A Singular Man (11 page)

"Am I stifling you Miss Martin. I'm terribly sorry about this."

"I'm all right, Mr. Smith."

"Just get my foot out of this pail. Hold it. I hear feet again. They're coming back this way."

"Mr. Smith why do they want our picture."

"Hush now."

Smith raising hand to signal silence. In the near blackness. So close to Miss Martin. Closest I've ever been. Her breath smells sweetly. And hear her heart pounding. Nearly taste her. And feel her too. Twin precious things pressing against my arm. A tugging at the door knob of this mop cupboard once more. Strange, so many times I passed this closet, and said there's a little harbour in a storm.

Feet moving off again. Sounds like four pairs. Or five. Some of the rags in here are odiferous. Touched Miss Martin's lips with my finger. Face to face in the black. Feet on the landing. Voices. Confused. The pounding they make down the steps is too loud to be trusted. No hoof hoodwinks me. Somehow all I could see of them as they jumped out were their ears. And they had noses too. Of newshounds.

"Are they going Mr. Smith."

"May be a ruse. Are you all right. Like to move your arm over. Wretched pail. My foot's deeper in it than ever. Never get it off. And be caught for sure."

"I'll push back further."

"No don't Miss Martin. If I can just get my foot loose. Be all right. Then we can get out of here."

"I don't mind."

"Soon we'll need air."

"I still don't mind."

Smith's ears twitching. At that last remark. A tingle and glow rears up at the bifurcation of the legs. With the little room in here, hardly any space for expansion. It will stand up and she'll ask what it is. Many mops, Miss Martin and handles too. My hand feels her hair. What's this. Not again.

"Miss Martin. Tears. I feel tears."

'Tes."

"Why."

"I don't know."

"Are you scared in here with me."

"No."

"Were you frightened by those men."

"No."

"Is it something I've done or said."

"No."

"Why do you cry."

"I just don't know, Mr. Smith. I have to."

Smith reaching a knuckle under the eye. Picking up a tear. Feel her lips. Opening. Taking in George Smith's finger between her teeth. Whole knuckle of the hand. Biting and nibbling. And her voice all choked. With fingers in her mouth. And whispering.

"Mr. Smith I dreamt about you last night."

"You did."

"Yes. You were standing on a hill. And I was at the bottom of the street. And they were trying to capture you. And they held you. And at the bottom of the hill old women held me and I started to cry."

"Why."

"I can't tell you."

"Tell me."

"A great white river flowed down the hill from you. Right by me on the street. And I wanted to drink and the old women wouldn't let me. And held me. And I was crying. And just cried. And the white stream flowed by."

Outside the thunder clapping. Must be monumental drops of rain. Even in Miss Martin's dreams, it would appear they try to get me for something. She sleeps in her little room and has books she likes. Her shade pulled down and it flaps and thumps when the wind blows. And the wind was nearly always blowing. The air thickens in this closet. No wind. Nor my God, lay waste one. Till love begins, when you can listen with a smile. Backfiring after wieners is no laughing matter.

George Smith put out a hand Just in under Miss Martin's open coat Felt a little tide of flesh nipping up over her underdraws. It was spare. Personal part of her. Give it a little pat. Women are desperate for love. And when they give theirs, they get short shrift. Wash my socks. Get me juice.

"It may be safe now to go Miss Martin. Before we suffocate."

Smith turning the key slowly. Opening the door to the light. And somewhat fragrant air. Blinking. Peering both ways in the hall. A forward movement and crash. Smith flat on face both feet in pails.

"Are you hurt."

"Pull those God damn things off me, Miss Martin. Please. Woke the dead"

"You poor sweet."

Miss Martin pulling off the pails. Smith to his knees. Hobbling on these a yard or two. Just trying them out in case one loses the rest. Just make it one flight down on tip toe. Someone wants to discredit me. Get my picture. Plaster it. And say there's that skunk.

