J. Donleavy - Schultz

Binky and his Lordship were now once more hopeful that indeed Schultz might as the afternoon ebbed provide one more good laugh before they repaired to tea. And they were both not unpleasantly instantly alarmed, not to say momentarily stunned out of their privileged minds. To have Schultz with his sunglasses hysterically removed, and with black and blue eyes blazing come charging into the chairman’s office just as they were departing for a slap up Fortnum’s repast complete with salmon sandwiches, gulls’ eggs and topped off with sacher cake and lapsang souchong.

“Hey hold it you guys.”

Schultz putting his hands up and down and through his hair which he indeed was unquestionably loosening at the roots. Binky already steamed up with suppressed laughter finally exploding as Schultz’s tongue nervously licked his lips as he regarded the dislodged strands in his palm. Plus his back now seemed to lose its straightness entirely.

“Jesus christ almighty what are you laughing about Binky.”

“Not a thing.”

“You know don’t you.”

“Know what Schultz.”

“What’s happened.”

“What’s happened Schultz.”

“I’ve got the fucking god damn clap. That’s what’s happened. The Doc this minute tells me on the phone I got all the symptoms. I’ve got a burning discharge started this afternoon like crazy.”

“Please Schultz do then please stand back a bit from his Royal Grace and I. And pray tell who did this awful thing to you.”

“I’ll tell you who. And I’m telling you too, you can’t trust nobody in this fucking world. I got it from the cunt you sent me down to visit in the hospital. She gave it to me. Posing as a vestal virgin. Where’s some notepaper. I’m making a record of this. I’m going to sue her and her mother. Come on your Lordship let me at the notepaper.”

“You know Schultz you do rather harden one.”

“Why. What the fuck’s the matter now.”

“Well you rush in here. And proceed to open personal desks, fish out personal notepaper.”

“I’m looking for some good fucking engraved notepaper you guys keep locked up. Plus I got to give Binky his shirt back.”

“But you also handle one’s personal desk furnishings without the least concern. Having just announced you’re clapped up. And not once, not even once had you exhibited or made any effort whatsoever to avoid handling Binky’s or my personal desk gewgaws.”

Binky in his undershirt, holding away from him with his pincered fingers Schultz’s bloodied garment as he on tiptoe announced.

“And Schultz, please do keep my shirt. Merely give me back my cuff links. Just pop them there on the edge of the desk. I do believe boiling them may be sufficient sterilization. Don’t you agree your Royal Grace.”

“Holy shit, you guys. Treat me like a leper now. I come from the cleanest country in the world. I mean you only got soft toilet paper in England a few years ago. And now here I am. A wonderful future ahead.”

With only

The clap

Holding me

Back

His own comb having been commandeered by Magillacurdy rushing to adjust a curl on some lady’s dog in the street, Schultz asked for a loan of his Lordship’s or Binky’s who both demurred. Especially as at that very next moment Schultz had the effrontery to attempt to also borrow a handkerchief before heading down to his taxi ordered to take him to Harley Street. Where the attractive nurse smiled welcome in the dark hall and led him with her prick stirring legs up the stairs.

“Of course Mr. Schultz it can hit that hard and that fast as you put it. The incubation period can be anywhere from two to ten days. From our previous conclusive tests it is established that you have never had gonorrhea previously. But this does unquestionably look like a particularly virulent case of clap, to use its more common appellation. It could also be a form of non specific urethritis.”

“Just cure me Doc just cure me. I really am in a hurry.”

“May I enquire if you are likely to be exposed again to the source of this present infection.”

“Doc, can you just give me something so I don’t get it again.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Schultz I can’t. You are simply going to have to refrain from sexual intercourse for a while.”

“Doc, it’s the one thing in my life I can’t do without.”

“Well Mr. Schultz let me say that that is extremely apparent. As indeed I fear you went right ahead with the intercourse which gave you your present infection without waiting for clearance from me as to your possibly being already infected.”

“Doc this girl imposed on me. And gave me this what I’ve got. I was really trying to control myself.”

“I see. Just bend a little forward. Well now let’s find a suitable spot on your buttock. Your punishment as it were is ready to be administered.”

“Holy shit, excuse my language Doc. You’re not going to shove that all the way into me are you.”

“You won’t feel a thing except a sudden deep jab or two into a very large muscle.”

“Jesus Doc I got a special aversion to that kind of pain from big needles.”

“You seem if I may say so Mr. Schultz, to take your other injuries rather well. Black eyes, and the rather deep scratches on your face. I hope I’m not maligning you. But I do believe I’ve been reading about you. You are the Mr. Schultz to whom the papers recently refer.”

“Yeah Doc. Regrettably.”

“Well the theatre must be becoming a very lively place these days.”

Schultz with his pained arse in a taxi heading south across Oxford Street. Down New Bond. Grand emporiums of auction houses. Art dealers and women’s fashions. Turn west on a sedate and grey stoned Brook Street. Grosvenor Square and its flat green park. Tall elms. The statue of an American President standing solemn in a cloak with a cane. The Embassy with its great eagle spread high over its entrance. Christ if clap has to get mentioned in the renewal of my passport. Have you at any time had a virulent venereal disease. How often. Caught it from whom. And when infected how many other people did you then give it to. Do you intend to disloyally import it into the United States. In which case can you give the names of those people who will risk exposure to you on your return home.

Down Park Lane. The dear Dorchester radiant in pink rays of sun. Late afternoon whores patrolling. Even thicker than they did when I first came to this town. And spending every cent I had, trying to live like a big time producer. Till I was broke with nowhere to live, without a penny in my pocket. Cold and hungry on a last desperate day. Standing around the corner from Piccadilly Circus in Air Street. Before I was going to deliver myself to the Embassy. For a taxpayers’ sponsored ride back to America. Kind hearted Lizzie from Limerick stepped up behind me in the shadows. Supported me for six peaceful weeks. While customers were pounding her in the next room. And I pounded her after her night’s work without even getting so much as a cold. She gave me pocket money and the least troubles I ever had from a female. Except when she made me go into a Catholic church on Sunday. To stand around freezing my balls off with a bunch of vacuous mumbling Irish.

Circling Hyde Park Corner. Wellington Statue. The great Arch. And the Artillery Memorial. The traffic in its thickening stream. Slowing bumper to bumper. At least one person in every two cars has got to buy a ticket to my show. Everybody needs entertainment. If only there was no censorship I could sell serial rights of a T.V. film of my fucking life, for a fucking fortune and retire forever from being a producer. Got to keep my mental faculties together. Stick Binky and his Lordship with the rest of the investment. And start paying off bills stacking up at the Dorchester.