"The Bar With No Name"

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

Illustrations by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode brought to you by the Husky Boy™ family of fine tobacco products

"The very last thing I do before I make my entrance in a theatrical production is to smoke an absolutely divine Husky Boy Ladies' Cork Tip, and, at the close of the performance, after taking my final bow, the very first thing I do is to light one up!" – Hyacinth Wilde, now starring in the Demotic Theatre's production of Horace P. Sternwall's smash hit A Red Rose for Miss Hoople. 

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Addison held the door open, Milford passed through, and Addison followed him, the door closing behind them.  An enormous bearded burly fellow sat on a high stool to the right of the doorway. "Hold on, fellas," he said. "Hello," said Addison. The man wore a watch cap such as longshoreman and sailors wear, and a thick grey turtleneck sweater. He had a lighted cigar in one hand, and next to his stool was a small high table with a box of Ohio Blue Tip kitchen matches on it and an ashtray filled with cigar butts. "First time in here, right?" "Yes, sir," said Addison. "You guys know how to read?" "We do, sir," said Addison. "In fact, we are both literary men, myself a novelist and my friend a poet." "So if you can read," said the man, "I take it you read the sign on the door." "You mean," said Addison, "the sign saying, 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here'?" "There ain't no other sign on it," said the man. "Yes, well, we did read the sign," said Addison. "And so," said the big guy, "am I to assume you have abandoned hope?" "Look," said Milford, "we've just been chased by an angry mob of douchebags out for our blood, then we were trapped in the world's slowest elevator with the world's oldest elevator operator, after which we wandered all through a dark basement and a warren of dim corridors, and all we want now is to sit quietly, have a few minutes of peace and rest, and then we'll be on our way." "Feisty little fella, ain't ya?" said the man. "Far from it, sir." "You say you was chased by an angry mob of douchebags." "We was," said Milford, "I mean, yes, we were." "Must've done something to rile 'em up." "Look," said Addison, "can we just go sit at the bar and have a beer?" "You got money?" said the man. "Yes," said Addison. "We got, I mean, we have money." The big man took a drag on his cigar. "You don't know where youse are, do yez?" "Well, it seems to be a bar," said Addison. "I guess you noticed that there weren't no name outside the bar, just that sign, just that sign about abandoning hope." "Yes, in retrospect, I suppose I did notice that," said Addison. "And you know why there weren't no sign with no name on it?" "No," said Addison, "but I suspect you are going to tell us." "There weren't no name on no sign because this bar ain't got no name." "Well, I suppose that makes a sort of sense," said Addison. "And so now, if we could just step over to the bar –" "And," said the man, "the reason this bar ain't got no name is because it is strictly a bar for the nameless ones of the universe, the losers, the eternal failures, the ones fated not to be remembered by no one, the faceless ones, the anonymous ones, the spear carriers, the supernumeraries in the great Cecil B. DeMille production of life." "Um, okay," said Addison. "So, can we come in?" "Keep your shirt on, pal," said the big man. "I'm asking the questions here." "Sorry," said Addison. "Am I to assume, since you say you was being chased by these alleged douchebags, that youse yourself are not douchebags." "Um," said Addison. "No, we are not douchebags," said Milford. "You sure of that?" said the big man. "I'm not sure of