Diabetic dog lost needs medication. Desperate. Please phone Butterfield 8297. Answers to the name of Julia.
Up Park Avenue. Where that pinnacled building stands down at the end of the canyon. Till a taller one comes one day to tell it to go away. Charlotte Graves. All her smiles she gave me years ago. As I thrilled her coming to her house for a date. Because no boy had ever asked her out before. And I had three girl friends already. All pure in the sight of god. At whom I had not yet shaken my fist.
Another two blocks. Blue uniformed doorman in that entrance. Digging a tooth pick in his mouth. The street number out front on the awnings. Rain thuds down. Turn left on the cement pavement. Into this panelled lobby. Mr Kelly. Sits in front of the great marble fireplace. Gazing out on the blacks and whites of the marble floor. Dreaming on his throne.
"Ah good evening Mr Peabody. It's showing signs of spring. A heavy rain the like of that washes the winter away. Won't be long now till we're scalding fried eggs on every street corner. It's up to your aunt is it."
"I beg your pardon.''
"Your aunt, Mrs Sourpuss. That's where you're going. Wouldn't that be the truth now if you were telling me no lies."
A leather chair and small desk in an alcove. Looks like where a manager sits. Kelly pulling open the elevator doors. His red moon face and balding head. Walks with a little stoop. Tilts his head to view me sideways as he pushes the expanding steel door closed.
"Funny thing. Was a murder just over the street there. The night after the fire. Hadn't your aunt Mrs Sourpuss left just a few hours before. Out to the airport for Florida. And didn't this detective come in wanting to know had I seen any suspicious characters. Unsuspicious ones would be more like it. Three bullets in his head while he was shaving. And didn't the coroner say your man cut himself as he fell with the razor. You wouldn't know when you were safe in this city not even on your own bathroom floor and that's a fact.''
Mrs Sourpuss. Smiling in a white long flowing gown. Stepping back as she opened the door. A white cowl up around her bronzed face. Smoky long lashed eyes beckoning me in. A new array of jewelry on each arm. Clanking as she takes my grey tweed coat. Pushing it on a hanger between other coats in a large closet crammed with furs. The former orange inferno now white. Icons gone. Replaced by drawings of birds. Yachting magazine on the coffee table. And a glass bowl full of the one eyed oily seeds of caviar.
"I'm mad at the moment Cornelius for anything white. And I've got this crazy urge for champagne. Have some."
From a bucket at the side of the chair Mrs Sourpuss takes a dripping bottle, a towel neatly around its neck. Filling two glasses.
''Well how's business.''
"Fine."
"Did you get a customer from across thestreet.''
"I don't think so."
"Right on the same floor as this. He was murdered. I think his wife, she has a penthouse kennel on the roof for her eight white poodles, had him rubbed out. He wasn't cold in the grave before I see her with a boyfriend sitting around drinking out of beer cans in their underwear. I have such high powered binoculars, I could count the hairs on this guy's chest. Might even be there tonight. Well how are you.''
"Fine."
"And how's Vine."
"Mr Vine is fine."
"I just paid his bill. I had my detectives check him out it was so high. You know what their report was. I can't believe it. Scrupulously honest. He must be sick. Or nuts. But not that nuts. Guess you know he has a controlling interest in a demolition and exterminating company.''
"No."
"Well he has. And nobody's got anything on him. Your Mr Vine is beyond reproach.''
''Well I think that's true.''
"Well I think it's a lot of shit. I think he must be in on something."
' ' I don't think Mr Vine deserves that remark.''
"Are you kidding. He gets the rats and bedbugs and cockroaches out of a building. Then he gets the people. Then he can knock the whole thing down. And start all over again. He's even a widower. That guy's not taking any chances. Well how are you. How are those beautiful white delicate hands. You like this carpeting I got specially to match them. You haven't even given me a hug or a kiss. I nearly got bitten by a giant rattle snake on the golf course in Florida. You might never have seen me again. Wouldn't that have made you feel a little bit sad. Go ahead, drink your champagne. I'm fishing for compliments. But you know I've got a bone to pick with you. That was your first day working for Vine. Boy I could have killed you. Did I believe the load of shit you gave me.''
''I beg your pardon."
"O I beg your pardon. The stuck up way you say that. Speak English for Christ's sake. Where did you get that accent."
"I have always spoken as I do now.''
