J. Donleavy - Schultz

“You were great. Just great. Keep up the good work kids. I love you all.”

At the Debutant’s dressing room. Schultz calling out over the heads of her bubbling bevy of admirers. The Debutant making her way through to Schultz. Between all these smart assed smoothie men about town.

“O Mr. Schultz was I alright really.”

“You were sensational, honey believe me. Sensational.”

The Debutant kissing Schultz on the cheeks as his hand headed straight down to cup around her arse, one of the most magnificent ever to go waltzing spotlighted on a London stage. And she, dear girl, threw her pelvis forward to concuss this producer upon his now famous and instantly tingling cock. Schultz at this split second of appropriate moments urgently whispering in her musky aromatic ear.

“Honey, maybe after the matinee on a pouring rainy afternoon we could together just have a little food sent in and talk about your future here in your dressing room.”

“Maybe we could, Mr. Schultz.”

“Jesus sweetie pie I could listen forever to your melodious voice.”

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

Declining all lifts and invitations in the direction of various parties, Schultz making his way back up the private stair past his box and along the shadowy passage towards the lobby. Stopping to look at a photograph of a fabled female previous star on the wall. Jesus nobody ever puts up a picture or a statue to a producer. Fuckers won’t even let me into Who’s Who.

“How dare you be just standing here, hiding. Deserting us and my mother like that. After she’s had such a terrible shock and ordeal. We’ve been waiting out front of the theatre for seventeen minutes.”

“Honey don’t you know I got to go backstage to congratulate the stars. What are you crazy or something, you don’t know about that.”

“I’m hungry. My mother’s hungry. And we want to go and eat. Now.”

“Eat. Go eat. Eat. Go get the fuck out now. Right out that way is the door. Go eat. With the hippo. I’ll order two tons of hay sent to the Savoy for her.”

“I could scratch your face. You’re hysterical and rude.”

“That’s right. Fucking right I am. After I’ve been sweating my balls off for months to see this night happen. All you and that whale can think of is to fucking eat. Then go and fucking eat.”

“I will scratch your face.”

“Like fuck you will honey.”

Pricilla lunging out. Schultz side stepping back as the claws whistled down past his cheeks. And the open palm of his left hand hooked upwards in a resounding slap on Pricilla’s face. She stands glaring. Groans. And as usual topples. And lays in a heap at my feet. Christ while there’s a distant sound of happy voices and glasses clinking in the bar. Holy shit. Blood. Trickling out of her nose. I did it now. Killed her. What the fuck did I have to go and do this for. Jesus to last in this business you got to speak with a languid voice. If somebody sees us. It will end me up again in exactly the wrong kind of publicity for the show.

Schultz dragging Pricilla by the arms along the carpet and into his private box and closing the door. This is just like a murder. How do you dispose of a body in such a blazing red dress.

“Honey if you can hear me, don’t move while I get a bucket of fresh water to throw on you.”

Schultz rushing backstage down his own little empty cul de sac corridor to his cubbyhole dressing room. Filling a fire bucket with a glass ladling water out of the basin. Stopping to examine his face in front of the mirror. In this silence. His Lordship says he has aunts living quietly in the country who have the art of slowing their lives down till they are just ticking over so that nothing ever distresses them. And me with the fuses blown in Arabesque Street, pissing and missing the toilet bowl. Drenched my box of paper handkerchiefs on the floor. That I later go to blow my nose with. And get a face full of urine. Holy christ when is there going to be a trace of contentment in my life. When this could be my moment of triumph. Of dancing on the waves. A big deal for two seconds before I’m swallowed up in the deep. Sometimes you wonder why you do it all. You know it’s because people want to always reach out and touch something that seems glamourously beyond their own lives. When they turn and maybe see you. Debonair, calm as a glacier. Gee that guy in the expensive sunglasses, he did all this. Gave us a real glittering alive magic. Yeah that’s right you fuckers. I did. Against all god damn odds let me tell you. While everybody else was just twiddling their thumbs wondering if they should fart or belch or something. I’ve been playing sudden death roulette dialling telephones. Every moment ten seconds away from disaster. Funny now how finally you don’t care if people want to come touch you on the arm for your magic. Not until they stop wanting to. Then, Jesus, all over again you want them to. Especially beautiful women. Sure, touch me. Go ahead. But unless you’re gorgeous don’t smudge the fabric. Of Sigmund Franz Schultz. Impresario par excellence. Major fucking domo of the West End. Holy jeeze I’m going loco. Looking like this at myself in the mirror. Shaking a fist and talking to myself. With a pregnant wife laid out on her arse.

Schultz abandoning his bucket and rushing back to his box with a glass of water. Cleaners now picking up the cellophane wrapping and paper cups in the empty theatre. Pricilla’s mother’s dismantled seat still sitting out in the middle of the aisle. Sound of people still drinking in the bars. Jesus, who’s this in the passage way ahead. Might have already discovered the corpse. It’s the fireman on duty.

“Well Mr. Schultz. It’s going to be a hit. I can al ways tell. By the quality of the clapping.”

“You really think so.”

“No doubt about it.”

The box deserted. Schultz drinking his glass of water. Where’s that bitch gone. Probably screaming to her mother I murdered her. O Jesus I was just beginning to feel a glow of hope. In this great theatre. The luxurious brocaded fabric on the walls. Where I could be ensconced for years doing nothing but screwing the Debutant and counting the gross. The nice embellished figures decorating the ceiling. The last of the perfume smell left by an applauding audience. The fireman says the quality of the clapping indicates a smasheroo. When Jesus I nearly hired half of it. Uncle Werb used to say, what’s cheaper than doing it yourself. Getting somebody else to do it for less. Binky and his Lordship without a single emotion just come and go. Like they’re disowning me. Before we hardly said hello. As if it were their duty to vanish. Al at least saved me from the lawyers again. While at the same time trying to dump on my doorstep the whale who nearly stopped the show. The libeled member of the cast now is with a brand new Jewish girl friend with her brand new Jewish family flurrying about them. In this world it doesn’t take people two seconds to replace each other. There always comes a time in everybody’s life when you sit on the street curb weeping because of what someone recently indecently did to you.

Schultz stepping out into the evening air. Crossing the street in front of the theatre. Looking up at the lights and signs. There it all is. Come on all you suburban cunts, come to the show. Jesus and what’s this coming. A squad car. Bell clanging roaring down the street. Screeching to a stop. Four constables jumping out slamming doors rushing into the theatre. Jesus she did it. Called the Police. The fuckers are after me already.

Schultz retreating back into the shadows of the pub doorway. Lights of the theatre switching off. Limousine coming around the corner. Chased by fans. Magillacurdy. He’s got the Debutant. Stealing her right from under my nose. And she’s not shouting out the window she’s being kidnapped. Holy christ I got to slip away down around the corner. Like a pursued culprit. Right at the moment when I just might have a success. My mind goes wild at the thought of it. A fucking armoured yacht on the Riviera. In Monte Carlo. Have on board Lady Lullabyebaby. Provisions stacked down the hold. Escape to sea without a wife and her mother dragging me down sinking. Greta, Roxana and a few other of your naked chested things could be cook and crew. Sylvia and Herbie could wait on table. Serve me just like Sylvia suggests Herbie and I could make a meat sandwich of her. White slices from the front. Dark from the rear. While between courses, Lady Lullabyebaby and I could screw into eternity amidships.