"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.
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