A Singular Man (9 page)

"Fat belly George, what are you mumbling."

She butts in just as I was going to give the signal for the parade. Let us again recast the scene. Four drummers first. The balloon carriers each with a hand on the hot steam organ will naturally bring up the rear. Shirl, will you get back, out of the way, I happen to be the director of this parade. Yeah, I'm the director. Not be intimidated by your breasts which drove me into wedlock, sagged and stared at me ever since. I had the steam organ specially brought from a country where it was the last one. You've always wanted to steal the stage from me. Until naturally I got up this here parade to bring back my self respect. Now get back in line with the rest. You heard me. Get back. Now I want four people to come forward and volunteer to carry the community chest. In which of course is the brass pig. All employees of George Smith please step forward and take your places in the central position. Gosh, only Miss Martin. Get back Shirl. You just spend my money, you don't help me make it. Put away that cigarette holder and wipe that smile off your face. O.K. all of you to whom I have given scrolls of merit, hold them up. Gee, I hope you deserve them*

"George don't slip out it's a year since you were in."

I'm just ready to give the signal to march but I can't with these constant interruptions. The steam organ is losing valuable steam. Almost forgot the friends I had in childhood. Slip them between people who live in Merry Mansions who have just rushed out because the Gold-miners set it on fire. Members of The Game Club take up the rear, each carrying an acorn as an item reminding us that any one of us can get bigger than we appear on the surface. Shirl get back in line. Nobody wants to keep in line these days. All out for special attention. Do it once more Shirl and you're out of the parade for good. And cut out the immoral gestures, no one's stopping this parade for turpitude. My God, Miss Tomson. Just going to start without you. You could lead it. I've just jumped out of an alley and wrote your name with a bucket of paint over a giant wall. Didn't have the crass to put Sally. People said it was physically impossible to do it while being director of the parade but I did it. Till those dirty little urchins came along and ruined my heartfelt statement with another one. O.K. ready everybody. My goodness, just looked down in time, my fly's open. An order under these circumstances would sound ridiculous. If not downright impertinent. Hold it, folks. Must tidy myself up a bit Get back in there and don't come out again till I tell you. Naughty. All right now. Ready.

"George."

Don't shout my name in vain. You've done every sly thing to ruin the parade. With the tables set in the park. Where we were going to march to eat with banners, streamers red white and blue. And the organizers would have given out prizes. While the director watched from the stage. I know what you would have done Shirl, gone up to the microphone and sung a song into it. Embarrassed me as director. Because you wanted to appear before the public. Hear your voice floating over the crowd. So they would clap and cheer and say you're great. And I was only an acquaintance. From the other side of the tracks. You've interrupted my parade for the last time. Boom boom boom. Just got it going again. Thank you drummers.

"George what parade, shut up, it's up and enter me again."

"Shirl watch the underwear."

"What made you wear red."

"A predilection."

"Take it off, it rubs me."

"You're holding my head down by the ears and stop tearing the garment, Shirl."

"Kiss my bazumma."

"Shirl, you're tearing the garment."

"I'm pulling the zipper."

"It's tearing the garment Shirl and is caught in the hairs of my belly."

"It rubs me."

"I didn't ask you to come in here."

"George you wouldn't turn on the light. Shut up and take a handful of hair. You were so nice when you were a car. Drive you bastard."

"Beep beep."

"Kiss my bazumma."

"Stop telling me what to do Shirl. I've got my own mind."

"I'm the hottest handful you've had for months."

"Don't be too sure."

"So you've been into Matilda."

"That remark is false."

"Was she a good fuck, I don't mind."

"I repeat that remark is false and your use of language regrettable."

"Ha ha George."

"Ha ha Shirl it's not funny."

"Once more, fast George."

In this rural retreat of The Goose Goes Inn, the Friday before the Tuesday of Christmas. I wake to find my person used for a motive of which I had no notion. Torn out of the red underwear. Bereft of that red safety. Shirl a master at that tempting tickle, cupping up pearls blowing a warm air saying it was bigger than she remembered and she had memories. Till the energy I was conserving to get back to town, all gone. She'll take this as a renewal of hatred. A right to snoop round Eagle or Golf Street. Once getting hands on her, can't get them off. Deepest darkest kisser. And what can you do when it's upright. As she says wow. When it's downright rude to do nothing.

