"Look."
"Yeah, mister."
"I'm sorry, but it seems I'm a little short."
"Yeah."
"I can pay for one baclawa, and one lime juice."
"You had two baclawas, and two lime juice."
"I can only pay for one."
"Cash. Guys been coming in here all day trying to pass torn bills."
"I understand."
"Hey, Lucifer, come out here a second."
Two swarthy persons viewing Smith with his little box tucked under the arm. A couple of whispers. Lips dry under the lip mask. Umbrella flapping at his side.
"O.K. bud. We have fifteen cans of garbage back there, need to go on street."
Lucifer lifting up the flap of the counter. Smith following with umbrella, parcel, into a back steamy interior. On chopping boards, mounds of sliced onions, carrots split in four, and potatoes ready for hot fat. Don't fight it. Go with it. Till there's a chance to go elsewhere.
Through a door into an alley. Smith apostate, darkly noble, nostrils flared to the sweet reek. Lucifer jerking thumb towards a green shed. Up the dim narrow alley the light of the street. Distantly above, a square patch of sky. Under which I work for the first time. In foot-poundals. To lift with a hand. The satisfaction deep. The rewards are small. The smell overpowering. Taste brandy in the sweat dripping down my nose.
Lucifer standing watching. George Smith staring stiffly back. Driving him into the kitchen door with aloof chill distaste. Adjusting his lip mask. Kneeling to retie tightly each shoe. To look like one is making ready to work, instead of run.
Smith wafting his hanky, taking a scent of attar of roses up the nostrils. Wheeling out a barrel of banana skins. Raising a foot up. A push. Leave a little skating rink behind.
Smith spun around the corner. Briefly looking over a shoulder at the two hefty proprietors standing shirt sleeved in the street. After a struggle up a slippery alley. Sorry gentlemen, must rush to a board meeting. With my gavel, crystal pitcher of water and newly sharpened pencils. To announce a regrettable deficit. And avoid a woeful winding up.
Smith sitting heart thumping on a bench in the wide open space of the park. A little boy with a jumping toy on a string. Mother rocking a baby carriage ten feet away. To take him by the hand. Too near the strange man. True madam.
Room to look out. Across the harbor. Grey water chopped up by ferry and barge. Over there stands a little round fort I could use. After free refreshment. Lose one's self for a moment in fancy figments and land arse first in reality. Miss Martin mounting a machine gun in Dynamo, In the cabin in the woods, nature tells you go ahead put it in. Rest it there in softness. Off it went like a cannon. Didn't mean to pull the trigger. Bonniface in the morning paper, me in the afternoon. Both of us in a noose. Miss Martin please don't tell your mother.
Here on this little bench. You left me wretched, Sally Tomson. You left me sad. Last night on Her Majesty's balcony couldn't you see me wave. In the light breeze weeping. Her Majesty sleeping. Laughed lightly letting treasury notes slip out from fingers. Down over the city, separating away in the dark. Fell so silently. Without pomp in the crazy circumstance. I thought let urine be followed by gold.
Just
For
A
Change.
20
ON the corner of Eagle Street near the river, this chilly autumnal evening, Smith leaning back against a dead wall, head tilted towards a tiny luminosity decorating the night. A personal little star. Siren sounding in the distance. Tiny puffs of steam from a sewer cover in the middle of the road.
Barges and tugs melting green and red colors in the darkness. A doorman along the curb with two doggies. One maneuvering on hind legs to disgrace the gutter. Avocado green letter box lonely stuck on a pole. Where Hugo strolls from Merry Mansion to pop in the mail. Tonight he stood in the lobby fingering his nose in front of the long glass doors. Rumours rampant that Mr. and Mrs. Goldminer had turned to religion. Filling their flat for days with hammering under the supervision of Mr. Stone to erect an altar in their drawing room. Where they knelt naked, holding hands and praying. Matilda said she could smell insense in the delivery shoot.
Up the avenue. Bathed suddenly in the flood light of an apartment entrance. She comes right on the dot of eight o'clock with a smile on her face in the crisp of evening. Raising her eye brows amused. In seal skin. Alligator shoes. Where have all the animals gone.
