“We Have Much to Learn from the Youth of Today"

Yet another tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co

"Oftentimes when I reach a seeming impasse in my literary endeavors, my simple solution is to climb out onto my fire escape, and, gazing down past the girders of the Third Avenue 'El' at the mingling streams of humanity on the sidewalks below, I light up a soothing and rich Husky Boy cigarette – and invariably I soon return to my typewriter ready to, as the young people say, boogie on down!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery, A Dame Without Shame 

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It was a tavern, a saloon, yet another one, dark and choked with smoke, packed with people sitting at tables and booths and at a long bar. There was no music to be heard, only a dull babble of voices. Addison and Milford turned and watched the little fat bald bearded man turning the button of a deadlock, thrusting home the bolt of a barrel lock and then securing a chain lock above it. He then turned to the two companions. "There," he said, taking his pipe from his mouth. "That should keep the douchebags out." "Thank you, sir," said Addison. "And the door itself is quite secure I think," said the little man. He rapped the wood of the door with his tiny chubby fist. "Go ahead, give it a knock." "Oh, I believe you," said Addison. "That's solid three-inch oak you're looking at there," said the man. "Yes," said Addison, "it does look quite stout." "You need stout wood for a door," said the man. "And perhaps you are concerned with the hinges?" "Um, uh," said Addison. "What about you, young man," he said, turning the thick lenses of his glasses on Milford. "Know anything about door hinges?" "Not really," said Milford. "Really?" "Yes," said Milford.  "You really know nothing at all about door hinges?" "I know that they attach a door to the wall." "It's called a jamb." "Yes, sorry, the jamb." "Well," said the little fat bald bearded man, "may I then direct your attention to these door hinges." He gestured vaguely with his little hand. "Solid stainless steel. With screws also of the finest quality alloy. Let those douchebags pound and kick to their hearts' content, they're not getting through this door!" "Well, that's very, uh –" "Comforting?" said the little man. "Uh," said Milford. "Yes, it's comforting," said Addison. "And you, young sir," said the man, looking at Milford. "Do you not feel comforted?" "Yes," said Milford. "Thanks." "I know what you're both thinking, by the way." "Um," said Addison. "Yes," said the little fat man, "I know very well what you're thinking." Again he turned those thick glasses in Milford's direction. "You can't hide it." "Uh," said Milford. "Especially you can't hide it," said the man. "Your friend is a little better at playing the game, and bully for him, but not you, you can't play the game, can you? Can't, or is it won't? But one thing is undeniable, and that is that you don't." "Pardon me?" said Milford. "You are pardoned," said the man. "For thinking so apparently that I am boring you with my talk of doors and locks and hinges. Do you deny it?" "No," said Milford. "Good fellow." He turned to Addison. "See, he admits he's bored. As are you." "Um," said Addison.  "We can learn from the young people, my friend. Because they have not yet learned how to 'play the game'. The 'game' that society would have us play." "Um, yes," said Addison, "I have always felt that we have much to learn from the youth of today." "Not that we cannot also learn from our elders." "Yes, of course," said Addison. "The elders have much to, uh, you know, impart to, um –" "And as well we can also learn from our coëvals," said the little fat man. "Or do you disagree?" "Um, uh, no, uh," said Addison. "What about you, young fellow?" the fat man said to Milford. "I'm sorry, what?" said Milford. "Do you also agree that we have much, potentially speaking, to learn from our coëvals?" "I neither agree nor disagree," said Milford. "You have no opinion?" "I have no opinion, nor interest, nor do I have any interest in having an opinion, nor even an interest in having an interest." The little fat man put the stem of his pipe into his lips and drew on it, as if pensively. The pipe had gone out, and it made a noise like a mouse's death rattle. He withdrew the pipe and addressed Milford again.  "I'm beginning to like you, my lad. You remind me of myself when I was your age, young and full of nihilism. But look at me now." "What do we have here, Bormanshire?" said a new voice. Addison and Milford turned to see another little fat man. "Oh, hello," said the first little fat man. "Mr. Bogman, meet my new friends whose names I have not yet been so privileged as to ascertain." "Bogman is the name," said the new little fat man, extending his fat little hand in Addison's direction. He was smaller than the first little fat man, yet proportionately fatter, and he wore a toupée the color and seeming texture of a ferret's fur.  Addison reluctantly but resignedly took the man's littler fat hand in his own larger but much thinner hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mister, uh, Bogman." "And your appellation, sir, if one may know it?" "Well, it seems my friends all call me Addison, but in point of fact my actual name –" "Well, if that's what your friends call you, then so also shall I, by George." The little man called Bogman continued to hold onto Addison's hand, but now he turned his round face toward Milford. "So you must be Steele then?" "What?" said Milford. "No, my name is –" "Ha ha," said the first fat man, apparently named Bormanshire. "I get it, Addison and Steele! Well-played, Bogman!" "But all jesting aside," said Mr. Bogman to Milford, still holding tight onto Addison's hand. "What's your moniker, young man?" "Milford," said Milford. At last the little man called Bogman slipped his hand out of Addison's with a squishing sound and now extended it to Milford. "Slide me five, Clive," he said.  Reluctantly Milford gave the man his hand, although it should be made clear to the reader that Milford never gave his hand to anyone willingly. "A weak hand," said Mr. Bogman, "and a weaker grip. Not that I pass a moral judgment, because I suspect that you are a poet. Do you deny it?" "Would it do any good if I did?" said Milford. "None at all, my dear Milfold, none at all, because everything about you screams not only 'poet', but 'bad poet'. And again, I make no moral judgment, merely an observation." "He's a bad poet," said Mr. Bormanshire. "And Addleton here is a bad novelist." "Splendid. You have done your usual yeoman service as gatekeeper, Bormanshire," said Mr. Bogman, and he allowed Milford to withdraw his hand from his own, the squishing sound repeating itself. "Shall we then proceed to the formal initiation of these young chaps into the ranks of the Society of the Prancing Fool?" "Forthwith," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Come with us, gentlemen," said Mr. Bogman. "Um," said Milford. "Uh," said Addison. "Don't be afraid," said Mr. Bogman. "Yes, fear not," said Mr. Bormanshire. "But, uh," said Milford. "Lookit," said Mr. Bormanshire, "you're a bad poet, aren't you?" "Yes, I suppose so," said Milford. "And you," said Mr. Bogman, pointing his fat little forefinger at Addison, "are a bad novelist, n'est-ce pas?" "Well," said Addison, "I think that remains to be –" "He's writing an epic novel about the Old West," said Mr. Bormanshire, "but it's actually by way of being an in-depth exploration of man's search for meaning in a meaningless world." "Right, so, bad novelist," said Mr. Bogman. "Swell, now come with us, gentleman." "But where are you taking us?" said Milford. "We're not taking you anywhere," said Mr. Bogman. "That's right," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We're not taking you anywhere, because you're already here." "Yes," said Mr. Bogman, waving to the barroom before them, the tables and booths and the long bar, all filled with people and smoke and the indecipherable rumbling of human or humanoid voices. "You're here, you see." "At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire. "You're home now, lads," said Mr. Bogman. "Home at last," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Home sweet home," said Mr. Bogman. "At long last," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Home," said Mr. Bogman, with what sounded like a tone of finality.