"Faster George, my friends are waiting."

Snowy owl hoots. Hear him out there in the night. When all the other animals are snug or more likely tearing each other and feathers apart. And in here I am agog and speechless at this last remark. I am no machine. I am no piece of old rope. I'll pretend the physical excitement has made you utter statements without meaning. has made you utter statements "Hurry George."

"Hurry George."

Between the parted curtain shines the white so white romantic moon. Right across the carpet, half way up the wardrobe and on the sleeve of my shirt. You're just getting carried away Shirl. Since you haven't as I hope you haven't, had any for a while. Ha ha, friends are waiting. I suppose if I had any mine would be waiting too. We've come together panting mechanically which is what disturbs me. I should have said no.

"Faster George, harder. Now you know why I ride horses."

The village church bell rings, quarter mile down the road. We're in here like this with flowers on the bedroom curtains and on the chair. Shake your brown thatch all out over your shoulders, be the last time I'll grab. I will not go faster.

"My friends are waiting, George."

In summer on this road they sell the stacked up pumpkins, purple aubergine and zeplin watermelons. And fresh farm eggs. Not for nude cooking I said. And Shirl this is a joke no longer.

"Shirl what do you mean your friends."

"They're waiting down stairs."

"They're what, Shirl."

"Waiting."

"Get out of this bed."

"Hey we're not finished."

"I will not give myself to being used while your friends wait for you. Get out."

"I'm not dressed."

"Get out."

"You're not pushing me naked into a hotel hall, George, you're not doing that. That's one thing you're not doing."

"I am doing. Out. Into the hall."

"No."

"Go to your friends. Waiting for you. Bunch of ambitious little commuters. O Shirl's just upstairs having a throw with some guy. Don't make me a laughing stock."

"You are already. Everybody knows how you make your money. And they laugh, boy do they laugh. They laugh because they know."

"You take it from me and spend it."

"I wish I didn't because it's horrible money."

"I reject that."

"And they know what happens with that nigger in that apartment. Don't try to fool me."

"Simply get out of this room before I lose my temper."

"Always knew you were from the wrong side of the tracks."

"A litde vulgar fantasy of yours."

"It isn't. You sneaked into society."

"I see. I'm in society now."

"They saw you sneaking, don't worry. My friends know. Your phoney little cultivated habits."

"I reject that."

"Mosaics all over your stupid house. How they let you in The Game Club I don't know. And trying to make some baronial hall sowing trees up our drive. My friends were wise to that, don't you worry. Can't find my things. I want the light on."

"You came in in the dark you go out with all lights off."

"You rat. I'm glad I can't see your face. It's the only way I could bear you fucking me."

"I think perhaps you've said enough."

"Tell me to get out. And I'm going."

"Splendid. Bring your little playmates downstairs with you."

"You bet I will. You'll hear from my legal counsel."

"Can't wait."

"My friends are better than you are and I'd like to know where all that other money goes. And I'll find out. You can't kid my lawyer, he's smart."

"Since I pay for him I'm glad to hear that."

"I ought to have half of what you possess."

"Ha ha."

"Go ahead and laugh. Where's my purse. You'll be laughing. Boy you'll be laughing. FU make you laugh. You'll laugh all right. Boy you'll be laughing."

"Ha ha."

"Laugh all you want. Go ahead. But I'll squeeze you dry."

Across the room somewhere in the dark there was the momentary silence. Four hoots of that snowy owl. And summer comes back and the tangled worms squirming in the white silk nets they weave in wild cherry trees.

"George, George, what terrible things am I saying."

"You were saying, boy, you'll be laughing,, And I'll squeeze you dry."

"George, I'm scared and shivering. What's making me shiver. Turn on the lights. I'm scared the things I'm saying."

"Can't you find your purse."

"No George and I'm scared. Don't throw me out. I didn't mean that about legal counsel."

"Forget it."

"George, I can't. What about the kids. God legal counsel. Don't make me go to court George."

