J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

Smith stepping out of the cabin. Sweet warm green smells. As the car ordered from Brandy, merchant of death, drove into the clearing of trees. Staring dumbfounded. Approaching the two dark figures in black top hats. Consternation.

"Look here, is this the car from Mr. Brandy/1

"Yes sir."

"I did not order a hearse."

"Look Mister Smith, here, here's the card the lad brought over to the garage. See for yourself. What it says."One Hearse, George Smith, The cabin, take left fork on the trail at end of Layabout Lane, Worrisome River Rapids.

"I'm meeting a guest. This is most awkward. I'm late already."

'We're sorry Mr. Smith. But that's the message."

Smith leading Miss Martin out under the trees. To take the seat next to the driver. Smith sitting behind on one side of the casket rest, extra man on the other. Immobility of face. Disposal of the dead. Fear of ghouls. Bound for Cinder Town. Gazeters, Shirl, Mr. Stone, Miss Tomson, Goldminers, Prepsters. Line the road. Bless the one horse saloons. The roar of trains. Iron wheels thundering on the rails. Women when they lay down for love get a present forever. Thank you spider.

Long gleaming hearse. Passing out of Layabout Lane. Dragging a few stray tree branches. With the unmerry mumchance passengers. Down the hardtop road. Between the softly rolling hills. Through a shady village past a general store and rambling houses of old inhabitants. Grey women on the porches. Tickling flowers on the edges of lawns. Smith's features an uncomplicated cast. Traffic never stops even when you're dead.

Cinder Village. Past the establishment of Mr. Brandy occupying a grassy fork in the road with a new neon sign. Further in the town, a square of old trees. The library. Drugstore. Houses of prominent citizens. Open high doors of the volunteer fire station. Rocking chairs on the porches. Hearse stopping for gas and oil. Down the little hill. To the cedar canopy over the tracks. A waiting room. Meeting a casket arriving on the train. One awful ghost.

"O.K., driver, wait here. Come Miss Martin.

Smith climbing down from hearse amid stares. Saloon across the road. Sun hot and shining. And no Bonniface. Ask the station attendant. Nope. Can't say I did. Wait a minute now you mention, saw a guy with a brown cardboard suitcase, all busted. About half hour ago. He took out a comb, leaning against that post playing some kind of music with a piece of paper. Thought he was taking a breather from the state institution. The song he was singing. Wearing a pair of crazy canvas boots, open down the front. Some song.

I was

Tested for the

Institution

And was crazy

Enough

To pass.

We thought the guy was nuts. A friend of yours? We were going to call the cops but he was gone all of a sudden. Left an envelope. On the window sill of the office. Are you from the institution.

"No."

"Letter addressed to George Smith."

"That's me."

"You George Smith."

"Yes."

"I'll get your letter."

Smith standing in the shade of the platform. Miss Martin next to a cart. Mr. Brandy's consorts whispering, leaning against the engine of the car. And through a loop hole in a green iron pillar, men lined up in the saloon across the street peering out the window. Silent hostile looks. From between the cardboard bathing beauty slugging beer. Hot shiny tracks down there on top of the pee sprinkled stones. Wintertime little boys stick tongues on the rails and they get stuck and the train comes and lops off their heads.

"Here's the letter. Ain't being nosey. But you the Smith. The George Smith. Paper's been full of."

"Lots of Smiths. Great many Georges."

"You sure look familiar."

"Bye bye."

Smith taking Miss Martin by the arm. By a soft touch inside her softer elbow. Moving her down the platform. All eyes. On a bench across the tracks. Two workmen. Glaring. With short legs, short arms. All one did was to arrive in a hearse. To meet an ancient friend. Who came to my college room for tea. And munched hard boiled eggs at various embassies during those golden years abroad. Full of happy research into the future troubles trembling we knew were brewing. We married young beautiful wives. Stepped into the exciting garden for croquet. And got promptly slammed about the head and ears.

11:30

Platform

Cinder Village

My Dear George,

I am most terribly sorry not to have waited for you longer. But I am in an acute state of distress. However, on the train I met a most friendly person who has helped me. And has kindly availed me of his house so that I may at least rest up for a few days before proceeding further. God knows where.

He asks me to enclose this letter to you. I can be reached through him. I hope I have not inconvenienced you in any way. And that the things I hear about you are totally untrue. I would be grateful for a loan. Nudum pactum.

Godly blessings

Upon you

In your fear.

BONNIFACEP.S. I have one woeful case of hayfever with which Ican hardly breathe and can hardly see at all. Alsoa slight case of shingles as well as blistered feet.C.CB.C

Smith opening the next letter. A hooked finger ripping open the flap. As uncontrollable phrases pass through the mind. Dear Sir, we will be interested in viewing your residue what's left of you.

Pomfret Manor

Cinder Village

Dear Mr. Smith,

May I make so bold as to address you? I feel I know you as an old acquaintance through your friend Mr. Cedric Calvin Bonnif ace Clementine who told me much of you on our enjoyable ride together on the train. It seems we too live in your neck of the woods, although this may be news to you. But briefly let me come to the point. My wife and I would most assuredly be proud to have you among our guests this weekend, tonight 6:30 onwards. It would be a real privilege. No jamboree but we hope it'll be fun. Any of your friends are welcome too.

Cordially,

John Jiffy Jr.P.S. Since writing this on the train, Mr. Clementine informs me he has missed you, and I have taken the liberty of inviting him over. Perhaps you will join us for a few drinks.

JJJ.

Stare at these three capital letters. Consecutive and cold. Cast off this casual coincidence. One J for junior. Or jolt. The last and third for jamboree.

The afternoon. Blew up. In sky high beauty. Smith in the face of friendless village eyes. Commandeered the hearse from station to the self service store. Traffic made way. Miss Martin in the acreage of foodstuffs, filling a wire gocart with frankfurters, peanut butter, jars of olives, sauerkraut, vitamin reinforced bread and one little glass of pineapple cheese spread. Mr. Brandy's cohorts lifting the provisions out to the hearse. Together with forty five bottles of wine and spirits. Not to mention the ice cold beer and four avacadoes. People whispering on the sidewalk under the old elm trees. Smith wagging a finger at an old lady. Naughty. Whole kit and kaboodle in the death wagon. Trundling off to a picnic ground seven miles north of Cinder Village.

Smith and Miss Martin sitting away by themselves in the deeper grass. Cohorts at a rustic table downing cannisters of beer. Little babbling brook. Flowing down between two steep wooded hills. Green peace. On this afternoon. A swish of snake cruising through the grass. Black long reptile disappearing in an array of picnic garbage. Pulling the zip down on the back of Miss Martin's grey dress. Feel the side of her lonely tit. You're like a little dog. Wagging and nuzzling. The many miles of trees and trees. Cool wind. Old music. Years of love cooped up in the heart. To spill several drops today. On Miss Martin's throat. Under her brown hair. In the deserted picnic ground. She little knows. All I think. Fuzz of hair over her back. Of all the times I tried with fist thumping, brain spinning to wind some cocoon. Safe from hands reaching to take the precious away. She said would you ever marry me. Be mine. And she broke and wept. With the married man. Little girl, hello. Gift of trust you wear in your eyes. While it shines I'll take care of you.