Empty hall outside room 604. Save coming round the corner. A cleaning woman with a waxing machine. Madam thanks for your closet. Smith opening, closing 604 tighdy and locking the door. Miss Martin standing defenceless in her coat. Here, allow me Miss Martin. To divest you of this. Hang it up. Sad girl. Just light your lamp over your desk. See the nice glow. Quite an afternoon. Of near explosions. Riots. Peanut catching in the mouth. And a mobbing by reporters. Finally Miss Martin you said you poor sweet.

Smith in his back room. Fiddling in his papers. Stacked this way and that. Out the window. The globs of rain. Popping down the narrow air shaft grey and fat against the white tiles.

"Mr. Smith, this came while we were out. It's a nice pink envelope."

Smith picking it up. Opening it bravely. Perhaps a request to donate my body to medical science. Great shortage. Ask you to incorporate it in your will, which will be read when the time is nigh, and at their expense and within a reasonable distance, they will come and fetch you. Donate a part if you cannot donate the whole. Help train tomorrow's scientists.

The Management

Merry Mansions

Eagle Street

Saturday

Dear Mr. Smith,

A preliminary report has now come to hand concerning the crack sent right up your wall into Mr. &Mrs. Goldminer's apartment.

Although our engineers are baffled to know how this was done especially having regard for the quality of the structure, they are satisfied it was the result of a violent slamming of your door. As you are aware this door was made to your own specifications of a surgical steel. Our engineers are of the opinion that such a door, having regard for its great weight should open and close by mechanical means if further damage to the building is to be avoided.

We, of course, await respectfully your reply in this matter and any suggestions you may care to put forth.

Regarding the plummeting plaster on sleeping inhabitants of the next building caused by members of your youth rally, we hope to have further news soon.

I, personally, of course, accord you my friendly greetings.

Yours most sincerely,

S. Stone

P.S. Pink stationery is an indulgence of mine which I feel is a happier color than white.

S.S.

P.P.S. We note your change of address.

S.S.

George Smith raising the paper to the light. Good watermark and cotton content. Miss Martin stands by the cream door jamb, one hand held in another. And when I say take a letter she will go back to her pool of light, poised before her machine rapping those little lettered keys. Gloomy, raining, so chilly and cold. Her wool dress clings so. Trim and sad. Pink stationery. Pink buds on Miss Martin. To remember these little items when the whole grey vista is so vast.

"Miss Martin, take a letter, please. Dear Mr. Stone. Thank you for your letter concerning the crack in Merry Mansions and the news that I shall be hearing soon of the plummeting plaster. New paragraph. I am presently engaged in deep research concerning the m&rket price of human judgment as applied to profit making in my new egg breaking plant. As soon as conclusions have been reached about such cracking I will deal with the one in Merry. New paragraph. I would only mention that I do hope the incident of the plummeting plaster can be settled amicably. I sense that the repentent and aggrieved members of the rally who were responsible would like me to extend to you and the victims of the plaster their most sincere apologies, and regret they have brought the rally and other members into disrepute. Yours sincerely. Got that Miss Martin."

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"And just add, enamoured of your pink stationery."

"Shall I send this registered Mr. Smith."

"Yes, do, Miss Martin."

Seems so long ago now since the mop closet Only one letter since. Having slept in 604 last night, I applied a reputable deodorant for masculine freshness. Some women make you suffer a smell to love them. And you bury fingers under a pillow. Like the river water die end of the street, so sweet till you taste. Shirl was a clear mountain spring, her mouth, teeth gleaming, white heavenly doors. In the shadows of her lips. Light pink color of her tongue. Which she will lay out between lips while her lawyers draft appeals regarding this testator's unsoundness of mind. I sit here now with elbows pressed on desk, waiting for Miss Martin to type the ultimate draft of my final wishes.

