of these toilet traders I've heard so much about, are you? Trolling for inverts to rent your corporeal host to?"
"No," said Addison. "I was merely hesitating, in fear."
"Dare I ask what you were afraid of?"
The lady politely clicked her cigarette case open and proffered it.
"Thank you," said Addison, taking a cigarette, which seemed to be hand-rolled. "Well, to answer your question –" he paused while striking, or attempting to strike a match, succeeding on his third try –"I have never been fond of men's rooms, finding myself frequently accosted by rough sorts and chaps dubiously instigating conversations, not to mention emitting theatrical moans of pleasure at the urinals, and frightening groans and grunts from the stalls. And then there are the odors."
"How awfully terrible, for you," said the lady.
"Maybe I'll just go outside and find an alleyway," he said. "Do you know how I can find a way out of here?"
"Oh, humbug," said the lady. "Are you going to give in to your fears?"
"Well, yes, that was what I had in mind. If I keep going straight ahead, will I reach an exit?"
"Rarely have I met a man quite so blatantly cowardly."
"All right, then, "Addison sighed, "I didn't want to get into this rather shameful chapter in my personal history, but an incident occurred to me during the war, when I was working (quite against my will, I assure you) at a parachute factory in Fayetteville, North Carolina, because you see I was designated 4-F because of flat feet and knock knees, as well as a slight heart murmur, and also what the army psychiatrist deemed my 'psychological fragility', and one Friday night I was at the local bar, and, when I went to use the urinal, suddenly an enormous drunken army sergeant came up behind me, and, quite forcefully, and painfully –"
"Excuse me, what's your name?"
"Well, they call me Addison, but –"
"Pleased to meet you, Addison. They call me Mistress Bradstreet, but please do address me tout court as Ann."
"Hi, Ann."
"Listen, Addison, do you want to use the ladies' room?"
"Gee, I've never."
"I mean if it's that traumatizing for you just to use the men's room like a normal man."
"Alas, I am not normal."
"That must make life difficult for you."
"I manage. And I know little of value, but I daresay that normality is nothing to brag about."
"I'm starting to like you, Addison, despite myself. Come on, I'll take you into the ladies' and be your protector."
"Wow, that would be really nice of you, Miss, uh –"
"Ann."
"Miss Ann."
"Just Ann."
"Ann it is then," said Addison.
"If you will open the door then," she said.
The door in question had a sign on it with the legend
SETTERS
and below the word was a silhouette of a squatting dog.
Addison pushed the door open and allowed the lady to pass through, then followed her, allowing the door to close behind him.
Inside was a large fragrant room filled with chatting ladies, laughing and smoking cigarettes, and as one they all turned and stared at him.
"What the fuck, Ann," said one lady.
"Get that creep out of here," said another.
"Jesus Christ almighty," said another.
"All right, bitches, settle down," said the lady called Ann. "He's with me, and his name is Addison."
"Well, tell 'Addison' to fuck off out of here," said another lady.
"Yeah, I'm as much a bluestocking as anybody in here," said another, "but I draw the line at guys in the ladies' room."
"Oh, posh," said Ann. "My friend Addison is so barely a 'guy' he almost is a lady, so everybody just calm down. He's afraid to use the Pointers room, so I told him he could use the Setters."
"Look, uh, I can leave," said Addison, taking a nervous drag on his cigarette.
"Why is he afraid to use the men's room," said one of the ladies who had spoken before.
"Because he was buggered once in a men's room in Fayetteville, North Carolina, when he was down there doing his wartime service in a parachute factory, on account of he was 4-F for various reasons."
"Was cowardice one of the reasons he was 4-F?" said one of the ladies, and the laughter was general.
"Ah, give the poor boy a break," said Ann, and she turned to Addison. "Go ahead, pal, just use one of those stalls over there."
"Preferably one of the empty ones," said one of the ladies.
"Well, okay," said Addison, and he headed toward a row of stalls, painted pink, to the right of the room. The women parted to let him pass, and he felt drunker still breathing in their varied warm scents. What was that line of Joyce's, the "perfume of embraces"? Anyway, he breathed it in, along with the smoke of their cigarettes, and he felt gentle fingers touching his hands and his face and even his rear and front ends.
"Addison!" called Ann from across the room.
He stopped and turned.
"Yes, Ann?"
"Just don't embarrass me. Lift the seat up before you use the toilet."
"Yes, of course," he said, and he continued on, as tentatively happy as he had ever been, or probably ever would be.
{Kindly go here to read the unexpurgated "adult comix" version in A Flophouse Is Not a Home, profusely illustrated by the illustrious Rhoda Penmarq…}
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