J. Donleavy - Wrong Information is Being Given Out at Princeton

“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.”

The doorman opening the Bentley door and with a whisk brushing the floor and with a cloth wiping the seats. Max climbing on the running board, smiling about him as people pass, admiring this machine. And ready to start the engine, turning to bow his head back to the hotel with suddenly a look of consternation overcoming his face.

“Hey, wait a second, Steve, did you see that. Goddamn. Holy good goddamn. Hey look. That son of a bitch the saxophone player. I have a good mind to take the goddamn five dollars back. Took it out of his goddamn pocket and was looking at it. Son of a bitch can see as good as you or I. Boy, if that don’t half-take the cake and make you lose your faith in people.”