"The Prancing Fool"

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode made possible in part through a grant from the Husky Boy Tobacco Company's Endowment for the Humanities

"A crisp fall day, a healthful brisk walk through the teeming city streets, a stop into my local diner for a large coffee 'regular, to go', then onward into the park vibrant with the changing colors of the ancient trees, and, finally, a relaxing sit-down on a public bench with a rich and flavorful Husky Boy cigarette – for what more may one reasonably ask of life?" – Horace P. Sternwall, noted author and host of the Husky Boy Philosophical Hour, Tuesdays at 10PM (EST) on the DuMont Radio Network 

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They ran until they came to a turning of the dim hallway, to the right, and this passage led into an unlighted section through which they stumbled, bumping into one another and almost falling several times until they came to another turn, this time to the left, a long stretch of narrow corridor lighted by widely and irregularly spaced dim bulbs, and on they staggered, still hearing the shouting and stomping reverberating behind them. After another minute they came to a junction where the corridor continued straight ahead into dimness but was bisected by another corridor going to the left and to the right.  They each bent forward, panting and sweating, their hands on their knees. "Which way?" gasped Milford. "I haven't the faintest idea," said, panted, Addison.  To the right the corridor continued on into dimness and then darkness, as it did to the left.  "This way?" said Milford, pointing to the right. "Why not?" said Addison. They both looked over their shoulders, and far back down the way they had run they saw the angry gang turning a corner stomping and roaring and shouting imprecations. "Faggots!" one voiced yelled, echoing down the corridor. "Cunts!" bellowed another harsh voice. "Perhaps we should split up?" said Milford. "And then only one of us will die." "Yes, but which one?" said Addison. "I don't want to die alone," said Milford. "I for my part don't want to die at all," said Addison. "So we stick together?" said Milford. "To the end," said Addison. "To the right then?" said Milford. "Why not?" said Addison. "Cunts!" echoed a harsh voice. "Faggots!" echoed another voice. Not knowing why, the two companions turned and ran down the corridor to the left, and after another minute they reeled into another section of darkness, and when they emerged from it a few minutes or a day later they were no longer able to run, but walked, staggering and wheezing, and, turning another corner they saw up ahead to their horror that the corridor came abruptly to an end, but there was a door, which they limped up to, and on the door was a sign that read, in cursive script THE PRANCING FOOL If you've abandoned all hope of hope, if you've given up even the the hope  of giving up, then ring the bell or go to hell. Below the sign was a crude painting of what might have been a prancing fool. "Ring the bell," panted Addison. There was a door button to the right of the door, and Milford put his finger on it and pressed it for two seconds. He turned and looked at Addison, whose normally pallid face had gone red, and was streaming with sweat. Back the way they had come they could still hear the harsh voices, and the stomping of feet. "Ring the bell again," said Addison. "Do you think I should? My mother always told me it is impolite to ring a doorbell more than once." "But was your mother ever chased by a mob of douchebags out for her blood?" "Not to my knowledge, no." "Then, please, Milford, I implore you, ring the bell." "Well, all right," said Milford, and he reached up to press the button again, but before he could do so the door opened inward, and a little fat bald bearded man stood there, peering at them through thick-lensed glasses. He held a smoking pipe, and he wore a rumpled suit of brown serge, with a red and white polka dot bowtie. "Hello," he said. "May I help you gentlemen?" "Yes, sir," said Addison. "We are being chased by a mob of, you should pardon the expression, douchebags, intent upon killing us, and we ask sanctuary." "I admire your succinctness, sir," said the little fat bearded and bald man. "So am I to take it that you have both abandoned all hope?" "If you deny us entrance, then, yes, I think you could safely say that we have abandoned hope." "Or hope has abandoned us," said Milford. "Yes," said the little man, "good, very good, but have you abandoned all hope of hope?" "Oh, for God's sake," said Milford, "can't you hear that?" "Hear what?" "That stomping and shouting, down the corridor?" The man cocked his head. "Yes, now that you mention it, I do hear it. It sounds like an angry mob, or at least a gang." "Precisely," said Addison. "A gang, a mob, and they're after us, so we adjure you, please let us in." "First I have to ask you, and I think I know the answer, but I must ask anyway, are you gentlemen men of letters?" "Yes!" whined Milford. "I am a poet, and my friend is a novelist." "Splendid," said the little man. "Only one more question for each of you. Are you, young man, a bad poet?" "Yes! Isn't it obvious?" "And you, sir," the man said, turning his glasses in the direction of Addison, "do you write bad novels?" "Well, that remains to be seen," said Addison. "You see, I am still only in the beginning stages of my first novel." "And may I ask what this novel is about, if you are capable of saying so?" "It is an epic of the old west, about a wandering gunslinger named Buck Baxter, on a quest to seek revenge upon a gang known as the Bad Men Gang for having slain his kinsfolk, but in a sense it is a novel about man's search for meaning in a world devoid of meaning –" "Very well," interrupted the little fat bald and bearded man. "I think I've heard quite enough. You may both come in." "Thank you!" said Milford. "Yes, uh, thank you," said Addison, who was just slightly miffed that the man had not let him finish describing his novel. In the dim distance the shouting and the stomping grew progressively louder, resounding down the hallway. "Oh, dear," said the little fat man. "Come on in then, if you're coming, and I will lock and bolt the door." He stepped to one side and Milford went in, followed hard on his heels by Addison.

