J. Donleavy - Schultz

“Ah now surely that’s not all I’m good for.”

“Magillacurdy I’ll give it to you straight. And you know all this yourself already. You are the biggest genius I’ve ever encountered in showbizz.”

“Ah bless you and may your years in showbizz have been legion.”

“But Jesus christ almighty Magillacurdy, never again please will you, shout out the window of a car we’re in that you’re being kidnapped.”

Magillacurdy pulling his blazing red forelock, his eyes welling with moisture. Tears slowly oozing to tumble down his pale cheeks. And go rolling over the corners of his lips dimpled in a smile.

“Ah me boyo, me boyo, me boyo. I’m conscience stricken. Contrite.”

Magillacurdy’s miner’s boots thumping across the kitchen floor. His massive arm reaching around the back of Schultz’s shoulder.

“Ah me boyo. Is it not a pity the world has no place for me. Except right at the very top.”

“And Magillacurdy do you on top of everything else, also have to be devastatingly charming.”

“Ah me worst fault that. When me charm gets the better of me. Sure no one can resist it. And I have victims all over the place.”

From up under his thick blue sweater, Magillacurdy pulling his script.

“On closer prolonged scrutiny this is the greatest load of awful shit since vanity in the theatre was invented but me boyo you’re sincere, I can see that. So I’m going to accept and take the part for your win ningly lovable sake alone. Ah but as I suspected the lyrics did just lend themselves to revisions. So make a fresh script out of this now. And after I’ve consulted with the Director, Choreographer and Composers and given the author a Welsh miner’s boot up his hole, you won’t have such a bad little show on your hands after all. Now do you have a bottle of health giving stout handy.”

With a glass of whiskey, another rib creaking hug and a resounding kiss on Schultz’s cheek, Magillacurdy danced light footed out the kitchen door. And went roaring away up the basement steps having sung four new astonishing numbers he’d written into the script.

Schultz, undressing to soak in a hot wet tub in his wet blacked out bathroom, could still hear the voice of Magillacurdy serenading down Arabesque Street. Warm water lapping at the lobes of Schultz’s ears. Silence now. Like a Saturday noonday with folk gone on their weekend ways to the country. Be sued for a big fraction of my whole show’s budget. Here I am thinking I’ve escaped from all the witch and bitch-hood of American fucked up womanhood. And right in the middle of England I walk into the worst bitch of my life. Jesus the British secret service could be creeping up on me to bounce bullets off the side of my bath.

Schultz suddenly alert sitting up in the bubbly water. A creak of floor board on the stairs and coming closer out in the hall. Schultz gripping both sides of the tub. Levering himself up half ready to crouch down again submerged behind the porcelain. One hand slipping and Schultz plunging splashing backwards bodily in the bath head under water nearly drowning. Framed in the door the female silhouette of Pricilla.

“That’s you Sigmund isn’t it.”

“Yes it’s fucking well me.”

“Why are you in the dark. Aren’t you ready yet. Well I’m asking you, aren’t you.”

“To your first question I’m in the dark because there’s no light. To the second question. No. I’m not ready. I’m fucking drowned. To your third remark in that tone of voice. I’ll get up out of this bath and knock some more of your teeth out.”

“Darling please, don’t get angry with me. I’m only asking because of the Ambassador’s party we’ve been invited to. And we’re late.”

“If I wasn’t lying down in this bath here taking a much needed rest I swear I’d clip you one right again in the fucking mouth.”

“O darling isn’t one sock in the jaw quite enough.”

“Not for you it sure enough isn’t. You got some nerve coming back here. You know don’t you you’re trying to sue me. In my own house. You and that geriatric creep Al.”

“But why should that stop us from going to the Ambassador’s party.”

“I’ll tell you something to stop us. Just tell me who the fuck other than me you’re fucking.”

“Darling that’s offensive.”

“Cut the shit. Who else are you screwing.”

“I assume you are accusing me of having slept with other men, and I emphatically have not. Besides my past is none of your business.”

“You honey have infected me with a dose of the clap.”

“How dare you. I have never had such a thing in my life.”

“You should have been a fucking actress honey. The way you play those lines.”

“How dare you.”

“You’re just beautiful. Every inflection perfect.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Hey get the fuck away from me. Or I’ll throw this soapy water all over you and that dress I paid for you’re wearing. You’re clapped up honey.”

“No one has ever spoken to me in such an insulting manner before in my entire life.”

“Get used to it honey. You’re a walking health hazard. The source of my fucking infection. Jesus I nearly said affection. Wow.”

“You foul horrible insensitive thing. I’ll have you know that the man to whom I was recently engaged was titled. And was just one among the many men who have adored and worshipped me. Even though he was an aristocrat he followed me about like a faithful dog.”

“Woof woof.”

“Be smart. Go ahead. You got your clap from one of those common trollops who appear on your doorstep.”

“I didn’t honey. I got the clap straight from you. And you better go see the doctor and get a big needle up your nice soft white arse.”

Pricilla picking up the hem of her long dress, spinning around and tiptoeing out over the sopping towels and squelching wet carpet of the half lit bathroom. Her footsteps down the stairs. Schultz wrapping in a towel. Sticking his feet in his slippers waiting dry, out in the hall. Tip toeing down. To see if Pricilla was further wrecking the house. Instead of sitting as she was in the drawing room reading a fashion magazine open across her knee.

“Hey come on you. Out. This is no fucking private club for you to sit around in. After clapping me up and going to a fucking lawyer. Suing me. With that big bullshitter Al who thinks he’s some kind of big father figure and protector of ladies in distress. Look at this place. You turned the fucking faucets on. The library is ruined. They’re trying to get me for thousands of pounds for the damage.”

“O darling, I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.”

“Yes I am. Please forgive me for whatever I’ve done.”

“Well, what the fuck did you do all these things for.”

“I don’t want to be taken for granted.”

“Holy shit. You don’t want to be taken for granted so you should then practise inhumanity on me.”

“You did damage too darling.”

“Sure I did when I was so furious out of my fucking mind over the damage you did. So what are you still sitting there all dressed up for.”

“And why are you standing there in a towel undressed.”

“Because honey soon I’m going to sit smouldering like any good producer should, right where you’re sitting, with cigars sticking out smoking all over me in my silver lamé shirt I’ve got upstairs and a gold medallion clanking on the hairs of my chest waiting for these limey British cunts to come try and get me, a red blooded American, out of this fucking house before my lease is up. So before I get back down here again. You better be gone.”

Schultz in his bedroom. Peeking out the curtains to across the street. Cars and limousines arriving at the Ambassador’s house. Unloading emissaries, envoys, proconsuls and ministers. Chauffeurs jumping out to open doors. The long radiant flowing dresses of wives and mistresses. The plenipotentiary glamour. Two butlers taking coats inside the Ambassador’s black and white marble floored hall. Jesus, what am I alive for. Instead of worrying about legal actions and fucking wasting time going to bed, I ought to bandage over the worst scratches and go over there in my sunglasses and tuxedo and mix in with some of those nice folks. And even though one’s going to feel awfully dirty and clapped up, it will be a nice little elegant normal distraction. Amid the pieces of diplomatic undiseased ass, caviar and vaults of unlimited champagne.