Smith drawing down the white shades on the two back windows of 604. Which one was tempted to call a suite. Live honestly but briefly. Now Miss Martin, you sit so stiffly having made a rough of my pencilled final instructions. You think me strange and peculiar. And afraid to look me in the eye in case maybe my own are spinning like ball bearings. I am easy of heart. Delighted to be rich. And when called to higher service let there be this document which I peruse now between my living fingers.

I, George Smith, hereby make known my last will and testicle. First off I should like to rear up and haunt all those who tried to screw me up while living. Special attention to be given those fuckpigs who have communicated with me by letter attempting thereby to get funds from my unrelenting clutches.

All my chattel possessions whatsoever remaining gripped in my lunch hooks at the time of stepping into darkness, which I do not care to have herein mentioned as the eternal shid, there having been a sufficiency of same throughout my casual meander through life, are to be held to public auction. The entire sum of money proceeding from such auction is then to be converted to bank notes of small denomination and placed in a steel receptacle six feet high and one foot in diameter and so placed and so constructed as to withstand the rigors of a hoard. The receptacle shall be positioned at a spot chosen to be the most public and central with comfort stations available. A day shall be announced, described as next Turdsday, upon which day, all streets leading to the area will be cordoned off and cleared of any human or vehicular traffic. At twenty minutes to midnight the area is to be floodlit. Cameras will then be set up in several strategic positions and be protected to ensure their free and easy operation. At twelve midnight on this aforesaid Turdsday, a sound of an adult human breaking wind shall be made which shall act as a signal which sound shall be so magnified on suitable sound equipment to sound like a volcano. Referees shall be appointed and take proper measures to prevent the carrying of any lethal weapon by the surging mob. However, persons availed of sports equipment, fishing rods and the like, are to be allowed. For this purpose, croquet mallets of regulation weight shall not be considered as lethal. But citizens appearing out of the blue in skin diving equipment are to be looked upon askance. Upon the signal aforementioned the camera operators shall proceed to record the scene as the various citizens approach the cash and continue to do so until the money can be reasonably thought to be gone. At the discretion of the trustees a director may be appointed to film any further incident thought interesting following upon the disappearance of the money from the said receptacle. The film will be duly edited in a sequence that shall be thought tastiest. Without background music. Close-ups of the scene will take precedence over long shots except in such long shots catching the mood of the mob. The film will then be made available free of any charge save that of carriage, to any institution engaged in any recognised research program of any reasonable description and to all other charitable institutions, communities, clubs or organisations which can be thought of as reasonably being in the interests of any section of the community or the community as a whole, these to include gatherings for good fellowship, singsongs, chats or birth control.

A corpse which shall well and truly have been determined to be me and such determination being absolutely beyond any shadow of doubt or mistake, such corpse shall be further untouched and placed immediately in a sycamore coffin, and such coffin put in a subdued manner and fashion in the tomb erected for this purpose for which adequate provisions have already been made. My name, George Smith, shall be carved deeply in the sycamore and followed by the inscription hereinafter set forth.

The innocent

Were cowering

As the guilty

Closed in on them

Murderously.

8

S
OMETHING
about the hoot of the vessel entering the river, made George Smith shiver. Two weeks of rain storm and hurricane. For three days Miss Martin could not get to work because of flooding in the subway. And suddenly it stopped. Sun up, clear sky, air fresh, all vernal on die first day of May. And arrival of a telegram.

S.S. CINATIT

MAY I

DOCK THIS MORNING BROKE DESPERATE

BONNIFACE

Miss Martin arrived whistling. Could hear her swing her little basket up on her desk. And her jaunty step to the water cooler installed during the raging hurricane. Nipping her head in the door and smiling.

"Mr. Smith, it's wonderful out."

"Good."

"Everybody's so cheerful. I walked across the park.

Just as a ship was coming in. I feel marvelous this morning. I want to sing. What's the matter, Mr. Smith."

"Any letters."

