J. Donleavy: A Singular Man

MY name is George Smith. I get up on the right side of the bed every morning because I pushed the left to the wall. I'm in business. I sleep naked between the sheets. And these days always alone unless for accidental encounters.

Barefoot in the bathroom. Standing on the warm tiles where I had the management hire an artist to make a mosaic of a turkey cock with its feathers out. Trampling this in the early morning has always made me feel unsneaky. I shave shower and dress. Use talc on my private particulars, not wanting to get it into my lungs. Where it gives a funny taste to the first morning smoke.

Matilda brings breakfast. Waddling in bubbling with her hefty good natured muscle. I hired her on the street when I dropped a paper bag with two bulbs of garlic. She came after me with it, refused reward and I asked her would she take a job. She ladles out the scrambled egg-

Looking the mail over. Shivering somewhat. This month of sleet with icicles hanging from the window sills. Take the skewer to the envelope and nip the silver point under the flap, dig through the fold and slice.

Box 0006

The Building

December 13 th

You well know which year.

George Smith Esq.

Flat 14

Merry Mansions

2 Eagle Street

Dear Sir,

Only for the moment are we saying nothing.

Yours etc,

Present Associates

Lingering over coffee to think. Ha ha. Detach this first tremor of amusing fear. Only shot through rapier like the alimentary tube, merely lurking where Smith hopes things come out all right in the end. Do not relish being accosted with knowing the year. Nine fifteen this Friday morning on the east side of town.

GEORGE Smith's slouched figure appeared out from under the orange canopy of number'Two Eagle Street. Hugo the doorman nodded. Sun out. The morning crisp with hardy sparrows chirping on this eleventh day till Christmas.

Stocky tugs dragging dark barges hoot hoot on the river. Bows a flood with yellow water dripping from the twine. In the park hard grey branches on winter trees. And kiddies with such young mommies, playing in the sand.

Smith darkly dressed and stately walking down the avenue talking to himself without moving the lips. Saying things like, show people you're in command of the situation by not saying much, don't let them get in close, keep everyone at arm's length, stop smiling kindly.

Last night at Two Eagle Street there'd been a party. Figures waltzing in as Hugo white gloved and grey uniformed ceremoniously bowed them in the glass doors. Smith had nipped up the carpeted blue stairs to the Goldminer's flat above. In the glow of a roaring fire between wilting plants George stood briefly with other guests in the subtropical apartment. A member of the party approaching in her late forties wearing a tight black dress, pearls between breasts, hair swept up in a sheen round her head and she said ten feet away pointing to Smith, I'll bet he knows a lot. Offering George her outstretched smooth hand, bracelets all up the vintage brown arm, there was a quick shake. Smith was flattered being only in the early thirties but looking older since running his own business and signing contracts. It would have been nice to ask her down to bed fifteen feet away through the ceiling.

Two miles south of Eagle Street along the river and highway past the high white walls of a hospital for humans. Further under a vast dark bridge and the Animal Medical Center, George Smith turned off the avenue of lurking doormen and down a commercial street. Left into an entrance and one flight up to a wide window overlooking the steady strange click of people and wide beetle cars bubbling by. On the corner lolly pop traffic lights tasted all day from red to green with lemon in between.

Here at number Thirty Three Golf Street George Smith rose in rage and subsided in depression. Sometimes merely tearing down the curtain as he did one afternoon having read a letter of innuendo. The person in the cigar store across the street laughing outright as he caught sight of the momentary rampant chaos. While Miss Tomson streaked in to see what the matter was. She was so new then. And Smith said, by jove a winter rascal fly of the blue bottle variety, I got it Miss Tomson, I think. As Miss Tomson nips her head in now.

"Are you all right for chewing gum, Mr. Smith."

"Yes, Miss Tomson. Are you free this evening."

'That's a Jew question Mr. Smith."

"I beg your pardon Miss Tomson."

"You should ask if I can work overtime. Or are you asking me to a nightclub."

George Smith taking his desultory fountain pen lately bought of a vending machine. Miss Tomson lifting eye brows and lids.

"I hurt your feelings, Smith."

"Not at all."

"Yes I did. God Smith. You're so vulnerable."

"Miss Tomson I'll let you know when I need the care of an institution."

"You do that."

"Can you come to my apartment with paper and pencils tonight."

"Sure."

The tall blondness of Miss Tomson's smiles. Her calves strong and long, often turning so airily this way and that, a blue neat vein trembling at the ankle bone. She would make a housewife in whose hands the dishes might melt. Face framed in the kitchen window looking out over the sink across the lawns, every exquisite strand of hair gold and priceless.

"What time, Mr. Smith."

"Seven. I'm leaving at four for an early workout at the club."

"How's the condition. Learn to fight yet."

"I can handle myself Miss Tomson. Would you put this letter in the file."

"Hey, this is good. They're not saying anything. Yet. Pretty good approach."

Smith watching this tall creature go out beyond the frosted glass. No muscles in her arms at all. Holding the letter and triggering off her index finger rapping it three times, she said it was a test for the quality of die paper. Her underlying nature changed daily. The first time I saw her strut into the office a little chilled and blue at the neck in a collarless black slim coat, dressed for spring. She carried a newspaper and with that finger stood in front of my desk pointing it out to me.

"Are you Air. Smith put this ad in."

"Yes."

"I want the job."

"Won't you sit down."

"Sure."

"Well Miss-"

"Tomson. Sally Tomson."

"Miss Tomson I suppose you do all the usual things."

"I can type. And I can work. Hard, too. Even though I come from the South. I've got a brother who's a socialite. His picture gets in the paper if that's a help. I can do what you want me to do. With reservations, of course."

"Of course."

"This pay isn't bad. I'd only do this work for this pay."

"I see."

"Do you want me."

"You're the first applicant I've seen."

"Do you want me."

"Can I have some time to think it over."

"Sure, I'll go outside for a minute."

"Look Miss Tomson, before you do, would you mind just answering me one question."

"Sure, shoot."

"If I were to hire you, is the behaviour I'm seeing now the natural, everyday behaviour I can expect to get from you here in the office."

"It'll vary. But I'll be an office girl. Whatever you hire me for."

"All right, no need to go outside for a minute. You're hired. I think you're a sympathetic person."

'Don't get me wrong, I'm easy come easy go. But."

And that morning Smith regathering the voice which had been swallowed down following the guilty quiver, bringing it back up the dry throat with a clearing noise.

"Start Monday. Ten to five. I don't like to rush the day. Hour for lunch. Your desk is the one outside the door. And I'll introduce you to Miss Martin. Don't mind my asking do you, are those fingernails real."