anything," said Milford. "Good answer," said the man. "But let me ask yez this. You may not be douchebags, but are youse cunts." "What?" said Addison. "You heard me, pal. Don't make me say it again." "You mean cunts?" "That's the word, although it's not a word I like to use, and never in mixed company." "No, sir, we are not cunts," said Addison. "Jesus." "Leave Jesus out of this, buddy. Because in here we may be the losers of the world, the forgotten of the forgotten and the damned of the damned, but one thing we are not is cunts. So let's just get that one thing straight." "Look," said Milford, "we're not cunts, okay?" "But," said the big man, "you just told me a second ago you wasn't sure of anything, so how can you be sure you ain't a cunt?" "Okay," said Milford. "Fine. Let's go, Addison." "Wait a minute," said the big man. "What?" said Milford. "I like your style." "You do?" "Yeah, I don't know what it is, but I kinda like both you guys. Maybe you are cunts. Maybe on the other hand you're just douchebags. Or, maybe, just maybe, youse two are members of the great fraternity of the losers of the universe." The big man paused, looking Addison and Milford over. He took another drag on his cigar, took it out of his mouth, exhaling an enormous cloud of smoke, then looked at its end and turned and tapped its ash into his ashtray. Milford, who constitutionally noticed very little in the physical world, noticed that the ashtray had printed on its side in flaked gold the legend THE ST CRISPIAN HOTEL WHERE THE SERVICE IS SWELL. The big man sighed, and without looking at either Addison or Milford, he said, "All right. What the fuck. What do I know, anyway?" "You mean," said Addison, "we can come in?" The man turned and looked again at Addison and Milford. "Yeah," he said. "Sure. Why not?" "Oh, good," said Addison. "Thank you." The man said nothing. "So," said Addison, "I guess we'll just grab a couple of seats at the bar then." "Sure," said the man. "Unless." "Unless?" said Addison. "Unless you want a table, or a booth." "Oh," said Addison. "Well, actually, I think just two seats at the bar would be fine." "Suit yourself. But if you want a table or a booth you could wait here and the waitress will come over and seat you." "No, I think just the bar will be fine," said Addison. "We serve the full food menu at the bar if you're hungry." "Okay," said Addison.  "I recommend the all-you-can-eat chicken wings." "Okay, good," said Addison. "The egg and onion sammitch ain't bad, on your choice of white bread or rye." "We'll bear that in mind." "They call me Gargantua." "Hi, uh, Gargantua," said Addison. "They call me Addison, and this is Milford." "Hi," said Gargantua. "So, uh, we'll just be heading over to the bar then," said Addison. "Not so fast," said Gargantua. "Yes?" "Don't make me look bad." "Oh," said Addison. "Well, we'll try not to." The man Gargantua pointed his cigar at Addison, and then at Milford. "Losers, failures, faceless drones, hopeless bores, these are all welcome here. Just no douchebags." "Right," said Addison. "No douchebags," said the big man. "And, especially –" "Yes?" said Addison. "No cunts," said Gargantua.  "Oh," said Addison. "Right." Gargantua pointed his cigar at Milford. "You sure you ain't a cunt, sonny?" "Uh," said Milford. "I assure you, Gargantua," said Addison, "that neither I nor my friend Milford are cunts." "Good," said Gargantua. "Keep it that way. And try the fried Spam-and-cheese sandwich on toast if you get hungry after a while." "Thank you for the recommendations," said Addison. Gargantua turned away, seeming to stare off into a distance only he could see. Milford touched Addison's elbow, and the two friends walked over to the bar, which was crowded, but they found two adjoining barstools, and climbed up onto them.