"Just one. Got my nail file. I'll open it. Here."

i Electricity Street

Rear Room

604

Dear Sir,

To hand your letter of "Turdsday" so unseemly spelled, in which you threaten us with the words "Watch out" and the postscript that you are blessed with two headlamps to focus on our medical history.

We now require by telegram that you send us something to salve the outrage caused by these recent remarks to this office.

Yours faithfully,

J J J. Jr.

"Miss Martin, did the ship this morning look cheerful."

"Funny you should ask that Mr. Smith. You know I thought it looked very strange. I don't know why but it seemed crippled in some way. And a phrase just came into my mind. Ship of shame. I had the feeling no one would want to meet that ship."

"You said a mouthful."

"What Mr. Smith."

"Nothing Miss Martin. I'll just scribble this reply to our friend, J.J J. Jr. Just mail it."

May 1st

Owl Street

J.J.J.

DearJunior,

Under separate cover and under approprkte wraps I am sending you a piece of ass.

Yours truly,

G. Smith

"On second thoughts Miss Martin. Send this letter by telegram."

"Yes Mr. Smith."

Smith taking a few moments to peruse in the mirror. View the eye balls. Father of four children. None of whom one would dare call Junior. A lonely life. Miss having a few youngsters around. Driving the breath out of me. Miss Martin in there on the phone will you ever have kinder. Some little baby all your own.

"My God, Mr. Smith."

"What is it, Miss Martin."

"O Mr. Smith."

"For Jesus sake, what is it."

Smith running in. Not far to go. Must be wary of gathering too much speed, else land in Owl Street having torpedoed the partition and another suite across the hall, the Institute Of Higher Graduation.

"Have you seen the newspaper. It's got your picture. Right on the front page."

"Great scot."

"Says full story page sixteen. Your arm is raised up. You can just see my shoulder and bit of hair."

"I want you to call a car Miss Martin. To be here right away. Pack up my papers on my desk. Put in an eraser. Have you sent off that wire."

"Yes. I just want to say something Mr. Smith."

"What Miss Martin."

"Whatever else happens I just want you to know that your self control in the mop closet was wonderful. I wanted to say that to you before."

"Then I can ask you something, Miss Martin. And I hope you'll understand."

"Of course Mr. Smith."

"Would you like to come with me to the country for a few days. Let me make it absolutely clear this is entirely up to you. And needless to say you would have your own bedroom."

"You mean at a hotel Mr. Smith. Well I'd have to tell my mother."

"Phone her. But you know how mothers are Miss Martin. It might only be politic to say you're house-partying fully chaperoned, with other young people."

"All right, Mr. Smith. But how long."

"Two, three days."

Smith returning nervously into the rear of 604, opening up the newspaper across his desk.

WATCHFUL WAITING IN OWL STREET

There was renewed buoyancy without bouncing in the financial district of this city where the spotlight has narrowed on one or two personalities today when the market appeared decidedly bullish.

It was against a background of corrective pause, which observers found no longer refreshing, when it was thought certain members of this city were taking profits home and most stocks were marked down as a result of heavy selling. Sentiment however, was strong that this selling would be short lived. Many members wanting to avoid being caught napping or short lived, lurked throughout the afternoon to get a glimpse of Mr. George Smith who was briefly seen to leave Dynamo House, Owl Street, early this afternoon.

It is not definitely known what part, if any, Mr. Smith has played in the recent holocaust although it is thought by some members that Mr. Smith might give an inkling of the future and they have been closely watching the situation.

Mr. Smith's return to Dynamo House was witnessed by a large crowd, who had gathered on the pavements from early afternoon. He was seen to enter the building wearing a red carnation followed by his secretary and he hastily attempted the steps to avoid photographers. Reporters putting questions to Mr. Smith were greeted by a rude noise, and an airy quip by Mr. Smith "Report that to the sanitation department."

