J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

Hesitate a moment before smashing the hopes of another. Sally. Tiny smudge of purple on your lids. Never say you'll die. Such an expensive car. All this soft black leather. Black angel. You'll have wings. And up on top of my tomb. You'll stand as a statue. I'll put you there. A sentinel. All sad and Sally.

Dashboard's calm clock ticking after two. Air comes in warm over the engine. Swish sound as Miss Tomson uncrosses her legs. A car approaching on this strange winding road. Which straightens now round this turn through the sheets of rain. And cracking thunder. Fox and toads and woodchucks cowering everywhere. Always find time to think of little animals. Even while guiding all this horsepower.

"Smith aren't you a little on the wrong side of the road."

"I rather think not."

"I think you are. There's a car coming."

"He seems to have more than his share."

"But you're on the wrong side Smith."

"Nonsense this vehicle approaching obviously contains a road hog."

"This is my car. You're on the wrong side of the road."

"Please Miss Tomson I'm present commander of this tank. Stubborn rascal. If he thinks for one second I'm going to swerve to avoid his oncoming rush he has one vast foolish figment of his imagination to endure."

"No. George."

"Get into your own lane you wretch."

"O no."

Squeal of tires. Crumpling of steel fabric. Abrupt meeting of bumpers fenders and headlamps. Lights go out and on again. To illuminate this complicated outing. And eight cylinder concussion.

Small curly headed man ejecting himself onto the road. Falls. Slowly picking himself up, wiping the wet from his person. Raising an outstretched finger pointing as he advances in the glaring head lights and plummeting rain.

"Jesus Christ Miss Tomson, you're quite right I'm on the wrong side of the road. Let me handle this." the wrong side of the road. Let me handle "First it's my dog. Now it's my car."

"Just leave this to me Miss Tomson."

George Smith drawing a card from his wallet Handing it out through an opened inch of window to the curly headed man momentarily stopping his cascade of words bordering on vituperation. The man reading in the cloudburst.

DEAF MUTE — WATCH MY SIGNS.

"Come on mister. Hey lady, who's going to pay for die damage to my car. You were right on the wrong side of the road."

Smith handing out another card. Man holding it up in his wavering headlights.

LADY IS MUTE BUT CAN HEAR.

"Jesus Christ lady. Make him a sign language will you. Who's going to pay for the damage. What's this country coming to, guy's out on the road, can't talk, can't hear. O.K. I know it's a crying shame to be without voice and that kind of affliction but who's paying for the damage."

HAVE YOU EVER FOOLED AROUND IN THE HORSE LATITUDES.

"Hey lady, read this while I'm getting soaked, see what he's said to me. I'm going to get the cops. Let's see your license."

I WILL THRASH YOU FROM COAST TO COAST

"You don't scare me buddy. Where's your license. Yeah, that's it, how can you have one if you're afflicted. Signal him that lady. Who's going to pay for the damage. I don't want any more of these messages. Who's going to pay. Just let me get your number."

Smith emitting a long low squeal, body in animal motion, canines showing, hands flashing up stretched in claws. Curly headed man jumping back from the car. Smith switched into gear. Dousing lights. Press down on the pedal. Miss Tomson's car leaping forward. A cry behind them. Roaring off in the dark down the rainy road. In the mirror the rear red glow of lights of the crash victim.

"Smith what are you doing."

"We must flee."

"You bastard if he's got my number I'm in prison for life. Police will be looking for us. He'll come after us."

"If he tries to turn around in that road he'll be in the mud for months."

"Front of the car must be ruined. I'm scared."

"Gende dents, absolutely have them put right for you. I am sorry about this. We'll take this turning. Looks a friendly, empty road. I don't want to alarm you further Miss Tomson but I think we might best get both the car and ourselves in out of the rain."

Miss Tomson sitting eyes cast down. Hands folded quietly in her lap. Poor sorrowful girl. On a stormy night like this. Back in those days when she sat at her desk in Golf Street. Taking odd items of paper out of her drawers, which she slowly tore up. Then sat thinking hard. Until she would pick up her phone to call the hairdressers or Goliath at the kennels to whom she went woof woof, sweetie. With the marble replica of Miss Tomson on my tomb I will add Goliath on a leash. Have a little elevator to raise me up and down to view them once in awhile. Hello Sally, hi ya Goliath. Then get lowered to rest again. All automatic. Never need stir. Now she's next to me a few fabrics away. A good sport about the crash. Didn't even ask to drive. Touch her now and I will light up like electric. All so sweet heart. Pain in my chest of sadness. This car feels like driving a speed boat. I will stop in open sea and have a laugh with a perfect stranger passing in another racy craft.

"Miss Tomson, I think I'm lost."

"God."

"Think you better drive and I'll direct the way."

Smith pulling to the side of the road. Near an apple tree. Stone wall and bushes and pines. Miss Tomson sliding across. Discreet Smith, opening his door, taking one momentary look at one momentary pair of knees. Lightning brightening up the sky.

"I'll survey the damage, Miss Tomson,"

Shielding eyes against the head lamps. Feeling the front bumpers and fenders. Patting them. Backing the front tires in an off hand professional manner as one has seen Herbert the Chauffeur do.

"Miss Tomson, glad to say. Not bad fettle. Crack in the head lamp. Few dents. Obviously our adversaries car was of inferior quality."

Smith climbing back into the long vehicle. Faint dog smell of Goliath. His hairs on the floor carpet. Think of somewhere to go. Behind Miss Tomson's ear. With lips. And travel a nose into her hair. Slight sprinkle of mud on her would be more beauty than ever. To see her feet without shoes, my God. She lights a cigarette. Go down with that smoke into her lungs and lie there. Buried in her blond chest. Be her baby. Infantile though that be. Her dog shot down in warm blood, her car in collision. And she sits so calm.

"Miss Tomson before we drive off. I want to say I think you're a real sport."

"Do you."

"Yes. You could have blamed me. You had every right to do so. To lash out with words."

"Smith."

"Yes."

"You want the truth."

"Please."

"I am going to lash out."

"O."

"I'm windy about that guy we hit. He might be looking for a small source of income for life. Like dear Sir we would like to bleed you white, taking it in easy stages, so the blood lasts, you know what I mean Smith."

"I think so, Miss Tomson."

"Someone gets crosseyed trying to look in your window while you're undressing and they sue you for it."

Lips widening on Miss Tomson's jaw. A smile like the whole world is going to break down in general laughter. I die to put my mouth on hers. Touch each one of those white white teeth.

"You're not bitter Miss Tomson."

"No Smith."

"What makes you smile."

"Just thought of that newspaper report about you. I want to know, did you really fart or something on the steps of Dynamo House. Report it to the Sanitation Department, that was rich. I read it about twenty times. Sweet, a crowd gathering around to watch you. Smith you should find some nice girl marry and have kids."

Miss Tomson starting the immense engine. Any wind she made would be mystical. Not like some of the dust raisers Bonniface has sent up in his time, blowing out window panes, joining a little group known as the Musical Dynamiters. He lies when he says membership is confined to those who can backfire in morse code.