Wrong Information Is Being Given Out at Princeton

by J. P. Donleavy

  “Steve. Come on. I already told you. The way I used to wangle things for you in the navy. What’s mine is yours.”

  “I don’t believe in fact, you did say that.”

  “Well, close enough to it. Jesus, three years we were chess-and bridge-playing pals out there in the Pacific where death could always be in the next second. Lobbed at you from the other side of the horizon. But boy, when we lobbed back with our little ole sixteen-inchers, they went off, wham, wham, wham. Nothing was as beautiful as that bright orange cloud of pure fulmination coming out of the muzzles of those guns. We have all that in common. I want you to feel you’ve got a true friend.”

  “Well Max, putting aside the gunnery, chess and bridge a moment, let me attest to your always having been a steadfast ally.”

  “Okay. Before it knocks us, let’s between us knock this city for a loop. It’s the weekend, pal. Know what I mean. A loop. A goddamn loop. I don’t mean overexert ourselves pleasure seeking. Just flow with the more felicitous tide. Come on. Down the old champers. Here, have a couple more pretzels and let me refill your glass. Gee it’s good to see you and bring back a few ole memories. Let’s you and me drive up Madison Avenue in my old Bentley.”

  Excusing myself to take a piss, I passed through Max’s bedroom. Hung along the wall on a clothesline were at least fifty silk ties. And on the floor at least twenty pairs of shoes in shoe trees.

  Now dressed to leave, Max beneath his dark blue blazer, buttoned closed with large silver buttons, sported a crimson silk cravat adorned with black dots and stuck with a gold pin. Max surely was a picture to behold in his racing green Bentley. Yellow plaid cap on his head, goggles shielding his eyes as he smiled over the motorcar’s great long bonnet, as he called it. The chromework polished, gleaming. Headlights like two large bulging eyes. The massive engine throbbed into life. And open to the balmy breezes, we drove past Washington Square. This motor vehicle so perfectly fitting the setting of this terrace of redbrick and limestone-trim houses.

  “Hey pal, isn’t this beautiful. All in wonderful harmony. Where people must have once lived in dignity and must have peacefully gone about their business out their doors with cane and spats to take constitutionals in the park, without some-goddamn bastard conducting a holdup, poking a goddamn gun or knife in their ribs.”

  Max was right. It reminded one of more peaceful times and of the costumes and musical glory of opera. But such visions of grandeur were shattered on reaching Union Square as we motored north on Broadway. Stopping for a red light. A barefoot black man sitting on the step of a bank, brushing the demons away, his other hand searching in his pocket. Legless beggars on roller-skate platforms. Political literature for sale suggesting agitation and protest. Racks of cheap garments in the emporiums for the poor and dispossessed. A shopping mart with six pairs of socks for fifty cents. But Max impervious to the downtrodden. Racing the great engine, hooting his horn as we turn up Broadway to Madison Square and head up Madison Avenue. Max singing out to the street the “Whiffenpoof Song.”

  “We are poor little lambs who have lost our way. Bah, bah, bah.”

  Pulling up in front of the Biltmore Hotel. Depositing ourselves out of the Bentley. Max peeling off a couple of dollars from his thick bankroll to give the doorman. “Park right here, sir.” A blind man kneeling nearby upon a rug on the sidewalk and playing the saxophone. A passage from Haydn’s Horn Concerto No. 1 in D Major. Executed with a degree of distinction. Shudders the heart to come upon such accomplishment and such impoverishment. Old Max seemed neither to see the poor gentleman nor to hear me drop a quarter coin clank into his tin cup as the musician murmured, “Thank you.”

  “Hey come on pal. Don’t dawdle.”

  Max behaving as if it were his own private hotel announcing as he led me in a tour of its grandiose lobby that it was the Democratic party headquarters, pointing out the drugstore, the barbershop, beauty salon, travel bureau, florist, ticket agency, Turkish bath, cocktail bar, and, with a bow, inviting me to survey the splendor of the Palm Court. He seemed specially to be taken with an elegant brass clock. Two semiclothed figures stretching upward to support the round white dial. Max breaking out a couple of cigars.

  “Here pal, have a Bolivar. Now pal, right here, right under this clock, is where people for better or worse, meet and make their assignations.”

