J. Donleavy - Schultz

Aromatic mouth watering smells in the door of Sperm Productions. The Italian chef and his assistant scurrying around his Lordship and Binky seated at table. Binky lifting a glass of wine to his lips.

“Ah, Schultz, just the man we want to see. Take a pew. Help us knock back a little late lunch. Mario’s specialty, oeuf mollet au ragout fin. His Royal Grace and I are engaged in a last minute discussion of honeymoon plans and how one might avoid those traditionally embarrassing bed chamber wretched first moments of laying hand to one’s dear brand new little wife trembling so with her schoolgirl modesty. Mario, do pop down another place for our loyal felow director, Mr. Schultz.”

“Of course sir.”

“I got calls to make.”

“Dear me, always business Schultz. Never a moment to relax.”

“Jesus we were all just relaxing. A whole weekend nonstop.”

“Ah but do tell us how did your little meeting with Gayboy go, Schultz.”

“That fucking cunt. Wanted thirty three and a third per cent increase in rent and five in gross. But naturellement I’m tough. I want my price. It was a battle of nerves. He was having a shit fit screaming and squirming as I stood right up and walked out. And he calls me back. Like the nice guy I suddenly decided to be I agreed to let him make a little artistic contribution to the show and to cast his gorgeous girl friend in the chorus. And in the end all he got was fifteen extra per cent on the rent and two on the gross.”

“Schultz.”

“And what can I do for you your Lordship.”

“Schultz, my god.”

“What’s the matter.”

“You’ve been had Schultz.”

“What the fuck do you mean.”

“Schultz, while you’ve been gone we have learned that as recently as three o’clock yesterday afternoon Gayboy who didn’t think you had any money, was offering another production a third reduction in rent and no gross at all.”

“I don’t believe it. Is that true Binky. This is another joke. I had Gayboy on his knees begging for mercy. Beaten. Hey sit down your Lordship, don’t go laughing around the room like that.”

“O my god Schultz, O my god, you take the fucking cake, you really do.”

“Hey Binky stop him, he’s going to hurt his stomach.”

“O dear, Schultz while his Royal Grace is indisposed with laughter, you ought to pay attention to the more gastronomic matters at hand.”

Mario’s assistant nearly toppling a tray as his hunched over Lordship lurched helplessly holding his belly, to struggle to stand straight again as Rebecca stood at the door, her neat shapely fist knocking.

“Mr. Schultz there’s an urgent call for you on Lord Nectarine’s private line.”

“And Schultz, how many times have I told you. Not to use my line.”

“You guys tie up this joint, what am I supposed to do. Your weddings, appointments with tailors, shooting parties, races. Jesus christ excuse me.”

“Schultz, I want to fervently urge you not to be long. Or you’ll miss Mario’s triumphant soufflé aux fruits de la passion.”

“I shouldn’t miss a deal. That’s what I shouldn’t miss.”

Schultz rushing into the hall. With a crash. Tripping over two shotgun cases parked against the wall. A renewed roar of his Lordship’s laughter. Rebecca helping Schultz up, and holding open his Lordship’s door, her hand lowering suddenly to stay Mr. Schultz on the arm.”

“Mr. Schultz, be prepared, I think it’s rather bad news.”

“What, I could have bad news. That’ll be a big novelty all of a sudden. But thanks. I appreciate your warning.”

Mario the chef pouring brandy and cutting cigars, his assistant brewing coffee. A moment of golden sunlight in the windows fading. Sky darkening and a roll of thunder. Schultz slowly entering the chairman’s office. His head shaking back and forth. Binky holding out his cigar between his lips as Mario flourishes a flame to it.

“Schultz, whatever is the trouble, you’re wearing your most quizzical frown.”

“You won’t believe it. I don’t believe it. I simply don’t believe it.”

“What don’t you believe Schultz.”

“It’s like suddenly there’s nothing anymore you can have faith in. Like England. Something solid. Hear that. Just listen. The newspaper guys down in the street are shouting it out. One of the most prestigious firms in this country. Suddenly. Has gone bust. And my biggest investor involved with them is pulling every penny he’s got out of the show. I feel sick.”

“Pour Mr. Schultz a large brandy Mario.”

“Everything was coming together. And now. In a fraction of a second all that was rosy, promising and wonderful suddenly becomes insane, disastrous and horrifying. I got to pay wages at the end of the week. Astronomical bills at the Dorchester. Where on top of their laundry, long distance phone calls and dry cleaning, they want sitting rooms. Jesus. And what a mistake I’m making telling you guys. Look at you. You’re grinning. Like vultures who are going to descend any second on what’s left of my bones.”

“Schultz you always accuse one with that unflattering description.”

“Sure I do. You’ve got me at your mercy. Haven’t you. You’re going to squeeze me out. You’re going to ruin me.”

“But of course we are, Schultz. Whatever did you expect. Don’t you want us to finance you one hundred per cent.”

“And make me just an employee. Hey your Lordship you wouldn’t when my defences are down do this to me would you.”

“Ah Schultz, my dear Schultz, in mitigation it must be admitted you have for a long time now made the best of bad situations. Which however has always made them worse.”

“Hey come on. You got to leave me with control of the show your Lordship. A few unpredicted circumstances out of the fucking wild blue yonder have tripped me up for a moment when usually I’m ready for anything that can happen.”

“Schultz if I may say so, having just heard you trample my shotguns, I’ve come to the conclusion that you are so meticulous at being absolutely ready for anything that when the obvious happens, as it invariably does, that you’re not ready. And what’s that you’re mumbling Schultz.”

“Your Lordship I’m mumbling a sentimental little poem.”

Do not shit

While you’re

Shitting

Do not go blind

While you’re going

Blind

A Belgravia morning sky bright breezy blue outside. Greta brushing Schultz’s shoulders down as he stood morning suited in front of the mirror adjusting his formal grey tie in the front hall of number four Arabesque Street. And popping on and off his distinctly flattering grey topper. The phone ringing.

“Hello.”

“Jesus you’re a fine one.”

“It’s not you Al.”

“Yeah. Me. Al.”

“Holy christ not now, Al, not now. I’m this second about to go out my door to his Lordship’s wedding.”

“It should be your wedding.”

“Al for christ’s sake, here I am, the day’s sunny, I’m all dressed up in a hurry to take a few minutes off to go to do something that might be a nice experience for a change.”

“So you want a nice experience. Thanks for the one I stepped into where you puked over the whole back of the car and me and my guests had to use a taxi. But never mind that it took a three hundred quid new upholstery job to get rid of the smell.”

“It’s your capitalist way of life, Al, a socialist wouldn’t have to worry about such things.”

“Wise guy you wouldn’t find it so politically funny if it was your automobile.”

“Look Al I’m sorry. Who could control a dinner in my stomach after what I was confronted with in that trap.”

“It was my birthday party.”