"Shared Hallucination"

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Collect all 101 'Unjustly Forgotten Authors' trading cards (with original portraits by Rhoda Penmarq and text by yours truly), now available in each pack of fine Husky Boy cigarettes!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of I Know I Left My Mind Here Somewhere: Essays Personal and General

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A minute passed. "Maybe you should press the button again," said Addison. "I would, but I'm afraid of upsetting that John Henry fellow," said Milford.  "Oh, right," said Addison. "We wouldn't want to do that." "We're lucky he let us in there at all." "No, yes, you're entirely correct."  "How about if we wait another minute, just in case he didn't hear the bell, and then we'll press the button again." "Splendid idea." Another minute ticked by, and they smoked their cigarettes in silence. There was much they could have talked about, but for the moment neither of the two companions had the inclination, and besides, they were still very much under the influence of that fat hand-rolled cigarette of Jelly Roll's which they had smoked, what, ten minutes ago, fifteen minutes ago, a month ago.  "Wait," said Milford, abruptly. "Yes?" said Addison. "That Bowery Bert guy, is he really a guardian angel?" "Oh, I had quite forgotten about him." "We were with him only two minutes ago." "And yet he had passed from my thoughts, like unto a faceless figure in an unremembered dream," said Addison, in his best George Sanders voice. "Did we dream him?" asked Milford. "Well, if we dreamt him, that means we both shared the same dream." "And is that possible?" "Is it any less possible than that he is in fact a guardian angel?" Milford paused, thinking, trying to think. "Perhaps he was a shared hallucination," he said, "brought on by Jelly Roll's cigarette." "Perhaps this entire life is a shared hallucination," replied Addison, "brought on by the madness of existence." "It might not even be a shared hallucination," said Milford. "Perhaps this is only my hallucination, and even you are part of it." "Or, might I posit," said Addison, "the reverse might be the case, and you are part of my hallucination." "I feel real," said Milford. "Yes, but you would say that, wouldn't you, if you were an hallucination?" "Yes, I suppose I would." "Ring the doorbell again." "Well, okay," said Milford, but with no enthusiasm evident in his voice or demeanor. "Or we could wait one more minute." "Yes, let's do that. I don't want to, to –" "Incite the wrath of the formidable John Henry." "Yes." After half a minute Milford spoke. "I hope the ladies are still there." "So also I," said Addison. "I gather you like that one, what's her name, Lou?" "Yes, Lou," said Milford. "Although I'm not so sure she likes me so much. Which one do you like?" "Oh, who am I to be picky?" "But if you had to pick." "I should think Harriet." "Yes, she seems nice." "Or perhaps that Emily." "Yes, she's nice also." "But then, what's her name, Anne also possesses a certain je ne sais quoi." "This is true," said Milford. "But in the end I daresay I would be happy to take what I could get." "Yeah, me too," said Milford. "Do you hear that." "Hear what." "Listen." In the shadowy unseen distance of dim corridors, somewhere down to the left of the doorway, the echoing sounds of tramping shoes, perhaps even of jackboots, and the cries and shouts of harsh male voices. "Oh, no," said Milford. "Yes," said Addison. "It's them," said Milford. "I'm afraid so," said Addison. "The douchebags." "Yes, sadly." "What do we do?" "We hope that John Henry opens this door before the douchebags get here. Press the button again." "I just hope he doesn't get angry with us for pressing the button twice." "Press the button. I'll take John Henry's ire over the prospect of being torn limb from limb by a mob of bloodthirsty douchebags." "I'll just press it once, and briefly," said Milford, and he did so. The two companions waited, and the stomping and the shouting grew closer. "The Bard of Avon had it all wrong," said Addison. "Forget about women, because hell hath no fury like a douchebag scorned." The distant stomping and shouting grew increasingly less distant, like an oncoming locomotive train of fury and nastiness, like a tidal wave of bloodlust. "Y'know, Milford," continued Addison, "if this were a novel, then the douchebags might be interpreted as the inevitability of fate, and, by extension, of death. And indeed –" "Addison," said Milford. "Yes, old chap." "I say this as a, dare I say it, a friend –" "I am touched," said Addison. "And, may I say that I in turn consider you as a friend. Indeed, my only friend." "Same here," said Milford. The stomping and shouting grew louder, and closer, much louder and much closer. "Oh, but you were saying?" said Addison. "Never mind," said Milford. "No, please, what was it?" What Milford had been about to say were the words, Will you please just shut the fuck up. But now, as the shouting and stomping roared nearer down the dim hallway, he didn't want these words to be possibly the last he would ever speak, and so instead he said, "I think we'd better start running." And now, out of the darkness down the hall in the distance they saw the angry mob of douchebags breaking out of the shadows in a thundering stampede, and Addison said, "Yes, I think we should." As one the two companions tossed their cigarettes to the floor, turned on their heels, and ran, as behind them the roaring and stomping and shouting of the douchebags echoed and vibrated down the dim hallway.