"I'm not making you go to court."

"They'll scream down at me. I know they'll scream down at me. A judge with white hair. He'll eat up my soul George."

"Don't be silly."

"Never make me go before a judge, George. As you lie there now promise me that. I'm scared. Let me sit. I'd be accused. The judge would accuse me and it would be horrible."

Can see the shadow of her hair. See the shoulders she covers with her shirt. And I know she's breaking right in two. Tears pouring down her cheeks. Wait and the sniff and sob will come. Shirl all women cry. The lousy life. But outlive men. I mean you no harm. Let no judge get you. Even on judgement day. When all the country yokels are clustering in the trees and I step down the steps of my tomb. To cheers. Remember under the snow lies summer. Done that for a lot of years. Can sit then sucking a straw of grass and it hardly matters nearly that one is in society. Or that I went out in the world ruthlessly. Maybe sneaking across the tracks. Shirl you're crying. I could cry too. I went so far in the snow today. Walked back along the tracks in the road where it was hard. Thinking so much about the silence you hold like a child's hand and it was all up over the hills. I came last night when it was snowing. A rich man. The papers said it would be crisp and cold. At the Junction it began to snow. I was hurt when the train left. I hate anything to leave. Stay. Stay longer. I only told you to get out because it was a fiasco. Paper hats and jumping bodies in the lobby. Tell me nice things and I'll believe them forever. Shirl don't cry. What harm really for a fast one and for you to run down and meet your friends and go out speeding over the snowy roads and even sit on a stranger's knee. Why should I mind. Except that I suppose I have no friends. Save one old one standing staring at me at some excavation site when I ran. So Shirl little girl. Dry up your eyes. I've got your purse here under my pillow. And now I'll give it back. Made of mesh like your slipper. And you can go away then. Out to friends. I think you're right, the only time traffic will ever stop for me.

Is when

I'm dead.

6

C
HRISTMAS
eve. And this Monday morning George Smith dressed in black passed out the lobby of Merry Manse. Hugo some yards up the street in conversation with another doorman. But the chauffeur was there with door open of this long low wide black gleaming car. A tinted green glass between Smith and driver. Who said his name was Herbert.

And last Saturday I sent Shirl dogwood blossoms. Wax this time of year. And sat near the phone in my room in The Goose Goes Inn before I left on Sunday. It never rang. And I could not cheer her up. She left the room bent and sad. And perhaps never played with her friends. In the village I had a pineapple soda midst a lot of larking kids. Then trudged in the little cemetery knee deep in snow, reading names and poems.

Sunday I rested my bag on a cart and sat beside it in the railway station. Feeling sad for all little children. The cold evening. Lights blinking on. In the tavern just beyond the war memorial a jukebox played. Heard the train engine roaring, its light shining down the white tracks, almost empty, streaked and stained. Got off at the Junction and had a cup of hot chocolate. Kept me warm looking out at the winter evening the rest of the way to the terminus.

Merry Mansions Sunday night, with loud parties in the distance. Matilda said she was going to have a good time at some heaven. And George Smith sat alone staring across the room. And out the window for a bit, at a roistering gathering of folk across the street. A city full of fathers with gathered arms of presents to give and get, this complicated time of year.

And now Monday morning, day before the great birth, in this car crossing town in the jammed traffic. George Smith sitting one leg folded upon another, ankles in black silk, cane and briefcase. Slipping off his dark capeskin gloves. A lap full of mail. The season's summonses. Without glad red berried holly leaves. Deep long lasting and sincere. Heartfelt wishes this time of year.

Car speeding up the ramp to the highway, tire chains gripping and humming on the hard snow. Past parked ocean liners, tall ships, steaming funnels and rust stained anchors hauled up against the bows. Ice flows in the river. And across it, a bleak winter skeleton of an amusement park stands on top of the hard straight cliffs.

Smith opening up the mail. To each a quick glance. One school chum, alas from an institution. A risque one from Matilda. A big santa claus holding a bottle of whisky from the kids. Nothing from Shirl. Others blaring good business and prosperity. Make a million throughout the coming year. And happy new year too. And what's this, amid this. Within this. Poor quality envelope, a little letter from far away. Hold it on my dark knee. Makes me blink.

