J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"O.K."

Smith turning, tucking the string handle of his paper parcel up on his elbow. In distress open your pockets wide and spend. No reason left for the world to go on. With me in it. Go back and find Bonniface. Find Her Majesty. She had sugar cane hair falling on her shoulders in a cascade. And a snuff box cover with a little boy peeing on a rose.

A chandelier the shape of an anchor, hanging over Smith's head as he passed out through this vestibule. Walls curlicued with comb marks of some fancy plasterer. And between the two inches left between the door and a clang. A shout from the keeper inside.

"Hey mister, wait a second. Come back."

Smith peering down the lobby. Keeper pushing his cap back further on his head. Holding a pencil to his renting list.

"Does she have a dog."

"Yes."

"Was he a giant."

"Yes."

"Goliath his name."

"Yes."

"Well you want Dizzy Darling. The model. But if she's who you're looking for she still aint here."

"She said yes, yesh."

"That's her. Lived in the pent house. Sure, that's Dizzy Darling. She roller skated out this lobby one day, but never saw her with her shoes off. Always having to carry presents up, used to get flowers so you'd think there was a funeral. You never saw so many important guys after one girl. I mean excuse me. Are you her father."

"No."

"Well she's nearly gone two months. I was just thinking about Goliath a minute ago helping the janitor to put out the ashes. Used to take him for walks down there near the river for Miss Darling. You're a new friend or something. Gave you a bum steer on her name."

"Yes."

"That's her all right Guess it's the only way she can deal with guys. Least she gave you the right address. I was saying to Jake the janitor. Some guy try something with Goliath around. You read this afternoon's paper, that one you got there. Millionaires are on the rampage now slugging innocent people in the subway. Imagine a guy building a place to bury himself and he's trying to kill somebody in the tracks. It don't add up."

"No."

"You mind your own business and that isn't even enough these days. We should all have man eating dogs. Just a minute I'll look here and see if I can find a forwarding address. That was the funny thing. She comes back here one afternoon, I remember it plain. I parks her car for her, all smashed up in front and there on the back seat is Goliath's collar. I knew the collar it had gems. But no Goliath. I was going to ask her what happened only I'm not on duty next day and Sam the other doorman tells me a moving van comes and collects and that's it, mister. Nope. Don't see a forwarding address. Wait. Nope. Just to hold stuff. It's all been collected. Hey what's the matter."

"Hayfever."

"O."

"Thank you."

"Sorry you come on a wild goose chase. Can't help you further than that. Gee she was parading under another name somewhere. But that name Sally Tomson is familiar, now I think of it, anyway it's always been Dizzy Darling to me. Her rent was paid up. Here, have a piece of chewing gum."

"Thank you."

"People come and people go but the graft goes on forever. You like that. I entered it for a song contest. It lost. Used to get a big laugh out of Miss Darling. Said I had a good sense of humour. Why not, life's humourous. What do you say."

"Beep."

"Ha ha. That's some remark. See that's what I'm saying. Anytime you happen to be passing come in and have a talk."

"Thank you."

Warm debris of the street. Smith looking up into the sky at the keeling yellow structure. Right at the top is where she lived. And said cooling in my arms, a Monday two months ago that she was a weak character and didn't want to live in a dump. Look for the highest tower and maybe I'll find her. In high winds and danger. And two little shrubberies in barrels in front of her address. Run screaming away through a downpour of lavish toilet waters. Would have asked her to play tennis. Even though my first service sends up a smell of burning rubber, immediately requiring a new ball. And Dizzy Darling would stand there dumbfounded with her racket hanging out, a neat hole through the centre. Then she'd serve mine. My God, the pain. Under the hot sun on mossy green. I was just some man to come to her bed. To drive away the dolour after her dog was dead.

Smith walking west. A pile of ancient trolley tracks rusting in a lot. A warehouse. And in there they sharpen saws. Feel each little bump in this street. Somehow I've got to walk. Towards the trestle there. And the red funnel of a big ship. And that white little ticket hut. Day excursions. Trip round the island. Went out into the world from college. When I should have stayed in those high ceilinged rooms cold and safe, peeking out across the moonlit square, bare twigs and night time sky. Head against some hard wall. Crying for forgiveness. Her Majesty said I looked so innocent, such a young man who minds his business so. I've been watching you just standing there. Come with me. What were you thinking about. I gulped. Said yes Ma'am. You like to be quiet and I'm like that too. And the prospect of her room out those drab college stairs, gas mantles glowing.

Smith at the little booth bought a ticket. Onto a grey pier and deck of a green and white steamer he slowly stepped. Holding on to a rail. Dizzy Darling. She could have told me anything. Least of all her name in the other life she led. Lips all dust and grime. My false college heart attack ten days after I married Shirl. And left Her Majesty. Queen of a kingdom over which she never reigned and said I had a charming stubble on my upper lip. She stuck her tongue deep into my ear early in my life till I couldn't hear or think. By candle light I laid her, under eaves quiet and peaceful. At the morning dawn she stood before a window, her kimono open with the sallow color of her flesh. She was looking across the rooftops and twisted chimney pots at the distant purple mountains. I was young and fearful. She closed the shutters over the window, said don't cry.

Excursion steamer pulling out on the grey water. Dirty deep and sad. Sail out now with a beep to watch the city. The top of Miss Tomson's tower. Nothing will light up again tonight. Except that sign which says a casket company. Life's so humourous. As hope blows up in every face. If ever I get to the gates of heaven.

Please God

Let me

Bust in.

RETREATING lonely by a window in the Epeeist's bar of The Game Club, Smith sitting bent over a tall glass of beer. After a swim. Watching down into the twilight, the passersby collecting on opposite corners and crossing in little waves as the light went red for cars and green for men. The sound across the dimly lit interior of back slapping, clinks of ice and clambake happiness.

The excursion boat this afternoon went under lofty bridges and grime encrusted girders. By humming highways. Looking out, elbows on the boat's rails, I could spy some peaceful hideouts in the leafy green on top of hard rock cliffs. Then the afternoon grew grey. Wisps of steam and gentle smoke from tops of buildings. Fading little flags. All waving goodbye.

I tramped here from the river to The Game Club through the crosstown streets. Stopping to telegraph flowering dogwood to Goliath, cold and dead in Dog-dale Cemetery. With a note to Dizzy Darling shell see should she ever visit that grave.

This is George Smith speaking, Miss Tomson.

Asking you to get in touch. I ebb.

Then I took the relaxing routine of my afternoon swim. Undressing in a mahogany booth. My little paper parcel stapled across the top and handed to a man in the steel cage. Who looked surprised at Smith turned mushroom picker, sad eyed, staring ahead at what was left of the future. Then wrapped up in towels, I gazed at the big pointer on the weighing machine. Registering a reading so sad, to make me wonder how much it weighed alone. Send the news to Miss Tomson. And I arched over the green rippling water of the swimming pool. On the tiles I thought of all cold things, and dived. Breathed with a nose like a periscope. Used a lazy flap of overhead arm to propel myself back and forth down the pool in a blaze of foam. A few nonchalant laps of backstroke to get an even distribution of exercise. For a finale, I bulleted two lengths like a seal. To break up again through the watery surface to hear George Smith paged to the telephone. For an earful of news fearful and fantastic. Club members looking up from their poolside papers. As I hurriedly wrapped up in towels, one draped over the fact Flapping and dripping, crossed the tiles to the white talking machine under a palm. tiles to the white talking machine "George Smith here."