"Hello, Miss Tomson."
"When are you going to call me Sally."
"Or Dizzy."
"That's a crazy story I'll tell you about when you're older."
"How are you Sally."
"That's better. I'm fine, Smithy. And you. You look like the international gentleman. That collar's the best sable, Smithy."
"That's the best seal."
'What's the matter, we're meeting on this corner like two clothes racks."
"You look so splendid."
"Just my image. The inner Tomson is in a sand storm, the outer one is skiing down the sunny mountain, smiling."
"Shall we bring the inner Tomson somewhere for a cocktail."
"Let's."
"What would you like, a place, dark or dazzling."
"Tell you the honest truth Smithy, for the inner Tomson I'd just like a glass of beer in some cozy joint with a booth. What have you got in that paper bag."
"Difficult to explain, Miss Tomson. I'm trying an experiment. That the human organism won't do the same daft thing twice."
"Looks like you've been mushroom picking."
Smith raising his arm. A long dark squat gleaming vehicle pulling out from the curb and coming down towards them on the avenue. With a whirring groan on its fat tires. Chauffeur stepping round, a white gloved hand opening the door. A salute for Smith.
"Wow, what's this, Smithy."
"Miss Tomson, have you met Herbert."
"Don't think so, hi."
"Please to meet you, Miss Tomson. I see your picture a lot."
"No kidding."
"I'd know you anywhere."
"I can't recognise myself. But thanks."
Dark deep capeskin interior. Smith stepping past Miss Tomson. Leaning back in the softness, hunching shoulders up in the sable collar, a left black gloved hand wrapped rightly round an apple walking stick. Tie with the three legged golden stars. Black shoes, black silk socks. Black briefcase of unfathomable facts, twice as foolish as fiction. And the onion paper copies of correspondence under the file heading, Discourteous.
"Smithy, I don't get it. Real lighthearted socks you're wearing."
"Get what Miss Tomson."
"This car. The richness is crippling. You rob a bank. These blue tinted windows."
"Can see out but can't see in."
Miss Tomson rapping a knuckle. Turning to Smith, bun of blond hair softly folded at her neck. Eyeballs still so white and laughing.
"Are you a perve, Smithy."
"I beg your pardon Miss Tomson."
"The windows are solid. This car's bullet proof."
"Absolutely ordinary vehicle. Little extra thickness here and there. The bumpers are perhaps of the heavy duty quality."
"Someone's trying to rub you out, Smithy. You need a friend. It's sad. Even a microphone."
"Must tell Herbert where to go. Hello. Herbert."
"Yes, Mr. Smith."
"Go crosstown two blocks. Then left down the avenue. I'll tell you when to stop."
"Smithy, come on, why would they want to air condition a sweet guy like you."
"Bullets are the least of it, Miss Tomson. One can always deal with those. It's the insinuation and discourtesy I find weighs heavy on my spirit. I've missed you."
Miss Tomson looks out at a lighted marquee, a lobby filling with people before a performance begins. The car turns left downtown on the wide avenue. And her lips purse and open slowly.
"Surprise you I was only living a block away from Merry Mansions. Under the name of Tomson too."
"You never tri
ed to get in touch."
"Smithy, you know, things happen. It was one thing after another."
Smith slowly pulling off gloves looking at them in his hand.
"You don't believe that. All right I'll tell you. You got a wife and four kids. A certain log cabin, in a certain woods, and a certain secretary, you want me to go on. You see Smith, what you don't know about me is. I got principles. What shit, sorry about the language. This vein of talk is a sure way of ruining an evening."
"Tell me."
"If I phoned you up and said hello George, I'm expecting a baby. What do you say, Sally, that's great, but I got four already. I know you got to be a tightwad with your commitments. Don't get scared, I'm not pregnant. See what I mean, you had a real look of fear."
"Just concern."
Miss Tomson's big eyes slowly sheltered by her lids.
"Smithy. It was great strolling out in the fresh air tonight to meet you. Walking down the block. To see you there standing against the building. Just like we were kids or something meeting for a date. You've never taken me out on a date, a real date."
taken me out on a date, a real "I'll take you tonight."