"Bullshit. You know what I think you are. I think you're a phony."
An ashen faced Christian rising to his feet. Fists clenched, teeth locked. Air stilled in his lungs. Let people sidle up close. Let them peek in to see your all loving unblemished soul. And they scratch hatred on it. Their hallmark of being alive. In this skyscraper paradise.
"Hey what are you doing, Cornelius.''
"I'm leaving."
"For what. For what I just said.''
"Yes."
"Wow, no kidding."
"Goodbye."
"Hey come on I'm kidding. Wow. Are you sensitive.''
"You're god damn right I'm sensitive. Nobody talks to me like that."
"Well all right nobody talks to you like that. You want me to apologise. I will. You're like a firecracker."
"You're god damn right I am. I'm not one of your little rat scared shits scurrying around this town. I stand. I fight.''
"All right all right, you stand, you fight. I believe you. I'm the last person you have to prove that to. Sit down. Please. I just felt I'd been taken for a little ride. I've got feelings. Someone says they're a professional undertaker. You believe them. Then you put yourself in their hands. And boy did I put myself in your hands."
"I am. I'm an undertaker. I gave you professional attention. Even though I was just a beginner.''
"You're a beginner. Wow. With that beautiful sad face of yours, wait till you get going. Come on. Please. Sit down. I'm sorry. But you can't stand and fight over everything. Sometimes you've got to go the way of least resistance. Everybody does. And that's not so dumb neither. Come on. Hello there. Get rid of that gloom. You 're such a damn good looking kid.''
"Don't call me kid."
"Whoops. Sorry Mr Christian. I mean can I turn on some music. You know I've made strong men cry. Who thought they could push me around. Men with a lot lot more going for them than you. Not glorified doormen."
Christian turning away. His knee catching the white soft sofa cushion and knocking it to the floor. Picks it up and fires it across the piano. Mrs Sourpuss lowering the cover of the record player. A grin slowly souring on her face. A deep trembling throb of a cello. Christian out in the hall opening the closet door. Inside a light goes on. Over all these fur coats of fox, sable, mink, beaver, leopard, and maybe even chipmunk and polar bear. Pull mine out. Woven from sheep on the outer Hebrides. A long voyage back. To where a salty sea wind cleansed and curled this fibre. Bellowing down across the mountain side heathers. An energy sweet. Trembling the threads of life. Gossamer. Which wrapped you in fragile peace.
"Now wait a minute Cornelius. I like and respect you. Let's patch this up."
"Patch what up."
"Why are we fighting. I could do a lot for you. You're in a crappy funeral parlor. With all those ghouls. Let's really shape you into something.''
"Who do you think you're talking to. Nobody shapes me into anything."
"All right, all right. Nobody shapes you into anything. But what's wrong with being a vice president or something. You name it."
"Nobody buys me. And Mr Vine is not a ghoul.''
"Hey look. Let's have some caviar. Just you. Just me. And some champagne. The way they live in Europe. I got it all ready for you. As
a surprise. High brow music. Lemons. Toast in a napkin. Even went all the way over to the west side to buy some special butter. Then we get into this awful argument. Come on. Take off your coat. You're just a really independent guy. So I'll go along with it. I just don't know how to handle it. Yet. Ok now. I'm learning. Here. Come on. Look."
Mrs Sourpuss lowering to her knees and stretching forward face down on the floor. White gown aflow on the round golden hued oriental carpet. Slowly twisting her head to look upwards. At Christian. Through her parting locks of blond hair.
''Walk on me. I mean it. Go ahead.''
Cornelius staring down at the prostrate form. A priestess ready to be consecrated. To cook, scrub, screw and adore. The prick that rises now above. While she'll get cuffs across the jaw. Be good practice balancing on her cheeks. For the long tightrope walk ahead. Across my modest income.
"Hey jesus christ. Your shoes hurt. You 're heavy.''
Christian stepping down from the ice skating strengthened arse of Mrs Sourpuss. Had a foot on each solid globe. As her hands come behind her to grab me by the ankles.
"I didn't mean kill me. I just meant walk all over me. Lightly. One foot at a time. Maybe with your shoes off. And your coat."