"Let's Do It"

Yet another true tale of  la vie de la bohème transcribed by Dan Leo, with illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions

This episode sponsored by the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

""Is there an ecstasy more palpable than one's first Husky Boy cigarette on a cool rainy morning?" – Horace P. Sternwall, your host of the Husky Boy Radio Mystery Hour, featuring William Conrad as "Mike McGee, Private Detective" 

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After some several minutes of walking in the darkness they saw another faint glow up ahead. They came to a corner and turned it, and way down another brick passageway they saw what looked like a stairway, the entrance illuminated by another hanging light bulb. "We are saved," said Addison. "That remains to be seen," said Milford. Another minute brought them to the stairwell and to a narrow spiral staircase, unpainted, dirty, stained with rust, and festooned with cobwebs. "After you, my friend," said Addison. "Why me?" said Milford. "There's only room for one at a time, and one of us must go first." Milford bent forward, craned his neck and looked up.  "I see a light up there," he said. "Grand," said Addison. "Go right ahead and I shall be hard on your heels." "I don't want to go first," said Milford. "May I ask why?" "Isn't that obvious? Because I'm a coward." "It's only a staircase," said Addison. He put his hand on the iron rail and gave it a tug. "See? Quite sturdy." "I saw it move a little bit," said Milford. "But only a little." "I'm afraid of heights." "It can't be more than thirty feet high." "I'm also afraid of the dark." "So is everyone, but it's not completely dark. Light your lighter if you're afraid." "But then I would only have one hand to put on the rail." "Good God, man, it's only a plain ordinary spiral staircase, now go on." "Why don't you go first?" "I'm quite willing to go first," said Addison, "but someone has to bring up the rear." "I think I would prefer to bring up the rear," said Milford. "Well, I suppose we could do that," said Addison. "Good," said Milford. "Please go right ahead, and I will be right behind you." Now Addison bent forward, craned his neck and looked up. "Well, okay," he said. "But you will be right behind me?" "Yes," said Milford. "You won't abandon me?" "No," said Milford. "Because I am your only friend, you know." "Yes, I am all too well aware of that." "Okay, by George, I'll do it. I'll go first." "Good." "But look," Addison turned to Milford, "if anything happens to me, will you please write my Aunt Edna and let her know. You'll find her name and address on an envelope in my breast pocket. It contains a check for five dollars which she sent me for Christmas, but I haven't gotten around to cashing it yet. Send her the check back and tell her that I wished to thank her." "Okay," said Milford.  "Her full name and address are on the return address on the envelope." "Right." "Tell her – tell her I was thinking of her. And that I appreciated all the checks she has sent me over the years, as well as those sent me by my Aunts Enid, and Edith, and Sarah, and Kate, her sisters." "All right." "I should not have survived this long without their help, their kind remittances on holidays and birthdays." "Okay." "You'll remember?" "I'll remember," said Milford. "Also, in my wallet you will find the ten dollars I have left from that twenty you lent me." "It wasn't a loan, it was a gift." "Well, anyway, please take the ten, in repayment." "In repayment for what?" "For being my friend. And for writing my Aunt Edna." "Look, Addison, I appreciate the thought, but nothing is going to happen to you." "But in case something does." "Okay," said Milford. "All right, I'm going now," said Addison. He took one more drag on the butt of his Chesterfield, and dropped it to the dank brick floor. He sighed, deeply, and took the first step.  Milford let Addison take three more steps, and then he threw his Husky Boy dog end to the bricks and mounted the first step, and then another, and another. It occurred to him that he had neglected to grind out the two cigarette butts with the sole of his brogan, but he let it go. It was too late to turn back now. After all that, it was only a matter of a minute before they reached the landing above. The staircase continued upward, but Addison stepped out of the stairwell, and Milford soon followed him. It was another dimly lit hallway. "Which way?" said Addison. "I see a vague light down there," said Milford, pointing to the right. "I hope it's not that place full of douchebags again," said Addison. "If it is, we'll just keep going," said Milford. "All right," said Addison.  They walked down the hall, turned a corner to the right, and about fifty feet farther along this hallway they saw another door, with another light over it. They continued on and when they got to the door they saw a hand-painted sign on it which read  Abandon hope all ye  who enter here "Should we go in?" said Addison. "Speaking only for myself," said Milford, "I abandoned all hope when I was three years old. So, yeah, let's go in."  There was a handle on the door with a thumb catch, and Addison put his hand on the handle, pressed the catch and opened the door. Inside was a bar, yet another shadowy bar, the murmur of voices, the haze and smell of smoke, the thick aromas of whiskey and beer, the playing of a forgotten song on a jukebox. "Another bar," said Addison. "I see that," said Milford. "We'll just go in and ask directions." "Okay." "What could go wrong?" "I think a more appropriate question," said Milford, "might be, 'What could go right?'" "Ha ha. Again that bone dry Milford wit." Milford said nothing. Despite himself, despite all he knew about himself, he had a strange desire for a tall glass of beer, any kind of beer, just so long as it wasn't disgustingly warm. Would it be so terrible just to have one glass of beer? "Shall we?" said Addison. "Yes," said Milford. He had already said "no" more than enough times for one lifetime. "Let's do it."

"Into Darkness"

Yet 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.