Mr. Smith, a military strategist in the last conflict, has consistently refused to give interviews, however, it is known that he occupies two back rooms at Dynamo House having recently removed from an office midtown, but the true nature of his business remains unknown. It had been previously said in some quarters that Mr. Smith was of no fixed address. It is now established he keeps an apartment in Merry Mansions where many of the city's celebrities reside. It is further rumoured that Mr. Smith has been long engaged in the construction of a tomb to house his remains, reputed to be one of the most elaborate ever erected, entirely air conditioned with special foundations to protect the structure from floods and earthquake. The Renown Cemetery authorities refuse to comment on this, said to be the most costly construction to date in the Cemetery and which till now had been associated with the name of a Doctor Fear.

Smith emerging from the back room. Level lipped and grim. Phone ringing. Rapping on the door. All at once. Everything.

"I'll get the door, Miss Martin. You get the phone."

Smith opening the door. A little boy in uniform. A letter.

"Special messenger delivery."

"Thank you."

Smith slowly closing the door in which it seemed a small foot was put.

"I beg your pardon, little boy. Your foot's in the door."

"Yeah."

"Won't you take it out."

"Hey some people, I guess you don't get any appreciation."

"What are you talking about sonny."

"A tip."

"What do you mean a tip."

"Ain't you this guy with his picture in the paper this morning. Well you should give me a tip for bringing a message."

"Just hold it sonny, I'll read it."

i Electricity Street

604 Dynamo

Owl Street

Dear Sir,

How dare you attempt to mail me such a thing. Do not refer to me as Junior.

jjj.

P.S. You will hoot before long.

"Now sonny, if I ever see your face again, I'll put it through the floor. Bye bye."

One finds that the pressures in the world build up and that one unfriendly act begets another. Zoom. Suddenly all dignity is gone. People go in using blows with the shod foot. On the prone figure. Sometimes, even when interpreted as weakness, it's as well to try a certain amount of easy latitude which can lend a bit of nervous laughter to a situation. Therefore I will scribble one last response showing a vestige of faith in his sense of humour.

Dynamo House

Owl Street

Dear Fellow and Junior,

I thought the incredibility of mailing you an unsolicited piece of ass might amuse you. Toodle oo.

George Smith

P.S. I see well in the dark.

"Miss Martin just send off this last letter before packing up."

"Mr. Smith, it's the News Of The Truth asking for comments, what shall I say, about an air conditioned grave."

"Say they've got the wrong number."

"You've got the wrong number, sorry. No. Yes. Mr. Smith. Yes. Mr. Smith, they say they know it's not the wrong number."

"Tell them it will be soon."

"Mr. Smith says it will be soon."

"Now hang up, Miss Martin. Let's get cracking. Find out when passengers debark from the S.S. Gnatit. Check on the car, see it's on the way. Pack up my papers, the green files marked go and lock up the yellow files marked caution and the red marked stop. Don't forget the eraser."

"Please Mr. Smith. I'm already up to my teeth."

"What's that."

"I'm trying to do everything."

"Miss Martin we've got to scram."

"Give me a chance. One thing at a time. Mr. Smith."

"Don't be disloyal at a time like this Miss Martin."

"For God's sake Mr. Smith I'm not being disloyal. I'm going crazy. There. The phone again."

"Just say Beetroot Department."

Miss Martin closing her eyes as she picks up the phone.

These are troubled times.

"Hello, Beetroot Department. Who. No. Not here, wrong number. Mr. Smith, it's a message, from JJJ."

"What is it. Out with it."

"They're reading it."

"What, for God's sake."

"They say, all of us here have been acquainted with your kind before. And as married men with children we will not stand for this latest sauciness."

"Tell them wrong number, beet barge disposal unit for dumping in the bay."