"I can't. I'm giving a party. One of those after midnight things. So suicides out the window don't kill someone innocent in the street. Maybe you'd like to come. Some interesting people."
"I'd be out of place."
"Smithy, you're fishing for compliments."
Tomson leaning her hand across to take Smith's. Locking her fingers with his on the capeskin. Tender world spreads. Looking down at her ungloved hand. And a sparkling gigantic diamond.
"Don't ask me about that, Smithy."
Limozine pulling to a stop in front of yellow lighted steamy windows. Herbert giving his hand to Miss Tom-son's elbow and an eye to her knees. She stands. Awaits Smith's emerging. Smiling her loveliest of smiles. Up on her lissome legs.
"Smithy I got to laugh at you. That get up. The paper bag. The cane."
"It's a stick."
"A stick. I mean you been taking some kind of advice maybe. You know, you're so out of date that it doesn't matter."
"Thank you."
A long mahogany bar. White aproned waiter whisking shoulder high trays to booths. Schooners of beer. Heads turning as Miss Tomson pushes in the door. An unseemly whistle. And lowly mumbled remarks at this apparition of the international gentleman.
"Miss Tomson, perhaps this place is unsuitable."
"It's fine. They just want a harmless laugh. Someone appears stepping out of some drama a century ago, why not a chuckle. That's why you're so sweet Smith with all these old fashioned ideas. Take no notice, it's just a beer joint."
Waiter flourishing menus. Looking like an emperor some ridiculous century ago, with eyes staring down on Miss Tomson who lays back the glistening seal skin from her shoulders. All the blond rest of her in black silk. Waiter rubbing nose with a knuckle. Tomson flicking menu with a fingernail. Smith measuring out his best voice.
"What's for you Sally."
"Just a beer."
"Mind if I have some wiener and sauerkraut."
"Mind if I have some wiener "Feel free, Smithy."
"Beer for madam, beer, wiener and sauerkraut for me."
"If that's what you want."
"That's what we want."
Raucous laughter from along the bar. Thumps of back slapping. Little raps of whiskey glasses. A curtain of smoke. Man pulling up a trouser leg to show a scar. Another opening coat to count out notches on his belt. Flashes of merriment erupting from the calm misery.
"Smithy it was sweet of you. The dogwood. Thanks. I was in Dogdale Cemetery all by myself. Got a little white stone up. With a quotation. You know I began to see the point of your pyramid in Renown. I nearly didn't see the card, got covered in blots of mud, ink almost faded away. I saw those two last words. I broke up. I was saying hey Sally, you can't be like this over two little words. And the, this is George Smith speaking. I clutched. I could really hear you."
Miss Tomson's smile of friendly sadness. Peel a grape for her to crush twixt those teeth. She stands and the whole world turns to look. And applaud. My hand on her breast. Nipple between my teeth. A hundred telephone calls away.
"But Smithy you're not ebbing. Just need a little more fat on the face. I phoned you a couple of times last few days at Merry and at that new office. I ask for George Smith and after a few seconds a pipe and drum band fades in and some crazy song away in the highlands or something. Your wires must be crossed. Operator said she couldn't explain it. You rascal."
"Little phone difficulties recently."
"Ha well tonight just had an instinct. I was going to wash my hair in the shower. I was all undressed. I pick up the bathroom phone and dial you at Merry Mansions. And I hear, this is the tabernacle of the dark complexioned redeemer. Was that Matilda. I was about to hang up until I heard you. Black bitch. Shit. Sorry about the language. I was promising myself I wouldn't be uncharitable. Smith you busted a guy into the tracks. I couldn't believe it was you till I read about the cemetery and that last line. I laughed. Gent of the old brigade."
"School."
"That got me. My brother is getting jealous of your publicity. Wallflower Smith, the small backroom operator. Marvellous how you come out in the paper as if you were something important with your ritzy bone house. Even I was saying to somebody, I know that guy. They said you're a mystery, till I told them."
"What, Miss Tomson."
