Addison," said Milford, after a good ten minutes of wandering in alternating near to total but now only partial darkness, "I'm getting tired of this."
"I confess so also I," said Addison, "even I who hardly ever gets tired of anything."
"What?" said Milford.
He stopped while he dug out his cigarettes, and Addison did the same.
"I said so also am I getting tired, just a trifle mind you."
"Yes, but you said you hardly ever get tired of anything?"
"Hardly ever, old chap, truth be told."
"But how is that possible?"
"I don't know really," said Addison, noticing that his crumpled Chesterfield pack held only one cigarette
Milford looked into his own Husky Boy pack. Only two left.
"I wake up in the morning tired," he said, and put his second-to-last cigarette in his lips.
"You poor fellow," said Addison, putting his last Chesterfield in his mouth and tossing the empty pack to the floor. "Do you not sleep well?"
"I sleep on an average of ten hours a night," said Milford, putting away his pack with one last Husky Boy in it, and taking out his Ronson.
"So your problem is not lack of sleep," said Addison, bringing out his book of Bob's Bowery matches.
"No," said Milford, clicking his lighter repeatedly, "my problem is that I can't sleep twenty-four hours a day."
"Ha ha," said Addison, tearing off a match, the last one, "I should think you'd need to get up now and then to eat and drink, and to perform your urinary and fecal evacuations."
"Regrettably, yes, and regretfully," said Milford, still clicking his Ronson.
Addison lighted his last cigarette with his last match, and then, exuding Chesterfield smoke gently from his narrow nostrils,
with cupped hands he offered the light to Milford, who was still clicking his lighter in vain.
"Thank you," said Milford, accepting the light, and after coughing up a small tattered cloud of Husky Boy smoke he said, "I don't know what's the matter with this lighter."
"Perhaps it needs fuel," said Addison.
"I fill it every morning," said Milford.
"It's been a long time since morning," said Addison, letting his match and empty matchbook fall to the floor. "How many cigarettes did you smoke today?"
"Almost three packs," said Milford. "Do you think that's too much?"
"Not if you can afford it, old man."
"I can afford it, but they say that cigarettes can give you cancer."
"Who cares?" said Addison, exhaling a great cloud of rich Chesterfield smoke. "Cancer is something that happens to old people."
"I envy you," said Milford, coughing out a bit more hot Husky Boy smoke, "your insouciant attitude towards life."
"Oh, as long as my aunts and great-aunts continue to send me the odd banknote for five or ten dollars," said Addison, "and on my birthday and Christmas maybe even a twenty, who am I to complain?"
"But what will you do when your aunts and great-aunts die?"
"Well, my dear fellow, I only hope that they will remember to remember me in their last wills and testaments, but no matter, because soon enough I hope to be a best-selling novelist, with a handsome brownstone on the Upper East Side and a summer cottage in Cape May."
"You really think someone will publish your novel?"
"Why not? I truly think that an epic of the old west, but treated in a deeply philosophical, and, yes, poetic manner, just might be what the public needs in these parlous times."
Milford said nothing. Who was he to disabuse his only friend of that friend's laughable delusions? No, better to say nothing if the only thing he had to say was the truth, which was that Addison was the last person on earth who would or could conceivably write a best-selling epic of the old west.
"Hey," he said, abruptly, and glad to change the subject, "I think I see a faint glimmer of light up ahead."
"I do believe you're right," said Addison.
"Could it be what's its name, the bar?"
"The Hideaway I believe it's called."
"Yes, could it be the Hideaway."
"It might be," said Addison.
Saying not a word more, they set off again down the corridor.
Alas when after a few more minutes they reached the source of the light it was only a dirty electric light bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling.
"I don't understand it," said Milford, halting under the lightbulb. "What is this weird building we're in, with these endless dark or dim corridors?"
"You know," said Addison, "I was just starting to wonder that myself."
"And what kind of building has all these different bars in it, placed at random in these endless dim corridors?" said Milford.
"I confess it's the first of its kind I've encountered," said Addison.
"I just don't understand it," said Milford.
"But, my dear chap," said Addison, "isn't all of existence quite incomprehensible?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford, "but this place seems, I don't know –"
"What?" said Addison.
"I'm afraid that I've lost my mind," said Milford. "I feel as if I've entered the realm of madness."
"Well, my dear Milford," said Addison, "if you've entered the realm of madness, then so too have I."
"Oh, well," said Milford, after a pause. "I suppose we should keep walking."
"Might as well," said Addison.
And they shuffled along, at a much slower pace now, smoking their cigarettes in silence. There was nothing more to say, not that having nothing to say had invariably kept either fellow silent before.
In due time their cigarettes had been smoked down to the final half-inch, and Addison took one last drag and tossed his butt away to the littered floor.
"Well, that's my last cigarette," he said.
"Really?" said Milford. He let his own butt drop to the floor and stubbed it out with his stout workman's brogan. "I only have one left after this myself."
