They didn't float over the edge of an enormous black abyss but they did find themselves finally at the end of a hallway where there was a door, and a sign above the door read EXIT in red letters.
"Oh," said Addison.
"Um," said Milford.
"It says EXIT," said Addison.
"Yeah," said Milford.
"Should we?" said Addison.
"I don't know," said Milford.
"Let's think it over," said Addison.
"All right," said Milford.
The two companions both attempted to think it over, the pros and cons, but their thoughts traveled far and wide and fruitlessly.
"Okay," said Addison, after a minute that seemed like an hour, or a lifetime, "here's the thing."
He paused, for yet another lifetime. Milford waited, alternately patiently, impatiently, and indifferently.
"Here's the thing," said Addison again, making an effort, he was constitutionally indisposed to effort of any sort, and even more so now, under the influence of that hand-rolled cigarette they had shared what must have been not five minutes ago, no matter how long ago it felt, "if we go through this door we abdicate any chance to find those lovely ladies again."
"This is possibly true," Milford managed to say.
"Only possibly?" said Addison, an unfeigned note of optimism in his voice.
"Yes," Milford said. "Maybe we'll find them again." He paused. "Someday, or some night." And then he added, "Somehow."
There was an old and tarnished horizontal panic bar on the door, and Milford put his hand on it and pushed it in and the door moved very slightly but with resistance.
"Help me push it," he said.
"Oh, yes, of course," said Addison.
Side by side the two companions each put two hands on the bar and lent their weight to it. The door budged an inch outward and flurries of snow came through the crack.
"Right," said Addison. "I think we're pushing against a snowbank."
"Or a dead bum, frozen in the alley?" posited Milford.
"This too is a possibility," said Addison. "Shall we give up?"
"Not yet," said Milford. "Let's give it another try."
"If you insist," said Addison, in an almost neutral tone, with perhaps the smallest tinge of churlishness.
"I don't insist," said Milford, "but I'm curious."
Addison bit his tongue before he could say curiosity killed the cat, but only because of his aversion to cliché.
"Right then," he said. "A good shove. On the count of three?"
"Let's just shove," said Milford. "Ready?"
"And able," said Addison.
Milford ignored the cliché and pushed on the bar, and so did Addison, and now the door grudgingly opened, if a door could be said to open grudgingly, and after half a minute the door was now open perhaps twelve inches, and heavy snow fell through the opening between it and the jamb and lintel.
"Free," said Addison. "Free at last."
They could see the snow piled up in a great drift outside the door. The snow was white, or off-white, and more snow fell heavily from above, sheets and truckloads of snow, as if the heavens were pouring it down in an effort to cover the entire earth and all of its inhabitants forever and for good and good riddance. It was impossible to see anything beyond the snow.
"This must be how the early arctic explorers felt, peering out from their tents," said Addison. "And thinking, 'You know what? Let us go back inside, comrades, and crawl into our sleeping bags, and just go back to sleep, that sleep which -"
"I'm going out," said Milford.
"What?" said Addison.
"I'm going out. We've gotten this far. Why stop?"
"But it's awfully snowy out," said Addison.
"Yes," said Milford. "I'm aware. But I'm tired of wandering these dim hallways. I'm going out."
"Don't leave me here."
"Then let's go."
"You go first, and I'll follow."
"All right," said Milford, and without hesitation he turned sideways and went through the opening.
Outside the cold snow fell all around him and all over him, and the snow on the ground came up to his knees. He sensed that he was in an alley, the walls of two buildings just barely visible through the falling snow. To his right he saw a faint light, as of a street light.
Addison emerged sideways from the doorway.
"Where are we?"
"We must be in an alleyway next to the building we were in."
Both of them were speaking loudly through the muffling of the snowfall.
"There's light down that way," said Addison.
"Yes, I see it," said Milford.
"Shall we head toward it?"
"Yes."
And the two friends trudged through the knee-deep snow towards the light.
"Wait," said Addison. "We left the door open. Should we go back and close it?"
"Leave it," said Milford. "Someone else might need to escape."
And onward they trudged through the snow, towards the light which grew less faint with each step they took.
"Oh, um, wait a minute," said, shouted Milford.
"What is it, old man?" said Addison. "Not having second thoughts, are you?"
"No, um, but –"
"Because I don't mind going back, not at all, I've never been what you might call the outdoorsy type, let alone Northwest Mountie in the frozen Yukon type. I should be delighted to turn back and head inside, where I'm sure we'll find a delightful warm caravanserai if we keep searching."
"Look, I just have to pee, okay?"
"Oh. And do you want to go here?"
"Yes, God knows if and when we'll find a bar with a men's room, so, yes, I would like to go here."
"Then, please, fire away, old chap."
"Do you mind looking away?"
"Not at all, mon vieux, not at all. I confess I'm just a tad bit pee-shy myself. I'll just turn and enjoy the rich O. Henryesque beauty of the snow tumbling down in this alleyway. Y'know, I almost take back what I just said just now about not being much of an outdoorsman. There's something to be said for the old alleys of the city. The stained bricks and the cobblestones. And, yes, even the ashcans. And doesn't the snow somehow make everything beautiful? Why, even –"
"Hey!" shouted an unknown voice. "Stop pissing on me for Christ's sake, you asshole!"
Addison turned to see a gnomish figure rising up from the snowbank that apparently Milford had been urinating on.
"I'm so sorry, sir!" whined Milford, desperately trying to put away his so-called organ of virility.
"Wait," said Addison to the gnome, "it's Bowery Bert! Bert, you know us, it's me, Addison, and that's Milford, and I'm sure he didn't mean to micturate on you."
"You two little twats," said Bowery Bert, brushing pee-stained snow from his worn old coat. "I should have known. I should run the pair of yez straight down to the everlasting fires of hell!"
"I'm really sorry, Mr. Bert," said Milford, attempting with his cold fingers to button the fly of his dungarees.
"Bert," said Addison, "look at it this way. You were passed out in that snowbank, weren't you?"
"And what if I was?" said Bert. "Who are you to point the accusing finger of scorn?"
"I am not scornful at all, but if Milford had not awoken you from your slumbers, you very well might have frozen and died."
"Look, wise guy, I'm an angel," said Bert. "And you know one thing about angels?"
"Um," said Addison, because he didn't know one thing about angels.
"Angels don't die," said Bowery Bert.
{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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