"That you're real. Guy my brother knows, Ralph, a big mouth, as if he knew you, that it was interesting how you sold out your closest friends first, double crossing distant acquaintances last. I socked him right on the jaw. He thought it was funny because he didn't feel it. So I grabbed him by the hair. Boy he started screaming. Think I had him by the balls or something. If he has any. Just a jerk in show biz said he could do something for my brother, who isn't too well recently. Too many dames and cotillions."
Waiter with steamy tray. A plate of copper colored glistening futters in a light grey sea of sauerkraut. Setting a beer before Miss Tomson and a beer and white plate before Smith, who smiling sat, socks pulled up. An arm's length away from the blue wisely lit eyes of Sally Tomson, full of sparks and narrowing strangely, full of woman. Her finger glittering with an overture to a complicated contract. Like one I agreed with Shirl. Tied together with four kids. That come tripping you up during the waltz. Go sleigh riding down the other side of life in the sixty foot winter shadows. Hoping to land in May and wallow among the daisies of July. Instead of pushing them up.
"Smithy what do you think about when your eyes go away like that. Like you belong to the committee figuring the solution to the prevention of do it yourself whipping in isolated convents."
"Ha ha."
"Give me a wiener. Please."
Smith spearing the defenceless cylinder. Lifting it dripping with sauerkraut juice to Miss Tomson's open lips. As she softly sucks it in. A flash of white teeth. For which I searched waiting in train stations, lonely seven, eight and nine o'clock at dark. Left me all these many weeks tarnished and vulnerable till the phone rang tonight. And my heart nearly exploded. Letting the seconds tick in silence listening to her voice like one two three freckles under her right eye where there used to be four. My God Miss Tomson please. Come walking back as Sally into my life. Wearing nothing but your pearls.
"Come on, what do you think of."
"Just pleased you're here chewing a wiener."
"We're kind of like old friends now. I said I'd go to your funeral. So if I ask you to my wedding will you come."
"Miss Tomson, this is a terrible conversation."
"I know. I better go."
"Don't go."
"Got to get back. Could only spare an hour anyway."
"Please."
"Why keep up a pretense. I'm going to try the wedlock. Hands in the soap suds, squeeze out the socks, wax the furniture. Gee I make a terrible liar. Only thing my hand will go into is a glove, holding a check b
ook. The guy's a dynasty. If I want an ocean liner, I whistle. Those are the facts. I keep amassing them. End up with one gigantic fiction. It's in his grandfather's will that when we march down the aisle, we got to have the guy's ashes thrown over us. I don't want some dead guy's ashes on me."
"Miss Tomson, what will you do for love."
"That's nice, the way you said that."
"What will you."
"I don't know. What I always do, cry. I'll be crying and whistling. I'll make a stinking wife and I know it. I'm taking him for his money. I told him so. Sweet thing about him is he said he was marrying me for my brains. I thought that was so rich I accepted on the spot. After he'd been begging me for six months."
"You do have brains, Miss Tomson."
"Thanks."
"You have."
"A head full of pigeons. Sometimes I tie a message on one and send it out. Like the letters you get. Dear Sir, I'll casserole you. Hardboil your jewls and use them for billiards. See. The pigeons get out, just like that last remark. Gee I don't love this guy. What good is my body to him. Or what's more important, to me. When I worked for you, it was my first honest job. And what lousy pay. Sorry I said that. But boy it was low. Even so I used to go home happy at night. No kidding. Woke up laughing. Because I had you so scared."
"I wasn't."
"You were. You used to lurk behind your door for hours thinking up something to say to me, so it would look like you were running some big enterprise and your next move was going to have consequences everywhere. But I thought you were nice too. I really felt a few times, why don't I tell this guy the truth. But if you knew I was a big time celebrity, it would have made it awkward. Only my dog was shot that night I would have fainted seeing you at Jiffy's."
"I was there by accident/'
"Gee Smithy."
"What."
"I don't know. I think about you a lot. While the rest of us are skidding around, there you are in your own little world. It's so sweet. I got to go."
"Don't."
"Why do you look so funny at me, Smithy."
"I don't want to lose you."
"Smithy, gee, you've got moistening in the eyes."
"Yes."
A Singular Man Page 26