Christian taking off his shoes. Once a dead man's. Still walking in life. And in that cold wintry mausoleum, as multimillionaire Sourpuss was lifted into his niche I thought I heard her say, there goes that old grey fart. She tugged my arm and shivered. How sad she couldn't be sad. Make her even gladder now she's got all his money. And a pair of feet to walk on her.
"That's better. That's nice too. Master. Sweet boy. Now every time I open my big mouth I'm your slave. I really mean it. I'll show you. I really will.''
Sounds drift up from the street. Honking horns. Squeals of tires. Sirens wailing along the avenues. Drone of an airplane. Can hardly hear a cello or anyone tip toeing up behind me. As I follow Mrs Sourpuss hunched over her folded hands. Back into this alabaster clarity. To the sofa. Ease me down on a pillow. She kneels at my feet. Pulls off each sock. My heels cupped in her palms.
"Whew your feet. Sorry. No your feet are terrific. Just beautiful. Long thin and delicate like your hands. Just sponge on a little champagne. Make them taste better. I'm going to eat you."
Mrs Sourpuss wrapped her lips softly around each smallest toe. The bigger ones tickle. Sucking them gently. Now licking up round my ankles. Her hands reaching to undo my belt. Close my eyes on the glare of her sparkling diamonds. Zipping down my fly. Pulling off my trousers. The crotch of this underwear intact. Sporty coloured in fact. With candy stripes. She might be able to taste. As she lowers them down. I get out of my jacket. She says, no master. Let me. Me slave. Me giveum you muchum comforts. You no move. Me squaw. And me going eat you, yum yum. You come for me at slave market. Me black too. Maybe even Polish. A lousy rotten slave. Me do what big strong wonderful chief wantum. Me eatum.
Cello throbbing. I bought a piece of fabric remnant, chocolate with yellow and red chevrons. Looked like an Indian decoration for a wigwam and hung it on the wall. Above the whorls of dust in every cranny round my floor. And near midnight listening to the radio. As a symphony faded. A soft voice murmured something about the cares and sorrows that infest the day, shall fold their tents like the Arabs and silently steal away. And perhaps their shadows go as death goes. Gathering wives loved. Gentle hearts stopped beating by bitter ones. I had a spouse. To build a life with. In the same bed through debts and worried nights. Shoulder to shoulder. Till hers battered, caved in. Left standing alone. Outside that ship's doctor's cabin. Great vessel throbbing its whistle in a mid ocean fog. The white hardness of your bony breast where I knocked. Hoping you'd let me in. To shout my blue skyed promises inside you. Come to my country I said. To the cranberries and pumpkins and fourth of July parades. Come even to the barren shores where I used to run a mile on the hard sandy soil. Across a wasteland near a little creek. Incarcerated in the navy. I was an amphibian. Off to the beaches. Sailing at break of day. To get the shit blown out of you by some armour piercing shell instead of a luscious mouth. Silver in Mrs Sourpuss's hair. Licks my knees and along my thighs. And sucks. Like a cook on our ship. A Virginian gentleman who hunted to the hounds and charcoal broiled our stolen slabs of steak. Who baked fluffy golden delicious biscuits and in the evening handed around his photographic scrapbook of undraped bodies connected to other nude bodies in an avalanche of orifice ways. The whole crew got an appetising hard on. Which cook would eat without salt one after another on his knees in the galley. According to rank. While furious bets were laid. On how many cocks the cook could gorge. Including those gulped in a second helping. The boatswain's mate counting, said the final record was twenty three or flatteringly two and a quarter fathoms of phallas. It was a happy ship. Nicely perched on the waves. Until the score keeping monstrous pricked boatswain's mate with two years of sea duty, a purple heart, one bronze and one silver star, ruptured a blood vessel in the cook's throat. And poor cook unable to take more pricks in the mouth tried to put his own down into the arse hole of some unappreciative bible toting machinist's mate who lay in the bunk below. Cook navigating through a silk embroidered aperture in his canvas hammock. The whole crew begging the machinist preacher to let the cook have his simple lubricated delight. Keep the good food coming. And the ship's drive shaft churning. While cook's throat was healing. Like Mrs Sourpuss's hand. Touches gently squeezing. Tip toe on the harp strings strung across my brain. The music it makes wakes up a balmy sunny day. At sea. Boatswain whistles blowing and anchors aweigh. My naval rank so low. I promoted myself. To admiral. With bright teeth and seafaring skin stretched tight by the salt and sun. My rigging taut like tiny little lines creeping out from Mrs Sourpuss's eyes. Sucking she sucks. On my each ovoid jewel. Her mouth now stretched round. Lips sealed tight halfway down my pole. To see me looking as she looks up. Out of twin friendly greeny blue eyed pools. Dip a finger in. And taste. Molasses sweet. Soft as song. That the Annapolis Glee Club used to sing. Bringing tears to my eyes. They must still be humming somewhere. In their white and blue. And maybe all blown. By visiting debutant mouths. Each as they were. Princesses perched on pedestals. Whose mothers would convulse with sobs. That their daughters would do such a thing. For a midshipman. Who chants.
