But before he could put the glass to his lips Milford paused and remembered, again, that he was an alcoholic, and that he shouldn't drink, or at any rate he shouldn't drink alcoholic beverages. He put the glass back down.
"Wait a minute," he said.
"But you know who I really fucking hate?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Everybody," said Mr. Bogman.
"Yes, of course, but do you know who I really fucking hate?"
"Yourself?" said Mr. Bogman. "Ha ha."
"That, my dear chap, goes without saying," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Excuse me," said Milford.
"But I'm talking about who I really fucking hate," said Mr. Bormanshire. "With an unbridled passion."
"Please, tell us," said Mr. Bogman. "I'm sure we're all dying to know."
"Dante Gabriel fucking Rossetti," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Oh," said Mr. Bogman.
"Hate that guy," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, he sucks," said Mr. Bogman.
"Um, uh –" said Milford.
"He sucks donkey dick," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Big donkey dick," said Mr. Bogman. "Huge."
"Pardon me," said Milford.
"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire with more than a hint of annoyance in his tone.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes," said Milford, "or the both of you."
"Me too?" said Mr. Bogman.
"Yes," said Milford.
"Ask away," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, shoot, Mugford," said Mr. Bogman. "What's on your mind, sonny Jim?"
"This place," said Milford, "this, what, this society –"
"Society of the Prancing Fool, yes," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"So this society is comprised entirely of bad writers?"
"Not just bad writers," said Mr. Bormanshire. "We're not prejudiced."
"Right," said Mr. Bogman. "We've got bad painters, bad sculptors, bad dancers and choreographers, you name it, we even have a troupe of bad actors and other sundry artistes who put on original bad shows every Wednesday night."
"So you're all just resigned to being bad?"
"Do we have a choice?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"But what if I –"
Milford paused, and was tempted by the drink on the table before him.
"Yes, go on," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"What if I – or even Addison –"
"And who is Addison again?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"That's me," said Addison, putting down his own Rob Roy, half empty.
"I thought your name was Hutcherson," said Mr. Bogman.
"What if I and Hutcherson, I mean Addison," said Milford, "what if we are not fated inevitably always to be bad."
"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, what?" said Mr. Bogman.
"What if I write a good poem someday," said Milford.
"Ha ha, you jest, surely," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Or what if even Addison winds up writing a good novel," said Milford.
"What, the one about the cowboy in the old west?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, that one sure sounds 'good'," said Mr. Bogman.
"But what if he does," said Milford.
"Don't make us laugh," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"It's possible," said Milford.
"Yeah, sure, look at him," said Mr. Bogman. "Hey, Thatcherman," he said, addressing Addison. "You ever even been out west?"
"Um, uh," said Addison.
"And look at you, Bumford," said Mr. Bormanshire to Milford, "with your newsboy's cap and your peacoat and fisherman's sweater. What would you ever write a good poem about? I bet you live with your mother, don't you?"
"I fail to see how my living with my mother has anything to do with my poetic abilities," said Milford.
"You got bad poet written all over you, kid," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Appearances may be deceiving," said Milford, weakly.
"Bullshit," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, you're a bad poet if I ever saw one," said Mr. Bogman, "and, believe me, I seen plenty in my time."
"But I still believe that someday, against all odds, I might one day write a good poem."
"Oh, fuck off," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Pardonnez mon français."
"What about you, Badgerman?" said Mr. Bogman to Addison.
"Who, me?" said Addison.
"Unless there's somebody else called Boggerman who's sitting at this table, yeah, you."
"What is the question again?"
"I reckon you think your epic novel of the old west is gonna be some kinda classic, that is if you ever even get past chapter one of it."
"Well, in fact I do think the first chapter is shaping up rather nicely."
"Shaping up nicely to be the first chapter of a crappy novel that no publisher will ever touch with a ten-foot pole," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Don't worry," said Mr. Bogman, "five will get you ten he stalls somewhere in the second chapter and spends the rest of his life trying to make it to the third. I know the type, and I know it well. Listen, Boogerman, this joint is filled with clowns just like you, sitting at the bar droning on to anyone who will listen about the great novel they're 'working on'.
You're not fooling nobody except maybe yourself. So, you know, like, no offense, but fuck you and fuck your stupid epic novel."
"Okay, you know what?" said Milford. He noticed that his cigarette was smoked down to its last half-inch, and he stubbed it out in his ashtray on the side of which he only just now noticed was inscribed, in flaked gold letters, The St Crispian Hotel Where the Service Is Swell. "I'm leaving now," he said.