"We'll find the bar," said Addison. "And we can buy fresh packs there."
"But what if we never find it?"
"We're sure to find some other bar then. They'll have a machine."
"I'm scared, Addison. I think I'm starting to panic."
"Well, at least you have one Husky Boy left, to calm your nerves."
"This is true," said Milford. "I should light it up. But what will you do?"
"I'll manage, somehow."
"I would share the Husky Boy with you, but I can't bear the thought of sharing a cigarette with another man, and potentially mingling his saliva with mine."
"Quite all right old chap, and in fact I should think your squeamishness is only proof that you are at the very least a latent heterosexual."
"Do you really think so?"
"I do."
"Then why do people keep accusing me of being homosexual."
"I haven't the slightest, and I know I myself get accused of being shall we say light in the loafers all the time, and I likewise cannot for the life of me see why."
Actually, Milford could see why people thought Addison homosexual, but he didn't say so. Now that he finally did have a friend, he didn't want to offend him needlessly.
"Look," said Milford, "you can have my cigarette, Addison."
He dug into the pocket of his peacoat and brought out his crumpled Husky Boy pack, with one last cigarette in it, and offered the pack to Addison.
"But it's your last one, dear chap," said Addison,
"I know," said Milford, "but you can have it."
Addison looked away, drew a breath, held it in for a moment and then slowly exhaled, still looking away.
"What's the matter?" said Milford. "Please don't tell me you're having a heart attack."
"No," said Addison, after a brief pause, and in a softer voice than usual.
"Then what is it?"
Addison turned to look at Milford, as if shyly.
"It's just," he said, "hang it all, man, I very rarely become overcome with emotion, in fact if anything I tend to be undercome with emotion, to coin a phrase."
"But what are you overcome with emotion about?" said Milford.
Addison paused again before speaking.
"You offered me your last cigarette," he said.
"So what?" said Milford.
"I've never had anyone offer me their last cigarette."
"Oh," said Milford. "Anyway, here."
He proffered the pack.
"Go on, take it."
"I can't," said Addison. "I can't take your last cigarette, old man."
"Go ahead," said Milford. "We'll find a bar, and they'll have a machine and we can buy fresh cigarettes."
"But what will you do in the meantime if I smoke your last cigarette?"
"I suppose I'll suffer, but most likely not unbearably."
"You would volunteer to suffer," said Addison, "whilst I enjoyed your last Husky Boy?"
"It's better than the alternative, which would be to smoke it myself, being aware all the time that you were suffering."
"Good lord, man, you know what you're evincing, don't you?"
"I think it's called neurosis," said Milford.
"No, my dear fellow," said Addison, "it is what men call empathy."
"Oh. Well, maybe not. I think it's just that I'd be too aware of your suffering to enjoy the cigarette myself."
"Empathy, precisely."
"I still think that's a stretch," said Milford. "My mother says I never think about anyone but myself."
"Well, I think you've proven her wrong," said Addison.
"Anyway, take the cigarette," said Milford.
Addison looked at the proffered pack, and involuntarily licked his lips.
"How are those Husky Boys, anyway?" he asked.
"They're all right," said Milford.
"I've always wanted to try one."
"Why didn't you?"
"Oh, I don't know," said Addison, "I suppose I was afraid I wouldn't like them as much as Chesterfields, and then I'd be stuck having to smoke a whole pack of them."
"Take the cigarette, Addison."
"You're quite serious?"
"There's no point in us both suffering."
Addison paused, partly raised his right hand, then abruptly lowered it.
No," he said, "I can't."
"If you don't take it I'm just going to throw it away."
"Dear God, man, don't do that."
"Then take it."
"But –"
"Please, just take it. I want you to take it."
"Um –"
"Go on, Addison," said Milford. "My arm is getting tired."
"Well, only if you really insist," said Addison, raising his hand again.
"I insist."
"All right, then," said Addison.
Milford gave the pack a shake and the head of a Husky Boy protruded through the opening.
"Like a weary soldier poking his head from a foxhole, wondering if the enemy has really and truly retreated from the field," said Addison.
Milford said nothing, but continued to proffer the pack.
"All right," said Addison, and quickly he picked out the cigarette between thumb and finger. He looked at Milford. "I don't care what people say about you, Milford, you're all right in my book."
He put the cigarette in his mouth and patted his pockets.
"Oh, dear, I just remembered I used up my last match. I wonder if I might have a light from your Ronson?"
"Sure," said Milford. He dropped the empty pack to the littered and dirty floor, and then he patted his own pockets, found the one his lighter was in and brought it out. He then put its business end below the end of the Husky Boy in Milford's lips, and clicked the little button. No flame appeared, but then it never did on first click, and so he clicked it again, and again, and, sighing for at least the twelve thousandth and forty-second time in his current long day's journey into a seemingly endless night, he clicked it a dozen more times, to no avail.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why it won't work."
Addison removed the cigarette from his lips.
"And so now," he said, "we both suffer."
