J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

Smith with sad reflective eyes. Outside the bark of a fox in the wood. Miss Martin picking up the dishes. Brings them to the sink in the kitchen. Runs the water. Break her long fingernails. Peace. Dark. An evening chill. Another log on the fire. Smell the orange glow and woody fume.

"Miss Martin, let me help with the dishes."

"No Mr. Smith. Just sit and be comfortable."

Smith reclining. Placing the wicker chair near the fire. Reaching behind the bottles. Taking a long cigar from the humidor. Lighting up. Blow a cloud of whiteness out. Flick off the electric light. Moths from everywhere. Bumping the screens. Light is hope. And everyone is after hope. And away from the sad desperation. To become grasping hearts after emoluments. Riches, trusting nothing else. Bonnif ace sold his shoes.

Bedtime hour. In the woods. Miss Martin came shyly out of the kitchen. Paused looking over the reflective Smith puffing on his cigar. Smith rising.

"Miss Martin, do sit"

"It's late, Mr. Smith, isn't it. Perhaps I'd better make up the beds. Are there sheets/'

"In the bathroom cupboard. But you shouldn't. I'll do that."

"No Mr. Smith I'll do it. I'd like to."

Smith took a little smoke down into the lungs. Let it pause there a few seconds. Purifies the blood. The trembletude and strain sleeping alone. Need something to hold on to. A life preserver in this big sea. Two white breasts. Miss Tomson, I thought of you yesterday. That you were stepping from one nightspot to another. In giant strides. With a group of friends.

At George Smith's shoulder. The bent figure of Miss Martin making the bed. Tucking in the sheets tightly. Popping on the clean pillow cases. When she bends over. Calm these hairy hands. Please glow little light of hope. Everyone is trying to blow you out. Save Miss Martin. Might blow you out myself. Walking down the street smoking a cigar of dynamite.

Smith looking over his shoulder at the backside of Miss Martin. Puffs out a cloud of smoke, descending in a ring round her bottom. Target of two globes. Wave the smoke away. Miss Martin straightening and turning around. Looks at Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith nods. Smiles.

"Don't want to smell you up with smoke Miss Martin."

Miss Martin standing still in the shadows. Fire light across her face. Lashes close once over her eyes. God gave her good lips. Upper resting quietly on the lower. Freckles. Friendly one on the tip of the nose. Fox bark. Little tremor of Miss Martin's.

"Can I get you anything, Mr. Smith."

"No thank you Miss Martin. I'll just sit by the fire here and finish my smoke."

"Well I guess I better-"

"Miss Martin."

"Yes."

"Miss Martin I don't want you to feel uncomfortable."

"I'm really fine Mr. Smith. I have to get used to the silence. And sound of I guess animals out in the dark."

"Thank you for washing the dishes."

"Goodnight, Mr. Smith."

"Goodnight, Miss Martin. Sleep tight/'

Smith crossing legs. Taking in a deep breath of air. Quietly stirring up to the book cabinet. Ladling out a glass of brandy. Back to the chair. Cross the legs. Taste the tobacco leaves and the sweet stinging grape. Miss Martin's door closes. Hear her light switch on. Bonni-face tomorrow on the train. Some terrible tale. Disaster on the high seas. Blows on the back of the neck suffered abroad. Escape to the land of opportunity. I met Bonni-f ace. First one night in a suburb of the university town. Where he resided with his pregnant wife with large beautiful teeth in a big beautiful mouth. We had spinach and poached egg. Toast and tea. His landlords were gentle people who showered their tenant with turf fires, much hot water for baths and first use of the daily newspaper. Bonniface was a stickler for justice and fair play. And he raised his rent accordingly as the landlords heaped presents and services upon him. I tripped down the front stairs that first evening and was laid out on the couch in the landlords' parlour. Coming to, I viewed the strange smiling face of Bonniface looking down. God forgive those incorrigibly strange of spirit.

George Smith. Chin on chest. Eyes sad. Night chilly. Low moon making shadows in the trees. Hoot of owls. Out here the black snakes. And the tan and red and poisonous land. Ready to slide over the pillow and wrap round the neck. Come up from under the house. Miss Martin to bed without a qualm. In that licking lashing fire flame. Miss Tomson. That great lollypop of a girl. Bite her, wherever she is, with a friendly pair of steak hardened jaws.

Smith locking latches on doors and windows. Turning off the faint music on the vast radio. The light out under Miss Martin's door. Sitting on the edge of the bunk, unlace the shoes, tug off the black socks. Miss Martin won't mind if I sleep without a garment. Be up before her in the morning. Thrill her with the smell of coffee. Tomorrow newborn. Leave today behind. And my footprints in blood. From Owl Street to this cabin far away. Running Without underwear Hiding without Shame.Rich Without reason Rotten without Rhyme.

The country darkness. The quiet azure peace. Smith putting his head on the pillow of lavender scented linen. Shutting the eyes. An elbow up over the ears. Digging the ankle and toes down slowly to the bottom to feel it free of animals. Miss Martin knows now in her own bed I only wanted company. Longer lived than shenanigans. Although when the smoke ring settled over that part of her it became a desperate moment. The look in her eyes when she looked, so silent and still. All the cash registers of the world ringing at once.

Eyelids down. Heart gently ticking over. Night marauders moving over leaves. Dream of a snowy tundra. Over which a man approaches speaking one hundred and five languages. He said the last five were nearly impossible to master. Then a nun ice skated by. ShirL Taken up the religious life. Miss Tomson stood, a big stately bitch. And said as she held out each ripe breast, you want a nice delicious peach buster. And laughed, her great white teeth breaking out just like sun after rain. I said hush they'll hear. She said when will we ever be on farting terms together Smith. My name echoed all over the valley. Turning into screams. A bang of a door. The pound of bare feet across the floor.

"Mr. Smith, O God, Mr. Smith."

Smith rearing up out of a dream of many hands of personal oppressors pulling on the hair as one attempted to dig up stakes to take off for the tundra. Miss Martin center cabin floor, wrapped and twisting in the trailing bedspread, shoulders atremble staring down round her in the dimness.

"Mr. Smith it dropped off the ceiling. Right on me. I felt it. A spider. It's stuck to the bedspread. O God get it away. Big horrible thing."

Fieldmarshal Smith up out of the covers. Naked to the rescue. Spider a great hairy thick legged thing on the floor. Big as a hand. Rearing back on the hind legs. Two front claws held up.

"Kill it for God's sake Mr. Smith kill it."

"I'll get a shovel."

"Don't leave me here with it."

"Easy now, Miss Martin."

"O God God."

"Throw the bedspread over it."

"I've nothing on."

"You must. It's our only hope."

Spider retreating back into a dappled ray of moonlight as George approached holding up the bedspread. Miss Martin huddled bending, arms over breasts and pubes in the shadows. Smith, private parts jangling, in this present rodeo. Rolling up the spider in the cloth. Sneaking a gentlemanly look at the figure of Miss Martin. Taking this insectivore to the door. Throwing the lot out into the night. Miss Martin shyly trembling by the telephone. Smith locking the screen.

"This is most awkward Miss Martin."

"Mr. Smith I'm terrified to go back into that bedroom."

George advancing upon Miss Martin. As she stood naked and alone. In need of comfort. Shook out of her wits by the hairy ten legged crawling creature. Feet bottoms dusty. If the phone rings now, one rip and it's out of the house altogether. Bump bump bump, hearts thumping. Droplet of sweat on the brow. Comes dripping off the tip of the nose. Lick it in between the lips. Touch of a hand on Miss Martin's shoulder. This is no mop closet.