"With Dubious Intent"

Another true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode made possible in part through the support of the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company Foundation for the Uncommercial Arts

"What better way to start one's day then to stop down at the corner diner, order a cup of coffee 'regular', snap open up the morning paper, and light up a rich and flavorful Husky Boy?" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Father Mike" mystery, Murder at the Bachelor's Retreat

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"Now when you say you are an angel," said Addison, who was still very much under the influence of Jelly Roll's fat hand-rolled cigarette, "are we to understand that you speak metaphorically?" "No, you ass," said Bert. "Like the immortal Popeye, I means what I says and I says what I means. I am indeed an angel, sub-category 'Guardian Angel', proudly serving the district of the lower Bowery, for, lo, these past one hundred and twenty years." "Um, okay," said Addison. "What nonsense," said Milford. "You speak of nonsense to me," said Bowery Bert, "you little twerp?"  He bent over, pulled something from the snow, and banged it against his stubby legs revealing it to be a furled umbrella. "You know what I should do?" he said to Milford. "No?" said Milford. "I should take this umbarelly and give you a sound thrashing, that's what I should do!" "Look," said Milford, "again, I'm really sorry I peed on you, but I didn't know you were there. You were completely covered with snow, and, as Addison has already pointed out, I probably saved your life by urinating on you, because otherwise you might have frozen to death." "And I'm just after telling you, you young pup, that I, as an angel, am incapable of dying." "Okay," said Milford. "Sure." "And what is that supposed to mean? 'Okay. Sure.'" "Nothing," said Milford. "You think perhaps I am insane, do you?" "I think perhaps you are drunk," said Milford. "And what if I am? If you had to be a guardian angel for thousands of hopeless dipsomaniacs, you would be continuously drunk too." "Okay, well, look," said Milford, "by way of apology, how about if I give you the price of a nice hot all-night diner meal?" "I don't want your money. You think I need money?" "Um, uh –" "I can stroll into the Bowery Savings Bank come morning and take out a hundred thousand dollars if I got a mind to." "Oh," said Milford, "well –" "I piss on your pathetic handouts. Just like you pissed on me. Fuck you for insulting me as if I were some common bindlestiff." "Look, sir, I'm sorry, I just assumed –" "Yes, you 'assumed', just because I was catching forty winks under a snowbank in a dark alleyway. Well, let me tell you something, buster, never 'assume'!" "Okay, I won't," said Milford. The little man now turned to Addison. "What was your name? Addlesworth?" "Well, they call me Addison, actually," said Addison. "But, not to be pedantic, my baptismal name is –" "Did you ever catch up to them two fair ladies I seen you with?" "Why, yes, in point of fact I did." "Then why ain't you with them, Addlesbury, instead of loitering with dubious intent in a snow-choked alleyway with Little Lord Fauntleroy here?" "Well, you see, Fauntleroy – I mean Milford here – had gotten just a little under the weather, and so I thought I would help him home." "You mean to say you committed a selfless act?" "Possibly," said Addison. "I am impressed," said Bowery Bert. "You don't seem the type." "Normally, I confess, I am not," said Addison.  "But an access of altruism overcame you." "Yes, I suppose so." Now the little man turned to Milford. "You don't deserve such a friend as Allerburgh, Fauntleroy." "I know," said Milford. "You don't seem so under the weather now." "I think I've gotten a second wind, yes," said Milford. "And are you still in the process of trying to get home?" "Well, no, you see, I decided after all that I wanted to go back to this bar where we were." "Because you wanted to get your end wet?" "I beg your pardon." "Because you wanted to make the beast with two backs with a maiden fair." "Look," said Milford, "again, I'm sorry for urinating on you, but I would