"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.

"The Gnome in the Snow"

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 sponsored by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"After another long but fulfilling day at the typewriter, it is my invariable habit to stroll around the corner to my congenial 'local' (Bob's Bowery Bar), order an imperial pint of the excellent house 'basement-brewed' bock beer, and then light up the ultimate reward: a fine Husky Boy cigarette!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of The Night That Refused to End, and Other Tales of the Macabre

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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.

"Over the Edge"

Another 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 by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Company's Foundation for the Propagation of the Uncommercial Arts

"Whenever in my daily writing I find myself facing the metaphorical and seemingly unscalable 'brick wall' of thwarted creativity, I simply sit back, light up a Husky Boy, and, well before I have finished my smoke, I find myself again tapping merrily away on the old typewriter!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of the new "Johnny Legato" mystery The Dame With No Name 

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No one stopped them from leaving, no one cared if they left or if they stayed. "It's like life," said Milford, as they approached the door.  "What is?" said Addison, prepared to be bored. "No one cares if we live or die, and no one cares if we leave this place or if we stay until we're as old as all these old wrecks in here." Addison made no reply to this. His mind was still on the Falstaff beer and the shot of Cream of Kentucky he had never gotten. They came to the door, Milford opened it, waved Addison through, and followed.  Outside in the dim hallway they stood, smoking. "Okay, here's the plan," said Addison. "A plan?" "We pick a random direction, and the first bar we reach, we go in and have a shot and a beer." "What about getting back to that Negro bar and the ladies?" said Milford. "Oh, I assure you, mon pote, I haven't forgotten about that place, and of course those delightful ladies, heh heh. But I just think we should stop into the first bar we see even if it's not the Negro bar and have a beer, a beer and a shot. Sort of get our bearings and then set out anew, rested and refreshed." "Once again, Addison, you forget, or disregard the fact, that I am a recovering alcoholic." "Then just have a beer, old chap. A beer hardly counts. A beer is nothing." "I'll have a ginger ale." "Splendid," said Addison. "Ginger ale, a most noble beverage." "Although I suppose it doesn't really matter at this point," said Milford, "since I've already had whiskey, wine, and beer, and grog laced with rum, not to mention sarsaparilla infused with ambrosia – the supposedly legendary food of the ancient Greek gods – as well as having smoked marijuana and hashish and eaten the sacred mushrooms of the American Indians." "Then a beer is okay," said Addison. "In fact it might even be recommended at this point." "But what really put me over the edge were these hand-rolled cigarettes that this Negro fellow Jelly Roll gave me." "Do you have any left?" "I don't think so." "Would you mind checking?" "If you insist." "I'm only curious." Milford put his cigarette in his lips and put his hand in the side pocket of his pea coat. He came out with a fat hand-rolled cigarette. "I had no idea I still had one of these," he said. "I wonder if Jelly Roll stuck it in there surreptitiously?" "Perhaps he did," said Addison. "Giving you one in reserve, like a good fellow. Shall we smoke it?" "Addison, I just told you that it was one of these that put me over the edge." "And yet here you stand, hale and hearty." "That's only because I've been running around being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty douchebags, and the effect has been sweated out of me." "Can I smoke it?" "Be my guest, I don't want it." "Are you sure?" "Positively. But I warn you, if you smoke it, you too might go over the edge." "What's in it?" "if I recall correctly, it's Bull Durham tobacco, mixed with Acapulco gold and Panama red, jimson weed, John the Conqueroo, ayahuasca, and laudanum." "I don't know what any of that is except for the laudanum, which quite frankly I've always wanted to try." "Here, help yourself." Milford proffered the fat hand-rolled cigarette, and Addison took it, and looked at it. "I feel rather like Keats's Cortez," he said, "staring with his eagle eyes at the Pacific with a wild surmise." He tossed away his Chesterfield, which he had smoked down to a stub anyway. Milford walked over to where the still-smoking butt lay and ground it out with the sole of his stout workman's brogan. Then he realized that he had smoked his own Husky Boy down almost to its end, and so he dropped it to the floor and ground it out also. When he looked up, Addison had just lighted up the hand-rolled cigarette with one of his paper matches.  "Rather an interesting flavor, and aroma," said Addison, exhaling, and flicking away his match. "Musky, with notes of old leather and dried apple." "I think you're supposed to hold the smoke in for a while," said Milford. "Indeed? For how long?" "For as long as you can stand." "Thanks for the tip, old boy." Addison took another drag and held it in, while Milford walked over and stepped on the match Addison had just tossed to the floor, even though the match was extinguished, but he couldn't help himself. And why? Was he not able to control these absurd compulsions? Was he not able to control anything in his life? He glanced over at Addison, who was holding his breath, and Milford didn't know why, but he walked over and took the cigarette from Addison's fingers and took a great drag on it himself, ignoring or not caring about the end moistened with Addison's spittle, and so the two companions stood there, eyes wide open, holding in the smoke, and after a minute Addison exhaled, followed shortly by Milford, their two clouds of smoke mingling and merging in the still indoor air. "Ah," said Addison. "Yes," said Milford. "Ah." "Shall we take another drag each?" "Why not?" What did it matter? What did anything matter? They stood there, passing the cigarette back and forth, luxuriating in the madness they were submitting themselves to, in the strange ecstasy of the madness, feeling if not happy then indifferent to everything but this moment which seemed to stretch on forever, and not only forever but into the past and into a present which existed both in the future and the past, in some realm beyond time. And, in time, if there was such a thing as time, five minutes later, or five years later, they had smoked the cigarette down to a nubbin, a red glowing nubbin in which was contained all the universe.  Addison stubbed out the nubbin on a button of his coat sleeve, and then dropped it into a side pocket of his top coat. It seemed somehow disrespectful just to toss the butt to the floor, and, besides, he thought, perhaps he could chew on it later, slowly, and then swallow it, and then this feeling he now felt would blossom forth from within himself to outside himself and he would become one with all the universe. Without a word the two friends then floated randomly in one direction down the hallway, and on they floated, saying nothing, there was nothing to say, there was everything to say, and they turned a corner and came to a dark passage which they entered into without fear, and they floated through the darkness until the darkness grew less dark and then was replaced by dimness and still onward they floated. Would they come to some sort of edge, or ledge, beyond which was a black and bottomless abyss, and if they did come to such an edge, or ledge, would they float over it, and then what would happen?  They didn't know.  And on they floated.

