J. Donleavy: Schultz

Big Al, who in juggling his many musical projects was a busy man. He especially had a large turnover of staff with whom he nevertheless frequently made good friends. Which included many of the young female temporary shorthand typists penetrating his portals. In each case fatherly making sure that they did not take the lecherous plunge into the pool of lust swum in by showbizz folk without holding Al’s hand. But Big Al when his love life was under particular pressure did make exceptions for the rare girl of unresistible beauty. And in such cases would allow her to stretch her morals in reach of a more permanent place in the glamourised world of showbizz.

“Honey, a girl like you should have the world at your feet. Please, let me put it there for you.”

Most listened avidly to Big Al, and invariably, in order to get right away started screwing their way to the top, were eager to be promptly propositioned. Which Big Al did with his carefully chosen four standard words which could easily upon acceptance be further embellished with, from behind, in front, by the mouth, ear throat or between the tonsils.

“May I enter you.”

Although pushing unflatteringly beyond middle age, Big Al was in fact with his practised musical lips, his broad shoulders, his trim athletic figure and gruff voice, a charmer. And he took rejection good naturedly when Schultz’s future wife, a stunning dark long haired beauty blushingly would not let Big Al, the celebrities’ celebrity, enter her neither by ear nose throat rear or front.

“Look I’m too old for you. Right. O.K. Right. Then I know just the right sort of guy for you honey. And I really know, baby, that you’re just going to love this guy. So you don’t mind if he’s wealthy do you. He’s also a real hard hitting go getting young impresario making it right up the ladder to the top of his profession. He’s going to be the guy wearing the laurel leaf honey.

“You mean laurel wreath.”

“Yeah honey, I mean laurel wreath.”

On the spot Big Al picked up his telephone. As Schultz’s future wife’s ears really perked up at the further mention of this suede chukka booted debonair theatre producer, scion of one of the most momentously rich textile families in the United States, who was, according to Big Al, ensconced momentarily lonely and footloose rambling around his little old town house mansion. Which happened to be nicely situated right smack bang just around one of the best corners of ambassadorially elegant Belgrave Square and was described by the estate agents leasing it, as a superb sumptuously fitted period house in immaculate order. And on his Lordship’s initial visit, Schultz stood waiting ready for a stream of superlatives.

“You know Schultz after seeing this extremely pretentious residence of yours located in this rather self conscious area, I think you are an even bigger imposter than ever.”

His Lordship having just handed Schultz a cigarette was standing at the foot of the main stairs in the imposing entrance hall, off which there was a fourteenth century panelled drawing room, dining room and library. The house, which stood elevated three floors over a basement, was full of mellow hued antiques, crystal chandeliers and for the previous three months had been pervaded by an awful stench.

“It’s no big deal, I got it on a short lease for christ’s sake. An underground river was flooding the house’s foundations with sewerage. And now the fuckers are trying to raise the rent because the County Council found the broken pipe. These are the first few fragrant days I’ve had.”

“And ah, what have you got back there Schultz, exiting down into the basement.”

His Lordship’s eye had caught amused and appreciative sight of a honey blond beauty who was slipping quietly out of the library and was now scurrying from the hall down the servants’ stairs.

“That isn’t anybody. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

“By god Schultz who was that. It looked to me like a very nice little bit of all right. You’re a crafty one aren’t you Schultz.”

His Lordship was very quickly taking a deeper interest in the dispositions of Schultz’s household. The bit of all right he had enquired after was an amply curvaceous Dutch au pair girl who having deserted her employers, had the past two weeks been cooking cleaning and submitting her body to Schultz’s not inconsiderable passions. But she had just that previous evening been given the message to vacate. And was now spending most of her time in tears. And the previous night had been locked down the basement.

“Now Schultz, what are you up to. Clearly that young lady did not appear to be at all happy.”

“Holy shit don’t remind me.”

Schultz had met the poor creature in the big modern art gallery on the Thames embankment. Having rushed there in a taxi one Sunday afternoon upon the suggestion of a playwright whose script Schultz was considering. This helpful gentleman eagerly maintaining it was where one could with the snap of a finger pick up the best fluff and crumpet on the hoof in all of London.

“I hope to christ you’re not kidding me. I’m really hard up.”

And on that particular sabbath an insanely horny Schultz ran leaping up the massive stone front steps three at a time to stride in the entrance beneath the enormous pillars and sweep through room after room ignoring these great modern masterpieces and rapidly sizing up the prospects of any unaccompanied innocent female art lover. All of whom recoiled in horror as he made his blatant shoulder tapping overtures.

“How dare you ask me if I should like to come outside for a walk. Certainly not.”

And one refined marvellously legged, tweed suited lady, as she rapidly removed herself out of Schultz’s accosting distance, made motions to call for protection of the curator. Who luckily for Schultz was absent, as indeed together with his wide artistic knowledge, this elegant gentleman also happened to be not unhandy with his fists.

“Jesus madam, there’s nothing to get upset about. I really thought you were someone else.”

It was not till Schultz was desolately leaving at closing time, having thoroughly terrorized half the gallery, that his eyes latched on to a blond slenderly buxom sandaled girl standing alone across the street in the pink afternoon sunshine with her back leaning against the flood wall along the Thames. Through screeching brakes and swerving tyres, Schultz dashed over the road.

“Pardon me baby, are you waiting for anybody.”

Some of Schultz’s brash approach to women could be attributed to his later teenage life in Brooklyn, where temporarily he lived with his Uncle Werb. When girl members of street gangs seemed to prefer being swept off their feet with a sudden tug on the blouse. Plus too, the occasional implacable rebuff Schultz received from the odd lady professionally close at hand. One of which was the gaily attractive Rebecca, Sperm Productions’ most comely secretary, whom Schultz in the nearby presence of his Lordship had with a blatant hallway overture once invited to Fortnum’s for tea.

“Schultz no one could ever accuse you of being overly romantic in your approach.”

Such was his Lordship’s opinion having on this occasion just witnessed Schultz’s stopping Rebecca in her tracks and sidestepping to block her way as she attempted to sidestep around him. But Schultz promptly replied with his eminently practical excuse.

“I’m in a god damn hurry and if there was time to waste with beautiful endearing words I’d waste it.”

And in this case of the young lady standing so marvellously slender legged in the sunshine across from this famed gallery of art, Schultz wasted not a second. Although she could barely manage to speak English, and Schultz’s Dutch was meagre, they did by instant sign language and constant toothy smiles talk long enough for Schultz to have her packed into a taxi and back in bed in Belgravia in no time. The only difficulty being the girl’s considerable hesitation in the obvious elegance of Schultz’s life, to remove her dress and reveal the sorry state of her tattered underwear. And following a long hard night of lust, Schultz caught sight of her dressing in the morning.