  Max guiding me back to the door to the “Men Only” bar. The wood-paneled room hung with oil paintings. Its comfortable red leather chairs. We sit up at the bar on stools, elbows on the shining mahogany. Tinkle of ice. Three other drinkers in the dim light. Two with their newspapers. The other in silent attendance, staring out over his drink into empty space. It’s said it’s a place where some men come to be in solitude to delay catching the train back to their wives and children. Or decide not to go at all.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen.”

  Crew-cut bartender in his white jacket and bow tie attending and smiling upon this customer Maximilian Avery Gifford, who was puffing his cigar and who could pass, if this were a Saturday evening, for a rah-rah boy just arrived back at Grand Central after a college football game. At first nonplussed to be asked for a war-vintage bottle of Pol Roger champagne.

  “Well sir, I don’t believe I know of that brand or if we have that available.”

  “Well we’re just a couple of old buddies celebrating a bit of a reunion and it sure would be nice if we had the appropriate grape to do it with.”

  The bartender gently humored by Max, and adjusting his bow tie, warming to his task, instituted a search down in the cellars of the hotel. Old Max ready to award those who give cheerful service, smiling his appreciation and putting his foot up on the bar rail, waiting with perfect patience over his vintage soda water and relighting his cigar which had gone out while reciting the minutiae of our surroundings.

  “Hey, old pal, didn’t I tell you it was really something. Known to its customers as ‘the sanctum.’ Oyster stew, roast beef, sirloin steak, and apple pie. Four dollars at lunchtime, seven dollars and fifty cents at night. You see, old pal, this is where a guy could get away somewhere in peace on his workdays. Boy, I could have used a refuge like this back in ole Houston. To take a breather from the thoughtless, monumental, selfish meanness of that ole gal when she wanted to be mean. And over such goddamn trivial things. Impulsive irrationality was her middle name. Spoiled rotten by her father especially. Lavished every goddamn thing she ever wanted on her. I don’t think there was, but there were times you could almost think something funny had been going on there. She cleaned out everything she could, even the least little trinket or piece of crap of mine. Then poured gasoline on two of my best English suits and burned them up in the barbecue. Even mangled my tie pins. Gee, she sure wasn’t like the same girl you met back in my little ole apartment on West Thirty-fourth Street.”

  “Here we go, gentlemen. As ordered. Pol Roger, vintage 1947, which I am told was a superlative year.”

  The bartender deadly serious with his success, producing the bottle of Pol Roger champagne just beginning to gather dust. From the second year of peace after the war. Of three the hotel had left. Ten minutes to wait to chill. Glasses filled. Max ordering another bottle to be on the way and chilling and raising his present glass in a toast.

  “Old pal, down the hatch. And to the future. And why don’t I now do a little organizing of your life for you. I sort of got a real goddamn beauty on the go right at this moment. A hatcheck girl in a good restaurant. But that’s only temporary work for her while she’s between modeling jobs. Used to be an air hostess. I know she’s got a couple of good-looking friends. What do you say I take us all on a double date. Come on, next Saturday. Motor uptown in the old chariot. We’ll have a workout together at the Athletic Club, play some squash and then dine in one of the most beautiful dining rooms in all of New York. From the eleventh floor looks right out and over the whole of Central Park.”

  “Max, I don’t know right now. I might have enough on my plate for the mome
nt as it is.”

  “Pal, don’t miss opportunities. All you got to do is date the right girls and go to the right places.”

  “Well I sure don’t mind knowing who the right girls are and what are the right places.”

  “Well, it’s obvious. We’ll smell around a little in the Social Register. I know a few names and that little old volume got the telephone numbers listed. And even where some of these little old gals, the daughters, are matriculating at college.”

  “Are you sure, Max, these matriculating girls at college are the best people.”

  “Hey come on pal, don’t be obstructionist and a killjoy. And hey, and I don’t want to overcome you with flattery, old buddy boy, but you got what it takes. Charm. Talent. And let’s face it, how many people take you for a lighter shade of old Rudolph Valentino. Look where his looks got him. There’s a chance for everybody. I’ve seen the girls turn around to look when you go by. Hey, what about you take up a modeling career. Get your picture in the magazines.”

