On they walked, without speaking, until neither could bear not speaking one second longer, despite having nothing interesting to say, a consideration that had never stopped either of them before.
"Y'know –" said Addison.
"By the way –" said Milford, simultaneously.
"What?" said Addison.
"No, you go first," said Milford.
"No, by all means –" said Addison.
"It was nothing," said Milford.
"But it must have been something," said Addison.
"Yes, I suppose so," said Milford.
"Then what was it?" said Addison.
"Um," said Milford.
"Yes, go on."
"Uh."
"Please, expand. I am on tenterhooks."
"Okay," said Milford.
"What are tenterhooks, anyway?" said Addison.
"I have no idea," said Milford.
"Y'know," said Addison, assuming his George Sanders "intellectual" voice, "someday, they'll invent little devices that you can carry in your pocket, and all you'll have to do is ask it a question on any subject, and it will give you an answer."
"Oh?" said Milford.
"Yes," said Addison, "so you can just ask it, what's a tenterhook, and it will tell you."
"Okay," said Milford, after a moment's pause, "but –"
"But what?"
"Will it tell you the meaning of life?"
"Possibly," said Addison.
"Will it give you a reason to get out of bed in the morning?"
"To urinate?"
"Yes, there's that," said Milford.
"So what were you going to say?" said Addison.
"I haven't the faintest idea. What were you going to say?"
"Me?"
"Yes. You started to say something."
"I have no idea either," said Addison.
"Have you noticed something odd?" said Milford.
"I notice very little," said Addison, "but what I do notice is unfailingly odd."
"We have been walking for five minutes at least and we haven't gotten anywhere."
"Yes," said Addison.
"We've turned down two or three corridors, at random."
"Seemingly at random, yes," said Addison.
"Seemingly?" said Milford.
"Well, yes, at random, touché," said Addison.
"We're lost," said Milford.
"Do you mean in the existential sense?"
"That, yes, but also in the literal sense."
"All right, granted," said Addison. "But we must get somewhere if we keep going."
"What if we reach a dead end?"
"Then I suppose we'll just have to turn around and go back the way we came."
They walked on, and after three or possibly four minutes they came to another intersection of dim hallways.
"Now which way?" said Milford.
"Right, I think," said Addison.
"May I ask why you think right is the right way?"
"Okay, how about left then?" said Addison.
"We're lost," said Milford, again.
"Yes, this is true," said Addison. He took out his Chesterfields, and offered the pack to Milford. "I suppose you don't want a Chesterfield?"
"No, thanks," said Milford. He patted his peacoat pockets, and brought out his pack of Husky Boys.
"What happened to your Woodbines?" said Addison.
"Oh," said Milford. "Well, earlier tonight I met this old poet who told me I was a – please pardon the word, but it was his locution, not mine – he said I was a – and, again, I quote – a 'cunt' for smoking English cigarettes, and he crumpled up my pack of Woodbines and threw them to the floor."
"Oh, dear," said Addison, who could well sympathize, having been called a cunt himself on more occasions than he could possibly count.
"So," continued Milford, "when I went to buy a new pack I saw these Husky Boys in the machine and bought them."
"So, no more Woodbines for you then?"
"No. I may well be a cunt, but I don't want to be thought a cunt."
"An admirable ambition I think."
Addison lighted up both their cigarettes with a match from his book of Bob's Bowery Bar matches.
"Thank you," said Milford.
"You're welcome," said Addison. "Y'know, perhaps in a sense, but in a very real sense," he was speaking in his full-blown Ronald Colman/George Sanders voice now, "perhaps not being thought a cunt is the first step in not actually being a cunt."
Milford had no response to this proposition, and he made none.
"You disagree?" said Addison.
"I neither agree nor disagree," said Milford. "But since I apparently am a cunt, my opinion is probably worthless."
Now it was Addison's turn not to respond.
After a long and echoing minute, he did speak.
"So, on that note, which way?"
"Straight ahead," said Milford, stifling a sigh with a drag of Husky Boy smoke.
"Straight ahead it is," said Addison, and they continued onward, the corridor growing dimmer and dimmer until they were walking in almost complete darkness, the only illumination the tips of their two cigarettes.
From the corner of his eye Addison saw the red glow of Milford's Husky Boy leave its wobbling position where presumably it had been in front of Milford's face and swerve in an arc downward.
"If this were happening in a novel," said Milford's voice in the darkness, "the critics would say it was a metaphor for the absurdity of life."
Addison said nothing, as he saw the red glow rise up again to the height of Milford's mouth, and for thirty seconds the only sounds were that of the two friends' footsteps in the darkness.
"Y'know, Milford," said Addison, after these thirty seconds had elapsed, "critics really are the consummate cunts of the world."
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