Poor Miss Martin, delivering the message, putting down phone. Pulling out drawers. Collecting papers. Phone ringing again. Marvelous the rapidity of communication. And she says yes mom, I told you mom, chaperoned, yes, just a bunch of young kids, going to the country, games, swimming, tennis, very rich important people mom, 111 never have another chance like this one, she's going to loan me all the clothes I need, mom, please, don't worry, yes, Til ring you, you worry about nothing, you have to trust somebody, do you want me to die without any fun mom, all right, O.K. I'll phone, goodbye mom, I will, I promise, goodbye.

"Mr. Smith, guess you heard that was my mother."

"Yes, Miss Martin."

Smith retreating to rear room. Lifting the white shade a mite to peer out at the glistening tiles. For way up at the end of the shaft the sun is shining and just a ray or two is getting reflected down. I want peace. Candlelight, wine and olives. So many people feel resentment and jealousy. A whiff of spice then, in the window. Out of the warehouse a few buildings away. Cinnamon. Cloves. Bonniface at this second is flatfooting it down the pier stopping momentarily to don roller skates the quicker to nail me at Dynamo House. Ask me if he can stay in my tomb. I say, George, sport, just let me rest up in there.

"Miss Martin the car."

"Mr. Smith I told him the newspaper kiosk at the corner in five minutes."

"You genius Miss Martin. You're ready. Good gracious we've had quite a little morning of it. Don't answer that phone. Somehow I know who it is. Out now* Lock the door. Got the files."

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"You're sure now you don't feel awkward coming with me."

"No, Mr. Smith."

"Your mother's at ease."

"No."

"That's the way with mothers, Miss Martin. They can never cut the apron strings, always afraid someone will take advantage."

"I know Mr. Smith, it's terrible. I always have to lie."

Sun pouring through the glass doors of Dynamo House. Pigeons pecking. Flow of people in and out. Newspaper said there were crowds but on that rainy day I didn't see a soul. Nor was I sporting the carnation. No one gives a damn for the facts these days. Any second Bonniface will be skidding round the corner on the roller skates.

Mr. Smith and Miss Martin, arms laden. Foolish files. All marked go and green. These two figures emerging from a side door of Dynamo House. Into the pleasure of the breeze. Past pigeon feeders with hats propped back on their heads, communicating with the fat birds. Smith taking a flash of fear up the keester. Some unidentifiable ship blasting its hooter. Denoting all tied up ready to debark the living desperate cargo. One of whom is trying to begin a new life without a bean.

So far so good. Unnoticed down the steps. Miss Martin leading. Black high heels bringing one's notice to a rather good leg. Be so nice to be out in the country. Trampling the flowers and shrubs. Between trees and over outcrops of rock. How to explain to Miss Martin the cabin in the woods. With only one bedroom. Albeit a bed either side of the fireplace in the living room. Albeit this. That word steers into my head at die least nervousness. Of course I will give Miss Martin the log cabin while I sleep out on the outcropping of rock. I don't mind the snakes. No, you take the bed Miss Martin, I .wouldn't think of it. I always sleep outside in nature. Little poison seeping into a backside never hurt me.

Newspaper kiosk. My face everywhere plastered over it. Terror of having something recognised on you wherever you go. Which you can't take off or change unless to grow a beard which would be utterly objectionable. A friendly face. The chauffeur I've had before.

"How do Mr. Smith. See you're getting well known round these parts."

"I'm afraid so. As fast as you can, Renown Cemetery first stop. O.K. Miss Martin, get in for God's sake."

"Give me a chance Mr. Smith. You're pushing*"

"Sorry. Someone's bound to spot us. This is too easy. I suspect something."

"Well please don't push, my arms are full."

Smith stony in the car. Next to Miss Martin. Neglecting to help her pull the rug up over her knees. A slight chill in the air, albeit sunny. Albeit this. My nerves. The vehicle pulling away with speed. Cruising up to the first traffic lights. Through the fish market. The dark shadows in there, the poor boxes of flounder, the big dead eyes under the ice. Don't worry I've lurked around there witnessing the wholesale death. Being also fond of the grilled fillet.