"The Meaning of Life"

Yet another 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 the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Is there a feeling more sublime than that produced by the day's first luxurious drag of a cigarette? Not if it's a Husky Boy!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of Annals of the Damned, Vol. V: The Little Cobbler's Shop on the Corner

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"Let us start with Mr. Charrington," the tiny old man said to Addison. "Me?" said Addison. "Yes, please. Tell me of your life, such as it has been, not forgetting your hopes, your dreams, and of course your accomplishments." "Well," said Addison, "for starters, I'm afraid my name isn't Charrington." "Then may I ask why you said that it was?" "Well, you see, I didn't actually say my name was Charrington, sir." "Please, call me Happy, Mr. 'Charrington'." "Happy," said Addison. "That's better. So, you say your name is not really Chaffington. But I gather that is the name which you are, as they say, 'operating under'." "Well, no, not actually –" "Oh, I get it now." "You do?" "There's just something about your demeanor, your manner of speaking and your mode of dress. Am I wrong in guessing that you are a literary man, sir?" "No," said Addison, "on that point I do plead guilty." "A novelist, I daresay!" "Yes, for my sins." "I knew it! As soon as I saw that rumpled and worn flannel suit and the fedora looking like it's been through a war, I said to myself, 'Happy,' I says, 'there is a novelist if there ever was one!'" "You have a most discerning eye, Happy," said Addison. "Bleary my eye may be," said the old fellow, "clouded and cataracted and occluded with glaucoma as well, but I can still tell a novelist from any common chancer or pool parlour jackanapes. Chalk it up to a long lifetime, rich with experience and the observation of and intercourse with – I speak of social intercourse, not sexual, not that I am prejudiced against chaps of a bent bent, mind you – mankind. And also, to an admittedly lesser extent, womankind." "Um," said Addison. "And so we have established then that you are indeed a novelist and that Chadsworth is the latter part of your nom de plume. But what is the first and perhaps also middle part of it? I ask so that I may look for your works at my favorite bookshop." "Um, uh, Bertram Collingswood," said Addison. "So your full pen name is Bennett Coleman Hapsworth?" "Yes," said Addison. "And is there any particular favorite of your novels that you would suggest that I read?" "Yes," said Addison. "You might want to try The Diary of an Illiterate, Volume One." "Diary of an Inveterate Anglican?" "Yes," said Addison. "So it is a religious work." "Somewhat, yes," said Addison. "Although I would call it more a philosophical work in its themes." "Theosophical you say! Splendid. It's good to know that the young scribes of today do not shy away from spiritual matters. That it's not all rutting and rioting."  The old fellow now cast his illegible gaze at Milford.  "What about you, Milbert?"  "I write poems," said Milford. "With neither reason, purpose, nor rhyme." "Poems of seasons, porpoises, and limes?" "Yes," said Addison. "And something tells me that they are quite good poems indeed." "No, they're all pretty bad, actually." "Of course your poems are sad. Life is sad. And then we die. You know, I think I can help you lads in your literary endeavors." Neither Addison nor Milford said anything to this. "Do you want to know how I can help you?" prodded the old man. "Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison. "Do I what?" "Do you own a publishing company?" asked Addison, almost shouting. "Yes, of course I keep good company, although, alas, as you can see, it consists mostly of chaps with one foot – if not both of them – in their graves. It is such a delight to converse with two bright young fellows like yourselves, and so I am glad to impart my wisdom to you. Perhaps you will then avoid at least a modicum of the mistakes I have made, indeed that most men make. I mean if you want to hear it." "Please, Happy," said Addison, "in the words of the bard of Avon, 'Unmuzzle your wisdom.'"  "Well, I don't know who this Bart O'Mahon is, but I will gladly share my wisdom, and indeed I shall tell you lads the meaning of life." "Well, that's certainly a tall order, sir," said Addison. "You can order a tall water if and when Lucullus ever arrives with our drinks. But shall I tell you?" "What's that?" said Addison. "Shall I tell you the meaning of life?" "Oh, by all means, sir," said Addison. The old man looked at Milford, or at least turned his withered face in Milford's direction. "What about you, sonny? Want to know what it's all about, this whole dog and pony show we call life?" "Yes, thank you," said Milford. "Very well then," said Happy. "I will tell you. I will tell you both. No more fruitless searching, no more agonized midnight lucubrations, no more endless dark nights of the soul in the bright and harsh noonday sun. Save you both a lot of botheration and wasted time. Are you ready?" "Yes," said Addison. "What about you, my poetic young friend?" he said in Milford's direction. "I'm sorry, what?" said Milford, whose attention had wandered for some reason, or reasons. "Do you want to know the meaning of life?" said Happy. "Yes, please," said Milford. "Then bend an ear my friends, and I shall tell you." He paused. He looked at his pipe, which had gone out. In the background the room hummed with ancient conversations and monologues, and with the singing and playing of a forgotten song by the old piano player in the hazy blue light.  "The meaning of life," said the old man called Happy. "Yes?" said Addison. "The meaning," said the old man, again. Addison said nothing now, wary of leading the witness.  Milford also said nothing. There was nothing to say, not that there ever was. "Of life!" said Happy. He paused again, but this time the pause did not end. His little bald head bowed forward, and it was hard to tell, but it seemed that his eyes had closed. "Is he dead?" asked Milford. "Perhaps just asleep," said Addison. "He doesn't seem to be breathing." "Maybe he's so old that he doesn't need to breathe that much." "I think we should leave," said Milford. "But we have drinks coming," said Addison. "Addison," said Milford. "There are other things in life besides free drinks." "I know, but still," said Addison. "If he's dead, do you want to sit here and drink with a dead old man?" Addison paused. Was it so bad after all to drink with a dead old man? "Maybe he'll wake up and tell us the meaning of life," he said. "Maybe he won't wake up," said Milford. Addison paused again. "I can't believe I'm going to forfeit a free Falstaff and a shot of Cream of Kentucky." "Look," said Milford, "you can stay if you want to, but I'm leaving." "Oh, all right," said Addison. "If it will make you feel better, I will buy you a beer and a shot when we get to where we're going." "Really?" "Yes, now please, let's leave."  "Very well."  They both stood up from their chairs. The old man was still sitting there, his head slumped forward, his dead pipe still gripped in his tiny hand. Was it a death grip? "Come on, Addison," said Milford. "All right," said Addison, sadly, turning down free drinks for the first and no doubt last time in his life.  The two companions stepped away from the table and headed back in the direction of the door, breathing in the smells of smoke and old men and of wisdom unimparted, as the piano player sang and played his unknown song.