"What?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, what?" said Mr. Bogman.
"I'm leaving. Because I for one refuse to give up hope."
"Oh, get off your high horse, kiddo," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Don't you realize it doesn't matter if you give up hope or not? Either way your writing is bad and it always will be bad."
"Yeah, get used to it," said Mr. Bogman. "Just like me and Bormanshire and every other swinging dick in this hellhole has gotten used to it. Now drink your fucking drink, you'll feel better."
"I don't want this drink," said Milford.
"No one gives a shit what you want or don't want, punk," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Now drink your motherfucking Rob Roy and stop bringing the party down."
"I just said I don't want it," said Milford.
"I'll take it if you don't want it," said Addison.
"Take it if you want to," said Milford, "but I'm leaving."
He shoved his chair back and stood up, fighting a compulsion to fall to the floor, perhaps never to stand up again.
"But, old chap, we have food coming," said Addison. "And more drinks."
"Addison," said Milford, "I'm sorry, but I'm leaving."
"Let him leave," said Mr. Bormanshire. "The little dickwad."
"He'll be back," said Mr. Bogman.
"Tail between his legs," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Begging for us to let him back in," said Mr. Bogman.
"Goodbye, Addison," said Milford.
"Wait," said Addison.
"Now what?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, now what the fuck," said Mr. Bogman.
Addison put out his own stub of a cigarette, then shoved back his chair, almost knocking it over as he got to his feet, but Mr. Bormanshire grabbed the chair's back before it could fall.
"I beg your pardon, gentlemen," said Addison. "But I also must take my leave."
"Well, fuck you too then," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, fuck yez both," said Mr. Bogman. "The pair of yez."
"Um," said Addison.
"Uh," said Milford.
"Oh, and what about that food you two assholes ordered?" said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Yeah, and the drinks," said Mr. Bogman. "Not to mention the round you just had. I suppose you're intending just to skip out without paying then? So typical."
"Oh," said Addison, "well, I guess we could leave you some money. Would, say, two dollars cover it?"
"Hey, no, you know what?" said Mr. Bormanshire. "Fuck your two dollars."
"Yeah, we don't want your two dollars," said Mr. Bogman. "Even if two dollars would cover it, which it wouldn't, not to mention the tip."
"This isn't about money," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Not really."
"Fuck your money," said Mr. Bogman.
"This is about you two accepting your lot in life," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"Your destiny," said Mr. Bogman.
"Your destiny as consummate failures," said Mr. Bormanshire.
"As losers," said Mr. Bogman.
"As proud members not merely of the legions of the damned," said Mr. Bormanshire, "but as standard-bearers of that select cohort known to men as the damned of the damned."
"The Society of the Prancing Fool!" said Mr. Bogman.
For a moment there was silence. Even the voices of all the other men in this place, sitting at their tables and at the bar, enveloped in smoke and boredom, even these voices hushed for the moment, and then Milford spoke.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?" said Addison.
"Let's go," said Milford.
Addison looked from Milford to Mr. Bogman, and then to Mr. Bormanshire and back to Milford.
"Right," he said. He picked up his glass but it was empty, and he put it down again. He looked longingly at Milford's untouched Rob Roy, but, in a rare moment of self-control, he forbore. "Let's go then," he said.
"Fuck you," said Mr. Bormanshire. "Fuck both of you."
"Yeah, and the spavined horses you rode in on," said Mr. Bogman.
"Fuck you both," said Mr. Bormanshire, "heartily."
"Yeah, the pair of yez," said Mr. Bogman. "Fuck yez, with abandon."
Addison and Milford both turned, and stumbling only slightly, they began to walk away.
All around them at the tables and from the crowded bar the dull murmuring of voices resumed.
Behind them came the voices of Messrs. Bormanshire and Bogman, cutting through the ambient babble and the thick swirling smoke.
"Go ahead, fuck off!" yelled the voice of Mr. Bormanshire.
"You'll be back!" shouted the voice of Mr. Bogman.
"On your hands and knees!" yelled Mr. Bormanshire.
"Begging us to let you back in!" yelled Mr. Bogman.
"Fuck you!" cried Mr. Bormanshire.
"Fuck yez both!" cried Mr. Bogman.
Milford and Addison made their way through the tables filled with indifferent blathering men drinking and smoking. They came to the door, which had a red-and-yellow electric exit sign above it. Milford put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. It was unlocked, and he opened the door, waving his friend to go through first, and then he followed.
