J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"Mr. Smith, youVe got some eye, you're right, a note short."

"Just slide diem in this bag. Must rush."

Making sure glass was not in front of his forward motion, George Smith left the bank and turned down the elegant street recently planted with baby trees. Suddenly finding his position blocked by a fat lady, he lowered his head and ran. At the corner hailing a taxi. Giving the driver a designation to go round and round the park. Between my feet a bag of money. For some it grows on trees. Glad I've got such a big forest.

George Smith sat back on the leather, heartily sorry for various sins. One's life now mercantile might suddenly become marine. My sad unfinished tomb. With winter on the way. Still hoisting up the great blocks of marble. They lock together like a puzzle.

Yellow taxi carrying George Smith on its humming rires through the park. By bridle paths under bridges. Four young men in lipstick on top of a rock smiling. Little kids rolling a watermelon down a hill. Rowboats and water birds on the sunny lake. Lurking bodies in the bushes. Showing only a sign of a hand, a face and sometimes a more naughty thing. Each elegant back I see strolling, I think of Her Majesty. And it's just another empty face. While my hip bones ache with fear.

"Mister I'm getting nervous driving around this park. You got to give me a destination. I got to go somewhere. Too much responsibility going nowhere."

"I'll give you an address."

"Thanks a lot."

Smith taking a little black book. Peel back the pages, torn, worn and dirty. Decipher a scribble near this great letter T. For Tomson. She reared up in the dark. Shouted, you don't even know where I live. I took the address down. And since. Have been too terrified to go. Pull up my socks now. Steam south and west.

"Driver go to this address."

"On the paper."

"Yes."

"Glad to."

Down a hill under shady trees. Up to traffic lights and across the avenue. Past entrances that lead to the rapid transit. Something is wrong. I twitch and fear. Would like to have a friend. Just now and have none. At best, Bonniface is a crazy companion. The rest of my life I would stay with Miss Tomson. Near all her chill blue beauty. Threading our way through the throng of opportunists. And hand in hand take one gigantic leap together and wake up in the next world. Wearing red underwear.

"Driver stop."

At a street corner. Smith reaching through the window for an afternoon newspaper. Slipping out a coin.

"O.K. Driver, on, please."

Folding open the paper. A glance across the front page. At the bottom a picture and a headline.

ENGINEER SUES TOMB BUILDING FINANCIER OVER SOCK IN SUBWAY.

A summons was issued today against Mr. George Smith formerly of 33 Golf Street and removed to Dynamo House, Owl Street where he was traced. The victim Mr. H. Halitoid of Fartbrook claims he was the innocent recipient of a right hook to the jaw in the rapid transit while his attention was distracted with other passengers watching a rat gambol down the tracks. As he and other spectators on the Battery platform (uptown side) waited for the rodent to be electrocuted, Mr. Halitoid alleged a fist encased in a knuckle duster thundered out of space and (according to his doctors) landed on his lower mandible scattering biscuspids everywhere.

Interviewed at his bedside this morning, Mr. Halitoid declared that terror Avas rampant in this city and asked this reporter, "Are our rights to be protected or must we walk in fear outside our homes."

Mr. George Smith whose name at times has vaguely been connected with dealings in the financial district was not available at his business address nor at Merry Mansions where he resides with many other prominent citizens, and show business personalities.

The picture taken by our photographer by telephoto lens (white structure at right centre in trees) is believed to be the only picture in existence of Mr. Smith's tomb, still abuilding in Renown Cemetery. The mausoleum when finished will, it is rumoured, be the largest of its kind anywhere and will contain every modern innovation including plumbing.

At the gates of Renown Cemetery, this reporter asked Mr. Browning architect in charge of building, "If he considered Mr. Smith's tomb a new note in graveyard antics consistent with the attack asserted by Mr. Halitoid." And he replied to this reporter, "According to my experience, Mr. Smith is a rare gentleman of the old school."

"Hey mister you all right back there."

'Tes."

"Look as if you seen a ghost. You weren't that color when you got in my cab."

"It's nothing. An old characteristic of amphibians. Turn color when they get nervous for camouflage."

"You don't say. Hey just like that animal maybe they got in the museum right there we're passing, called the Thunder Reptile, brought my kid to see it. Hey that's better, the blue sunglasses give nice contrast to the green."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

Cab heading west, fagade of piers in the distance. Windows full of furs. Miss Tomson lives in a rather mixed district. Perhaps she goes to that little diner for coffee and that station for gasoline for her car. What can I say if she sees me. What are you doing in my district Smith. Who told you you could come around here. Just because I let you in bed with me, don't think you got some right to snoop around my life. Miss Tomson you said I mustn't ever leave you or let you go. You poor joker Smith, don't you see I was just making like it was a romantic night. Big deep experience. Don't take words seriously, those things were for the background atmosphere, like a soft piano on a date.

Cab slowing and stopping in front of a tall yellow building. Shooting up out of the tenements. Wrack the mind for opening statements. Miss Tomson I just happened to be passing in a cab when your address fell out of my wallet and blew up into my hand and I looked out the window and found I was there. Pardon my green color. Don't hesitate to tell me if you're busy. I'm busy. Miss Tomson after all these empty weeks let me kiss your feet. They're clean. Or even if there's a slight odoriferousness.

At the end of a long narrow lobby. An elevator. Lit-de iron chairs, with lion paws for feet. Hanging with red tassels. Smith taking off his sunglasses. No names no signs. Pressing a button to ring. Out of a door. Man buttoning up the front of a blue uniform, scratching the sweat from his brow with a white glove.

"Yeah."

"I'm enquiring after a Miss Tomson, please. I don't know the number of her apartment."

"Nobody here called Tomson."

"But this is her address. Sally Tomson."

"Ain't no Tomson."

"Are you sure"

"Look you want me to take an oath."

"She's a tall girl with gold hair.''

"This is no missing person's bureau."

"She swings her hips when she walks."

"What are you, desperate mister."

"Yes."

"Well there's nobody here by the name of Tomsoiu Or I would know."

"She's beautiful."

"Don't think I don't sympathise. I see lots of girls, beautiful ones with gold hair. After they're twenty five they're all blond or red or something."

"She used to go barefoot in the lobby here."

"Look I don't know what's bothering you mister. But this could be anybody on a health diet. Everybody's doing it. I'd be doing it, if some of the people in this building didn't think they was big shots and I was reducing the tone."

"O God."

"Look, don't be upset. Be the same if I wore sandals. I got ingrown toenails. There are two hundred people in this building. Racketeers, widows, moguls, tarzans, dentists and hat check girls who date customers on the side."

"Obviously I'm at the wrong address."

"I mean you want to look for yourself. Here's the whole renting list. Right here."

"No thanks."