J. Donleavy - Schultz

“Jesus marriage is ruining my relationships everywhere. I got to get to know her.”

“Ah my friend I detect a note of real urgency.”

“You bet you do. I speak not only from the bottom of my heart but from the bottom of my balls.”

“Ah but dear chap, while I assure you I am not spying, one does still see an awe inspiring selection of ladies calling upon you. I am especially interested in the blond lady with the attaché case on the red bicycle.”

“You mean that obsessed lesbian with the whips.”

“Ah exactement and precisely monsieur.”

“Your Excellency feel free next time you spot that kraut knocking on my door to invite her over to your house will you.”

“Ah that is kind of you. And of course I shall. And please do understand that I appreciate more than anyone the difficulties the companionship of beautiful ladies sometimes presents to you.”

“Thanks. And you know Your Excellency you really are a pal.”

“Well we Belgravians must stick together Mr. Schultz, we really must you know.”

On the entrance steps of this great old town house two tipsy hours later, Schultz with his torn tail coat fluttering and his address book one name fuller, stood taking a breath of sweetened breeze just blown in from the cotton ball trees of Green Park. The London afternoon touched with a magic sun goldened splendour. His limousine door opening and his chauffeur saluting to admit him to the great upholstered peace of this motorised interior. Taking him purring up the late lunch time clubby hill of St. James’s. Feet propped up on the folded jump seat, to turn left on Piccadilly and right up Down Street and in and about the narrow lanes of southern Mayfair to pop him best foot forward on the front steps of the Dorchester Hotel. The doorman in his long green coat and brass bright buttons, saluting Schultz with a touch to his emerald gold braided top hat. And in the soft soothing perfumed shadows Schultz dreamily ascending blissfully by lift upwards four floors. To tread the soft swirling red, green, blue and grey carpet down the long mellow lit hall. To knock. And try to kill about five birds with no stones at all.

“O hey gee hi, Mr. Schultz, come in. Hey you’re all dressed up.”

“Messed up would be a better word. Sorry I’m late.”

“Well boy are we really glad to see you. Come on in. Having this suite is so much better for us. We got such a nice view of the park. Sit down.”

“What’s the new problem.”

This diminutive dark eyed brunette attired in thigh and arse clinging grey flannel trousers. Tight red cashmere sweater over her pneumatic bosoms. Between which rested a gold six cornered star suspended on a gold chain. As she stood perfume close to look up into this tall black curly haired producer’s pleasantly green eyes. Smiling her mouthful of large white gleaming teeth.

“It’s the old problem. The director is just not able to impose control Mr. Schultz.”

“So what else is the problem.”

“Well, if you want us to be frank.”

“Be my guest.”

“Well we think the designer’s statement in the sets is getting in the way of the lyrics. Again being frank, so is Magillacurdy. He’s in the way of everything. He’s trying to write, compose, act, sing and direct the whole show. We don’t know who he thinks he is. The whole cast is frightened to death of him. And he threw.”

“Yeah I know, the director.”

“Like a discus or something. Right out over the orchestra pit.”

“Yeah I know. Into the third row of the stalls.”

“He was unconscious for so long we thought he was dead.”

“Well kids he’s living and suing, so relax. Now what about the music for the second act. To start with it’s too adagio.”

“Mr. Schultz, we’re making good progress with a faster beat. Hey can we offer you something from room service. It really is a good room service.”

“No thanks. I know the room service is good.”

“We’re so wonderfully, wonderfully comfortable here now. It’s so nice with a real fireplace and everything.”

“So I see.”

A chiming tinkle of two bells from a silver dialed brass carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Sylvia prayerfully joining the tips of her fingers. Her crimson manicured toes curling down against the dark leather edge of her sandals. Her thighs flexing as she did a slight knee bending curtsey.

“O gee Mr. Schultz. Gosh this is kind of embarrassing. But it’s like an unbroken rule with us for really a long time and we expected you at one o’clock. Gee I don’t know how sort of to put it.”

“Put it. I’m listening.”

“Well. Gosh I can’t say it. You say it Herbie.”

“Hey, what’s wrong Sylvia, you got a voice.”

“O all right, I’ll say it. Well Mr. Schultz it’s like this. Two o’clock every day Herbie and I like to go to have a few minutes in private.”

“No probem.”

Schultz levering himself up from the blue and pink flowered upholstered armchair. The sun sending yellowing beams in the window. And below, the steady moan of traffic up and down Park Lane.

“O no. Stay. We just go in the bedroom. Gosh this is crazy. But you wouldn’t mind waiting would you. We’ll only maybe be fifteen minutes. At the outside twenty.”

“No problem.”

“After we’d like you to hear the couple of new songs we’re trying out for the second act.”

“No problem. I’m here to listen.”

“Gee Mr. Schultz that’s real understanding of you. There’s all the newspapers, and some magazines. Won’t be long. Meanwhile, really help yourself to room service.”

“Well since I’m paying for it, maybe I will.”

Schultz ordering two bottles of Alsatian beer and a plate of smoked salmon. Herbie with a sheepish wag of the head and Sylvia with a coy little smile and crooked little wave of her fingers, disappearing after Herbie in their bedroom door. Curtains billowing with a breeze blowing in from the park. I’m really having a full day. As Binky says mixing social, emotional, theatrical and now somebody else’s meditation all together. And Jesus last night in a dream someone asked me to remove out of her grave the body of an old girl friend of mine died young. Had to carry her wasted body wrapped in brown wrapping paper up a hillside to another grave. It woke me up and I had my hand squeezing on Greta’s tit and her hand on top of mine and both of us crying again. This beer, this bread is good. My hardworking father always used to say you can’t eat your inventory. So what a nice situation that I can sit here gorging salmon fumé on production expenses.

Schultz halfway down his second bottle of beer and staring out into other childhood memories as the bedroom door comes ajar. The wavy brown curly top of Sylvia’s head peeking out.

“Gee you alright Mr. Schultz, you’re not getting bored out there.”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Well gee we just thought, I mean this is entirely up to you. I mean if waiting is irksome. And if you don’t mind, we don’t mind, then you could come in here. Like maybe it would we hope be less boring.”

“You mean come in the bedroom.”

“Yeah, sure, Herbie and I don’t mind. I mean gee, that is, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure O.K. a little company helps keep the mind off big troubles.”

“Well come on in then. Bring your food.”

Schultz with his plate of smoked salmon, and sliced buttered brown bread in one hand and the neck of his beer bottle in the other. Pushing open the bedroom door with his knuckles and stopping in and momentarily reversing his tracks as an almighty involuntary fart erupted.

“O hey. Excuse me. And excuse me twice.”

“O no, it’s all right Mr. Schultz. Come right back on in. You’re really welcome. Come in. Close the door.”