Gilbert Sorrentino - Aberration of Starlight

He was pleased with himself. The idea of leaving the tobacco pouch was absolutely the cat’s meow! There was no question that John McGrath had beaten him, but the game wasn’t over, not by a long shot. Still, the scene had been upsetting to him, because he didn’t expect anything like it. Oh, he’d thought that the old bastard would bawl Marie out, sure, and he’d expected a lot of hard looks and a lot of frost for the next week, but never in a million years anything like that flashlight — and that godawful yelling! Christ almighty. The man was unpredictable, that was certain, sour old paddy. Tom was annoyed that he’d lost the chance to get Marie alone one more time, maybe way out in the fields somewhere, or in his coo-pay. Somewhere. It was a dead cinch that he’d have plowed her good and proper with just a little trouble, just a few don’ts — he could hear her now — a few blushes and sighs. But he would have done it, if he didn’t know a damn thing else he knew dames, and Marie was ripe for picking. Even Saturday night — if she’d had just one more Tom Collins … No use crying over spilt milk.

But there had been no percentage in staying on. The atmosphere was so strained that he wouldn’t even have been able to ask her anywhere with other people along, let alone by herself. The old man had humiliated her in front of all the boarders and the proof that she was innocent of doing anything wrong rested right on her. And the next day, Sunday, when she’d spent the whole day avoiding him — and everybody else, for that matter — well, that was the handwriting on the wall, big as life, brother. His letter to her was just right, just exactly what the doctor ordered, and how nicely he had said he loved her without saying that he loved her. Beautiful! Slipping it under the door — that was nice too. They did it in some movie, and a goddamn swell idea too. So now, the next step, the good old tobacco pouch, left right on the sideboard where somebody would find it, somebody had probably found it already. The beautiful feature of it was that it didn’t matter a good goddamn who found it, it would be found, it would be there — nobody would throw it away. And somebody would have to do something about it. It was like a business letter. He remembered Cliff Tengelsen, years ago, when he’d been as green as grass, giving him that tip. “If you got a minute to write a letter about some beef, write it, kid. They can yes you to death on the phone, but no businessman ever just throws a letter away. He’s got to answer the damn thing some way, and if he don’t, well, you write him another one reminding him of the first one. You get right under his goddamn skin.” Well, the pouch was right there, he was the only one who smoked a pipe, even that clown Dave Warren would know it was his.

So when Tom got back to the city, he waited a day, then dropped a line to Marie. Christ, what a masterpiece, if he did say so himself. Better than the first one. Taking into consideration that she’d probably show it to the old man, or even that the old son of a bitch would get the letter first and open it — he wouldn’t put a damn thing past him! — he’d written a letter that was as pure as the driven goddamn snow. Christ knows, he wasn’t a crackerjack salesman all those years for nothing, hell no. A perfect pitch, nice and easy, take your time.

Dear Marie,

Sorry to disturb you, turning up like a bad penny after saying goodbye to all of you just a few days ago. But when I got back to the old grind here I realized that I must have left my old leather tobacco pouch up there. God knows it’s old and seen better days but it’s my favorite pouch and I’ve grown attached to it. I might have left it on the bureau in my room and I’d really be thankful if you’d ask Mrs. Stellkamp about it. Or maybe even in the dining room or on the porch. I was in such a rush when I left I’m lucky I didn’t forget my head.

Anyhow if you find it, would you do me a favor and hold onto it for me and bring it back to the city with you. I don’t want to put you to all the trouble of wrapping it up and walking to the post office so I thought that after Labor Day I will call and drop in one evening to pick it up and say hello to Billy and your pop.

I’m sorry your father got so mad the other night and I hope that he knows that it’s all my fault keeping you out so late. I wish that I wasn’t forced to come back to the city so quick as I really wanted to have a chance to chat with him and tell him that I am sorry for giving him so much worry on my account. Well I’ll be able to mend some fences when I see him in the city. You know how much I respect your pop and how highly I think of him.

Sincerely,

Tom

Beautiful? Beautiful! The old tyrant could read it upside down and backwards and not find a thing in it. But at the same time Marie would know what’s what! If she found the pouch she might even know already that I forgot it accidentally on purpose. McGrath would never just ignore the pouch, he’d never just leave it at the house, never. And God knows he’d never just throw it away and say the hell with it. Maybe he’ll swallow the business about apologizing. If I can get my foot in the door — there’s more than one way to skin a cat.

Tom mailed the letter as soon as he’d finished writing it a second time. His first letter had the phrase “a chance to talk to him and tell him” in the last paragraph and he changed it. The original phrase seemed too pushy and was the kind of thing the old fart would bristle at. He could almost hear him: “He’s going to talk to me, is he? The pup!” No, this was the way. Friendly, humble. He’d maybe get over to see them about the middle of September, happen to be in the neighborhood, stay a half an hour, not to wear out his welcome, then about a week later ask them all to dinner, hell yes, all of them. It would take maybe another couple months to get Marie alone, meantime he’d eat humble pie, but. But he’d do it. Take her to his place, a little drink before dinner, hell! He’d have her in the raw in an hour if he put his mind to it. Plenty of time, Tom had all the trumps now.

After he’d mailed the letter he thought he’d give that little Italian beautician out in East New York a ring. That goddamn Marie had got him pretty itchy. He was goddamned if he was going to start dating Mary Fist with all the easy ass he knew around.

Grates bitter chocolate into his Rum and Maple pipe tobacco. It is his elite trademark, the idea hauled from the back pages of some pulp. Flying Aces. Sweetish air surrounding him. All his pipes go sour.

When Susan crosses her legs and leans back on the couch. The way her dress rides up. Creamy swirl of her slip and her firm legs in silk stockings gleaming hazily metallic.

Janet’s annoying looks of dismay when he gets home late, supper over and the dishes washed. Tommy in bed. The predictable blubbering that he cannot stomach.

The day of Tommy’s birth he can’t find a place to park and Janet clawing at the seat. Odd dim light of the waiting room and a nurse comes out with her clothes in a pile, her high-heeled shoes on top.

Woolworth’s rose oil shimmering in his hair. Its aroma mixed with the rum, the maple, the chocolate. Gets used to the sour taste.

Flirts like a goddamn fool with Susan, hearty brother-in-law act. Pulls her to him roughly and rests his thumbs at the sides of her breasts. Flash of her peach slip.

The waitress in the diner just a few months after his marriage. Oh, she loves the smell of a pipe! He puffs and puffs, touching lightly his moustache. Parks out in Elmhurst in his salesman’s Nash.

Her clothes in a bag on the bar before him, he has a few rye Presbyterians, a faint odor of perfume and soap from the paper bag in which he has put them. A sudden fear that she will die. The three other men in Reilly’s do not know him.