J. Donleavy - A Singular Man

"I'm sorry, but it seems I'm a little short."

"Yeah."

"I can pay for one baclawa, and one lime juice."

"You had two baclawas, and two lime juice."

"I can only pay for one."

"Cash. Guys been coming in here all day trying to pass torn bills."

"I understand."

"Hey, Lucifer, come out here a second."

Two swarthy persons viewing Smith with his little box tucked under the arm. A couple of whispers. Lips dry under the lip mask. Umbrella flapping at his side.

"O.K. bud. We have fifteen cans of garbage back there, need to go on street."

Lucifer lifting up the flap of the counter. Smith following with umbrella, parcel, into a back steamy interior. On chopping boards, mounds of sliced onions, carrots split in four, and potatoes ready for hot fat. Don't fight it. Go with it. Till there's a chance to go elsewhere.

Through a door into an alley. Smith apostate, darkly noble, nostrils flared to the sweet reek. Lucifer jerking thumb towards a green shed. Up the dim narrow alley the light of the street. Distantly above, a square patch of sky. Under which I work for the first time. In foot-poundals. To lift with a hand. The satisfaction deep. The rewards are small. The smell overpowering. Taste brandy in the sweat dripping down my nose.

Lucifer standing watching. George Smith staring stiffly back. Driving him into the kitchen door with aloof chill distaste. Adjusting his lip mask. Kneeling to retie tightly each shoe. To look like one is making ready to work, instead of run.

Smith wafting his hanky, taking a scent of attar of roses up the nostrils. Wheeling out a barrel of banana skins. Raising a foot up. A push. Leave a little skating rink behind.

Smith spun around the corner. Briefly looking over a shoulder at the two hefty proprietors standing shirt sleeved in the street. After a struggle up a slippery alley. Sorry gentlemen, must rush to a board meeting. With my gavel, crystal pitcher of water and newly sharpened pencils. To announce a regrettable deficit. And avoid a woeful winding up.

Smith sitting heart thumping on a bench in the wide open space of the park. A little boy with a jumping toy on a string. Mother rocking a baby carriage ten feet away. To take him by the hand. Too near the strange man. True madam.

Room to look out. Across the harbor. Grey water chopped up by ferry and barge. Over there stands a little round fort I could use. After free refreshment. Lose one's self for a moment in fancy figments and land arse first in reality. Miss Martin mounting a machine gun in Dynamo, In the cabin in the woods, nature tells you go ahead put it in. Rest it there in softness. Off it went like a cannon. Didn't mean to pull the trigger. Bonniface in the morning paper, me in the afternoon. Both of us in a noose. Miss Martin please don't tell your mother.

Here on this little bench. You left me wretched, Sally Tomson. You left me sad. Last night on Her Majesty's balcony couldn't you see me wave. In the light breeze weeping. Her Majesty sleeping. Laughed lightly letting treasury notes slip out from fingers. Down over the city, separating away in the dark. Fell so silently. Without pomp in the crazy circumstance. I thought let urine be followed by gold.

Just

For

A

Change.

ON the corner of Eagle Street near the river, this chilly autumnal evening, Smith leaning back against a dead wall, head tilted towards a tiny luminosity decorating the night. A personal little star. Siren sounding in the distance. Tiny puffs of steam from a sewer cover in the middle of the road.

Barges and tugs melting green and red colors in the darkness. A doorman along the curb with two doggies. One maneuvering on hind legs to disgrace the gutter. Avocado green letter box lonely stuck on a pole. Where Hugo strolls from Merry Mansion to pop in the mail. Tonight he stood in the lobby fingering his nose in front of the long glass doors. Rumours rampant that Mr. and Mrs. Goldminer had turned to religion. Filling their flat for days with hammering under the supervision of Mr. Stone to erect an altar in their drawing room. Where they knelt naked, holding hands and praying. Matilda said she could smell insense in the delivery shoot.

Up the avenue. Bathed suddenly in the flood light of an apartment entrance. She comes right on the dot of eight o'clock with a smile on her face in the crisp of evening. Raising her eye brows amused. In seal skin. Alligator shoes. Where have all the animals gone.

"Hello, Miss Tomson."

"When are you going to call me Sally."

"Or Dizzy."

"That's a crazy story I'll tell you about when you're older."

"How are you Sally."

"That's better. I'm fine, Smithy. And you. You look like the international gentleman. That collar's the best sable, Smithy."

"That's the best seal."

'What's the matter, we're meeting on this corner like two clothes racks."

"You look so splendid."

"Just my image. The inner Tomson is in a sand storm, the outer one is skiing down the sunny mountain, smiling."

"Shall we bring the inner Tomson somewhere for a cocktail."

"Let's."

"What would you like, a place, dark or dazzling."

"Tell you the honest truth Smithy, for the inner Tomson I'd just like a glass of beer in some cozy joint with a booth. What have you got in that paper bag."

"Difficult to explain, Miss Tomson. I'm trying an experiment. That the human organism won't do the same daft thing twice."

"Looks like you've been mushroom picking."

Smith raising his arm. A long dark squat gleaming vehicle pulling out from the curb and coming down towards them on the avenue. With a whirring groan on its fat tires. Chauffeur stepping round, a white gloved hand opening the door. A salute for Smith.

"Wow, what's this, Smithy."

"Miss Tomson, have you met Herbert."

"Don't think so, hi."

"Please to meet you, Miss Tomson. I see your picture a lot."

"No kidding."

"I'd know you anywhere."

"I can't recognise myself. But thanks."

Dark deep capeskin interior. Smith stepping past Miss Tomson. Leaning back in the softness, hunching shoulders up in the sable collar, a left black gloved hand wrapped rightly round an apple walking stick. Tie with the three legged golden stars. Black shoes, black silk socks. Black briefcase of unfathomable facts, twice as foolish as fiction. And the onion paper copies of correspondence under the file heading, Discourteous.

"Smithy, I don't get it. Real lighthearted socks you're wearing."

"Get what Miss Tomson."

"This car. The richness is crippling. You rob a bank. These blue tinted windows."

"Can see out but can't see in."

Miss Tomson rapping a knuckle. Turning to Smith, bun of blond hair softly folded at her neck. Eyeballs still so white and laughing.

"Are you a perve, Smithy."

"I beg your pardon Miss Tomson."

"The windows are solid. This car's bullet proof."

"Absolutely ordinary vehicle. Little extra thickness here and there. The bumpers are perhaps of the heavy duty quality."

"Someone's trying to rub you out, Smithy. You need a friend. It's sad. Even a microphone."

"Must tell Herbert where to go. Hello. Herbert."

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"Go crosstown two blocks. Then left down the avenue. I'll tell you when to stop."

"Smithy, come on, why would they want to air condition a sweet guy like you."

"Bullets are the least of it, Miss Tomson. One can always deal with those. It's the insinuation and discourtesy I find weighs heavy on my spirit. I've missed you."

Miss Tomson looks out at a lighted marquee, a lobby filling with people before a performance begins. The car turns left downtown on the wide avenue. And her lips purse and open slowly.

"Surprise you I was only living a block away from Merry Mansions. Under the name of Tomson too."