  “Max, I’m a composer.”

  “Sure, I know that. But the real facts are that this is a rough, tough city for artistically dedicated people. Unless you’re one of the lucky. Those who can fall back on big money and coast along on their enormous private incomes from inherited wealth. But nothing is stopping you, old buddy boy, from keeping your music composing going on the side. But now like me, you’re a free agent. Or at least I’ll remain one till they clamp me in alimony jail. Which if they do, that’s where I’ll stay. No kidding. You can be treated pretty well in there. I don’t see why I should have to support a previous poor wife and now on top of it a rich divorced wife. And buddy boy, I haven’t told you the whole story yet. But I will after another bottle of ole Pol Roger champagne from down in this good hotel’s cellars. Pal, this is the champagne old Winston Churchill drank winning the goddamn war when the sirens of the air raids were wailing over London and the goddamn bombs were falling. When the spirit of the British people was being severely tested. Ah, and here we go with this next bottle. Hold up your glass. Attaboy. Drink a toast. Hey bartender. Have a glass. Hey, we’re having a goddamn reunion. It must be getting to be at least five goddamn years after the end of the war. A toast to the U.S. Navy. Anchors now, goddamn away. You see, pal, someone in this city cares. To your good health, sir.”

  Max sending a second drink down to the gentleman at the other end of the long oval bar, who was staring out into space but who now smiled, raised his glass, and said, “Skol” back up at Max, who toasted him in return. Max was getting gently merry. And as he did so, attempting as one remembered from the navy, to become a comedian and insisting with a sudden English accent that the barman join us in yet another toast.

  “I say there, my good chap. It’s time off from hard work. This time a toast to my good buddies and my buddy here next to me, who served on the old Missouri. That’s right, fifty-seven thousand five hundred tons slicing through the waves at thirty-five knots. Go through a hurricane like a knife through butter. And those nine sixteen-inch guns, bam, bam, with my pal here in the turret, could hit a floating orange crate the other side of the horizon at a range of twenty-two nautical miles. Ain’t that right, ole pal.”

  “That’s right, Max, you’ve got the range perfectly.”

  “You know pal, old buddy, boozing and even the pain of a hangover floats one’s spiritual ship away from the real shit’s creek for a while. Remember that ole liberty we had ashore with that couple of great ole gals from Goucher, big old nights in that big ole mansion in Baltimore. Roast duck dinners. Champagne flowing. And the night we went with those gorgeous gals to see the play Christmas Season with Ethel Barrymore.”

  “Yeah, I remember, Max. It was New Year’s. And I kissed the girl I was with while we sat on the stairs.”

  “Boy, Steve. Yeah and you were giving her a big line you were a poet and she asked you if you were going to keep up your bantering of clichés indefinitely. But the music was playing, streamers, mistletoe. That was a good old couple of nights. Boy, I guess as for women, one man’s meat is another man’s poison and one man’s poison is another man’s meat. And like the guy announced at the neighborhood jamboree, ‘Welcome, folks. Everyone gets a feel at the community chest, provided, ha ha, you don’t keep your hands to yourself.’ Now before we pull up our own little anchor, let’s sing a song. A good old naval song.”

  “Tell your troubles to Jesus

  The Chaplain has gone over the stern

  And is floating away

  On the waves”

  Max’s eyes were glistening with tears. It was hard to imagine how someone could have become so fond of the navy and the smell of vomit from seasickness that could pervade the ship in heavy seas. And the bells and tannoy. “Now hear this.” And general quarters in the middle of one’s sleep, jumping down out of a bunk and into one’s battle gear. And reminding as could happen ashore in a barracks bunk, that if your testicles were dangling, you could leave them caught behind in the wire springs as you jumped. Of course, Max as a yeoman shifting papers, could and did wield a shipboard power that could help or hinder. And he did indeed smooth one’s life more than somewhat. And here he was, the same old pleasant friend, optimistic, smiling and peeling off bills from his wad to give the attentive bartender a tip and reminding me of my ineptitude with this girl, accusing me of practicing social small talk and sophistry.

  “Now there you go, my good man.”

  “Thank you sir. Hope we will see you again soon. Pleasure to serve you. The Biltmore ‘Men Only’ is open from eleven A.M. till midnight Monday through Friday.”