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How far away was that faint glow of light? It was impossible to say, but there was nothing else to do but to walk toward it. What was the alternative? There was none. "I think," said Addison, "that the thing to do is to try to find a stairway." "Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, in the darkness. "It seems we're in some sort of basement." "Yes, so it seems." "But if we reach that light up ahead we should probably find a way out of here." "So one might presume," said Milford. "Well, don't you think that's a reasonable presumption?" said Addison.  "Yes, it's reasonable," said Milford. "I mean, don't all basements have stairways?" "I don't know," said Milford. "I am hardly an expert on basements." "You mean there might not be a stairway?" "I don't know," said Milford. "What if this basement is only accessible by elevator?" "I hadn't thought of that," said Addison. "But I'll tell you one thing," said Milford, "I'm not getting back in that elevator we just got out of." "No, that was rather –" Addison paused, "disconcerting." They kept walking, the tips of their cigarettes providing their only immediate illumination. The glow of faint light in the distance gradually formed the shape of a doorway, and after several minutes during which neither Addison or Milford said a word, each for their own reasons (fear, and the fear of saying something fearful, or something boring or stupid, or simultaneously fearful, boring, and stupid) they reached what was indeed a doorway, without a door. Addison stepped through first, Milford followed him, and they found themselves in yet another hallway, this one with walls of unpainted brick. Above them hung the source of the light they had seen, a bare bulb hanging from a high ceiling, and the corridor ran otherwise unlighted to the right and to the left. "Which way now?" said Addison.  Both directions seemed to lead only to darkness. "I don't know," said Milford.  "Some sort of ancient impulse deep within me suggests that we should go to the right." "In that case we should probably go to the left," said Milford. "Ha ha, that dry Milford wit," said Addison. "You're the one with the alleged wit," said Milford. "One thing I have never been accused of is possessing wit." "Ah, but moi, j'accuse, mon ami!" said Addison, dapperly tapping the ash of what was left of his Chesterfield to the floor. "Addison," said Milford, after a slight pause, "may I ask you one small favor?" "Anything, old chap." "Oh, never mind." "No, please, ask away!" "I was going to ask you to stop speaking French." "Oh, pardonnez-moi, mon vieux." "Ha ha." "No, but if it bothers you, I'll stop, I promise." "Oh, never mind, I don't care, really." "Vraiment?" "Yes," said Milford. "Who am I to ask you not to speak odd phrases in French?" "Well," said Addison, "at the risk of waxing sentimental, I like to think you're my friend. And that I am your friend. And so if it is in my power to be even slightly less annoying, it would be my pleasure to attempt to do so." Milford bit off a sigh before it could fully achieve itself. "Okay," he said. "You mean, okay that I think of myself as your friend?" "Yes," said Milford, looking away. "You know, mon pote, I've never really had a friend," said Addison. "Have you?" "I think you already know the answer to that," said Milford. "Oh, I've had acquaintances," said Addison. "My classmates at school and college, who always seemed to be in cliques that I was banned from. And, during the war, my co-workers on the assembly line at the parachute factory, to whom I would say hello, and receive a curt nod in response, if that. And now of course, the fellow tipplers who frequent my local caravansary, Bob's Bowery Bar, but who always seem to have trouble staying awake when I attempt to converse with them. But a friend? Someone who does more than tolerate my presence?" "Okay," said Milford. "I get it." His Husky Boy had burnt down to a nubbin, and he let it fall to the floor. Almost seeming to commit an act of solidarity, Addison also dropped his cigarette. "I'm so glad," said Addison. "What?" "I said I'm so glad." "Glad about what?" "That we have become friends." "Oh," said Milford. "Yes." It occurred to him that it might possibly be a fire hazard just to toss their cigarette butts to the floor, and so, just to be on the safe side, he ground out his own discarded butt with the sole of his workman's brogan, and then stepped over and put his foot on Addison's still-burning dog end as well. Never being one to take much notice of anything outside the confines of his own skull, he now belatedly observed that the flooring seemed to be made of ancient bricks, and so there probably had been no great danger of a conflagration. No matter, what was done was done. He became aware that Addison had said something. "Don't you agree?" said Addison. "About what?" said Milford. "About what I just said." "Do you mind repeating it?" "Don't you agree, and again at the risk of waxing sentimental," said Addison, who had long ago grown used to people drifting off while he talked, "that it feels good to have a friend, at long last." "Oh, right," said Milford.  "Not to wax sentimental." "No, of course not." "Damon and Pythias. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer." "Right." "Holmes and Watson." "Yeah," said Milford. "Friends," said Addison. "After all the lonely years. After a lifetime of –" "But you know why we've never had any friends," interrupted Milford. "Is that a question?" said Addison. "More a statement of fact," said Milford. "Oh," said Addison. "Yes," said Milford. "Because we are, both," said Addison, "I confess I hesitate to say it –" "We're both douchebags," said Milford. "Yes," said Addison. "Might as well call a spade a spade." "And a douchebag a douchebag," said Milford. "Which still leaves us with the question," said Addison. "Why we exist, or persist in existing?" said Milford. "Well, that," said Addison, "but actually, on a perhaps more prosaic plane, I meant we are left with the question of which way to go, right or left?" "You choose," said Milford. "Well, as I said previously, my deepest impulse, or intuition if you will, tells me we should go to the right." "Okay then," said Milford. "So, then," said Addison, "to the left then?" "Yes," said Milford, after only the slightest of pauses. And the two friends headed down the dim hall to the left, toward the darkness, gradually entering into the darkness, which had no seeming end, and when they had walked in darkness a further minute, as if communicating telepathically, they stopped as one and brought out their cigarettes. Milford lighted them both up with his Ronson, their faces pale in the small light, which he extinguished with a click, and then on they walked, once again the tips of their cigarettes providing their only illumination.