When you find
A friend
Who is good and true
Fuck him Before
He fucks
You
11
Four pink capped bottles of champagne. Poured down with toast, lemon and caviar. While between bouts Fanny Sourpuss crawled bare arsed on the white long haired rug to her Park Avenue windows to watch with her big binoculars the bare arsed show the murderess and her boy friend were giving across the street. Through their half pulled down shade.
Christian gesticulating undraped on the coffee table. To the tempo of a French organ clock hooting the time with tuneful pipes from its gilt and gold cabinet topped by two horned goats ridden by cherubs. Tell god with prick shaking grief to be good and merciful to my own romantic Bronx. Bless all who live and die there. North across fourteen bridges and three tunnels. Under the flat tarred roofs. In the buildings zig zag with iron staired fire escapes. Stacked on the hills, brick hives of grey and brown. Packed with ginneys, micks, kikes and coons.
So friendly in bed with another human. Until Fanny with stiff nipples ashake on her breasts woke sweating and gasping. Said she had a nightmare that she was losing her hair. Turned on the light. Holding her arm up across her brow. Dark stubbles in her arm pit. And rolling over. A large mole in the middle of her back. She spoke out into the side of the pillow. Said she had five abortions. During three years she lived on the road. Taking planes when she couldn't take trains. Up and down the east coast like a yo yo. Winning at gin rummy in the club cars and for prices sky high fucking a whole gamut of guys. Every stinker she loved threw her around like an empty box of breakfast cereal. Till one day in the middle of her misery taking a cold shower she wised up. And stood on the ste
ps of the fanciest hotel in Palm Beach. The sea breeze blowing her white thin skirt against her freshly tanned legs, hair floating back over her shoulders. And a rich old son of a bitch came cruising up the curving entrance drive in his brand new saffron yellow open car. The moment he saw her he crashed into the back of a big black limozine. Smashing his cigar all over his face. She smiled at him. And that was Mister Sourpuss.
"I had his fly and wallet open in no time. And his lawyers divorcing his first wife. That twisted minded bitch had her talons sunk right into his assets and boy did she start to claw. Tried to get me arrested. Poured sugar in my gasoline tank. Painted hooker in big red letters across the back of my white sports car. Smeared dog shit all over my apartment. I bit the lobe right off her left ear and socked her one when she was pulling my hair in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. That cunt wouldn't let go. She's still suing me. Cornelius I get just so god damn miserable sometimes. Did you know that they thought they would have to cut off my tits. I told you that didn 't I. Inside me is a mother. And I 've got such beautiful tits. Don't you think.''
Fanny sat up in bed, breasts pouring forth swollen pink tipped and white. Freckles sprinkled in between. Two little rolls of fat around her belly. Asked her if she was still a slave. She said cut it out, I 've got a headache.
My own skull next morning throbbed and my knees trembled. Waking in the darkened mirrored room. Looked out the window. Air shafts and chimney pipes rising up bolted to sunless sooty walls. Grimy panes of other windows. And way down far below a cat meowed. Went stumbling nude looking for the phone. And headed dry mouthed searching for grapefruit juice instead. To moisten my tongue so it could move again. Thought I saw Glen's profile reflected in a mirror taking a bottle from a closet. As I turned down the long hallway. Lurching through a swing door at the end. To find a fat armed dark complexioned lady sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, a magazine open and half a cinnamon bun just bitten in her mouth. She knocked over her coffee as she got up and retreated. Arm raised to ward me off as if I were a dog ready to jump and bite. Her vast breasts heaving under her blue white collared uniform, her finger pointing at my private particulars as she shouted. You don't none come any nearer, you don't you.
A Fairy Tale of New York Page 10