  Max peeling off further notes to pile on the astronomical check, and leaving the bartender an astronomical tip, on which I could have survived a month. Out in the lobby, Max pausing to make a general announcement to the evening clientele checking in.

  “Welcome folks, to this famed good ole hotel. And a damn good hotel it is too. They got bottles of Pol Roger in the cellar. But we drank it all. Sorry about that.”

  Max waving good-bye and clicking heels and bowing to an amused arriving lady, sweeping her way up the steps as a figure at the check-in desk turns, smiling.

  “Damn good champagne, sir.”

  “And you sir, know your champagne just as ole Winnie did.”

  Max taking up again his so-oft-sung old naval tune, his attempt at dulcet tones and phrasing fading through the somber carpeted peace of the Palm Court. His voice wasn’t that bad, but nothing like old Enrico Caruso who once upon a time at the Met was a star attraction in this town.

  “So nice to see you again, sir.”

  “Well me and my pal here are having a jolly good time in your jolly good hotel.”

  “Well sir, if I can be of any assistance at any time, may I then give you my jolly good card.”

  “Jolly good.”

  The assistant manager giving Max his card, we were now in the nicest possible way being gently encouraged out of the Biltmore. But there was no doubt that his slight affectation of being English smoothed Max’s way. Bows and scrapes to Max joyously asmile at the door as he stopped to lift up the flap of his blazer and dig into the trouser pocket of his gray flannels to pull out his ever-ready roll of bills. Steps aside to hover over the saxophone player, now rendering a work of Charles Gounod’s later years, a passage from the Petite Symphonie in B-flat Major.

  “Here we go, old maestro, ole buddy. Better I stick this for you in your breast coat pocket in case someone tries to steal it out of your little ole cup and dish you got there. Five dollars for the good music, my friend. And for your dedication shown to your chosen profession. Because along with me here is my old composer pal, who says you play that charming work with verve and distinction, rendering it in a witty manner and although I don’t know what in God’s name the hell he’s talking about, it is truly soothingly good for the spirit to hear.”

  Despite his “ole pal, buddy” behavior, one felt a strange degree of comfort to be again in Max’s company. That somehow could
dignify and add aplomb to one’s life as he chose what had to be stylish, if discreet, public places to visit in this city. And far from the atmosphere sometimes felt in the Automat, where more than a few of the customers, who trying to make a cup of coffee out of the dregs of everybody else’s cups, sat huddled over their desperate hopes to stop them fading into dying dreams. Not all in one’s life had to be doom, deprivation, and damnation. And Max encouraged one to think that despite the ending of our marriages, there still remained a purpose in our lives. To get the hell up and back out of the doldrums caused by women. And it was much rewarding to my own spirit to witness Max helping out a fellow musician. Plus, I was admitting to feeling a not-unpleasant little bit merry myself.

  “Max, I would like to say that you truly are a gentleman.”

  “Well pal, why not be kind to the wandering minstrel. We’re on our way pal, old buddy. Come on. Let’s go stop in at the old Plaza. In the Oak Room there resides some of the best elegant dignity this city’s still got to offer. And you know, despite the early inroads women have made on us, we’re going to grow up into a pair of very rich and successful guys. Hey, what am I talking about. You’re already hobnobbing with old Drusilla, ain’t yuh, boy.”

  “Max, I’m not hobnobbing with anyone.”

  “Hey boy, believe me, you could have it made. Money to burn. Get yourself some good guns over there in Mayfair. Holland and Holland, to be precise. What’s more important than shooting and fishing. Serious gentleman’s work. The two most essential pursuits in a man’s life. And you know, this composing of yours, now that I understand it a little bit, I’m all for it. I have kind of got to like in you that quality the general public refers to as an ‘artistic temperament.’ Now you take that ole guy Ludwig Beethoven’s life. Wasn’t pain, debilitation and deafness, providing the background for his best work. Like tonight good ole champagne is providing the background for our reunion evening. And we’re on our way to contribute a little something more to it. And look at this guy the saxophone player over there, down on his luck. Can’t see the notes he’s playing or a goddamn thing. Faces goddamn blackness in his life. But yet produces beautiful music.”