really prefer not to discuss my personal affairs with you." "Fine, be like that," said Bowery Bert. "Be a stuck-up prig all your life. I don't give a shit." "Look, Bert," said Addison, "if I may call you Bert –" "Please do, Addleburn." "I beg you not to mind my friend Milford, but he is a reserved sort of chap, you see." "Is that what you are?" said Bert to Milford. "Reserved?" "Yes," said Milford. "Bit of a stick up your ass?" "Uh, well – "But you do admit, do you not, that you wanted to get back to that bar in the hopes of committing the act of darkness with a maiden fair?" "Yes," said Milford, giving up, "I fully admit it." "Then I just have one question, for the both of youse," said Bert. "What the hell are yez doing in this alleyway in the midst of this blizzard?" "We got lost," said Addison. "You got lost," said Bert. "Yes," said Addison. "By the time we decided to go back to the bar with the ladies, we had gotten lost in this warren of dim and dark corridors, and one thing led to another, we had several strange adventures, we were chased by an angry mob for one thing, and–" "You got lost." "Yes," said Addison. "And, anyway, we came to this door, and we opened it, and went outside, and –" "And now here you are." "Yes," said Addison. "Here we are." "Standing in a dark alleyway in a blizzard." "Yes," said Addison. The little man undid the fastening-button on his umbrella, and unfurled it above his head. "You two are rather hopeless, aren't you?" he said. Neither Addison or Milford replied to this question. Who were they to say if they were hopeless? And what was hope after all at bottom and in the end but the desire to live, even if to live was so consistently disappointing? The little fellow reached into a pocket and brought out a stub of a twisted cigarillo, and put it into his mouth. Only now did our two heroes – who both lacked the novelist's and the poet's eye for detail – notice that he wore gloves from which his stubby grimy bare fingers protruded.  Milford thought it was the least he could do to light the fellow's cigarillo, and so at once he reached into his peacoat pocket, brought out his nice Ronson lighter, and after only seven clicks managed to produce a flame from it and ignite the little man's little cigar. "Thanks," said Bowery Bert, exhaling a great cloud of smoke into the air filled with thick falling snow. "Maybe you're not so bad after all, Fauntleroy." "I may not be bad," said Milford, "but I don't know if I'm any good." "Let me be the judge of that," said the little man, or guardian angel. "You know, I don't know why, but the two of youse have aroused my pity, and I am going to help you. I want you both to close your eyes." "What?" said Milford. He had put his lighter away, and he was wondering why he was still standing here, with Addison, in the bitter falling thick snow, in an alleyway, talking to this old bum. "I said close your eyes, squirt," said Bowery Bert. "But why?" "Oh, just do it, Milford," said Addison. "I'm afraid," said Milford. "He's not going to hurt you," said Addison. "Are you, Bert?" "I might hurt him if he doesn't close his eyes," said Bert. "Oh, all right, I'll close my eyes," said Milford, and in fact he closed his eyes. "You too, Addleton," said Bert, and Addison also closed his eyes. "You got 'em closed, the both of yez?" said Bert. "Yes," said Addison. "Yes," said Milford, feeling the snowflakes attack his eyelids behind the lenses of his glasses. "Okay, now open them," said Bert. The two friends opened their eyes, and now they were indoors, out of the blizzard, standing in front of a door, a familiar door on which was a sign, that read "THE HIDEAWAY" Leave your cares behind and your bullshit too. Ring the bell and wait. The little man called Bowery Bert was nowhere to be seen. Addison looked at Milford and Milford looked at Addison. Addison took out his crumpled pack of Chesterfields and Milford took out his Husky Boys.  Milford got out his Ronson and gave Milford a light, and then lighted himself up. The two companions exhaled two great merging clouds of smoke. "Shall we?" said Addison. "Why not?" said Milford. He stepped forward and pressed the door button. And they waited.