Post Office

Cool Village

December ipth

Dear Mr. Smith,

I am so sorry to have to acquaint you with bad news. On December i4th your mother died peacefully and your father passed away in the same manner yesterday, Tuesday the15th, your mother having gone the Friday before. They both told me while they lived that they did not want to bother you as they knew you were a very busy man. Your father said I was not to give you any bad news that might worry you. But since he has now passed away too, I am writing. I hope to the right address which I found in your father's papers, and that this reaches you. As your whereabouts has been unknown.

The details are that the clergy found a definite sum of money of which they will tell you soon, which they found useful for expenses regarding the undertaking and costs of other arrangements. They knew you would wish a suitable stone and they selected their grave under the yew tree in the old cemetery near the big rock. I know you may know this burial ground has been out of use but it is now believed here by anyone of the modern outlook that the rumoured vampire has been driven out, having been dealt with by the Clergy with a good sprinkle of the holy juice.

And I would like to add a personal note myself that the dear old couple always minding their own business may rest in peace. I know it is such a blow to you I will not add further news. Except that the passing away is much mourned here in the village. It seems there are enough twisters and chiselers loose on the roads these days trampling graves of honest respectable people that I don't mind telling you the old folk are a loss. And condolences. The Clergy say they will be in touch with you later with the details.

Mary Needles (Miss)

Of The Post Office

With deepest sorrow.

Out the window the highway dips down under a stone bridge and up on hills stand lavish houses surrounded in grey brown thickets of trees. George Smith's tear fell plop on the paper. Out of a weak left eye. They never had a chance. None of us have. For what. A private telephone like the one in this car. Didn't want to worry me. When Shirl's father died she spat on me. Out of the blue. Right across a table in a drug store. Had I known her better, I would have punched her. She was having a chocolate soda. Had her father and mother died at once I would need an umbrella. News comes like this, and something is saying I knew all the time. I knew. Just as I went then back to our apartment with Shirl after the spitting and lay on her in the afternoon till she went fast asleep crying and crying. Waking when a warbling bird came pecking at a pot on the window sill. She said hear that sound. I had a hand on her young breast. I said it was a bird dipping in a dish. She said it's my father tapping on a tomb. I listened again. She said it's dark, birds don't come out at nights. I said bats do. And rearing up naked and thin in my arms she said O George it isn't a bat, please tell me it isn't a bat, bats come out for blood and get in your hair and God I don't want that, no. I held her down close underneath me. Just as we'd lain night and nights together clutched. And suddenly she bit me and I screamed. She said I hate you.

Chauffeur turning and with a white gloved hand pointing to a sign. George picking up his microphone. Clearing his throat because nothing came out at first.

"Next turning driver. Cross between the fences of the golf course. And straight at the next traffic lights."

A little touch of the peaked cap. Had this driver before. Not servile but civil. Keeps an even ready eye on the road. Minds his own business. For mine is properly sad. And when I married Shirl my parents sent her beads on which to say prayers and later my mother's pearls. Shirl stood over them in the brown wrapping paper, wondering if they were real. I had hoped she would have die good breeding to take it as a gesture on the part of my mother and father. And not as she did one day at her jewel box whisper loudly, I wouldn't be caught dead in this junk. On the part of my parents it had been a sacrifice. And now one after the other they've been carried along the sea road and up the ancient lane in their coffins. And if Shirl stood in the cow pasture nearby, in her shimmering green and oriental amethysts watching them go, I can hear what her lips are saying, his God damn peasant parents without a pot to piss in. Shirl this one's jade which I send to you now. Use in their memory.

Two trolley tracks in a cobbled stone road. Smith's car crossing them to tall iron gates laid open. Man in a grey uniform kicking his black booted feet together and clapping his hands in the cold. Looks and makes a gesture of pushing the gate wider which weighs three tons at least. But I appreciate that. Nod. He nods. Salutes. Never knowing I suppose if it's proper to smile as well. And one more letter here to peruse before further business.

i Electricity Street

December 22nd.

The year is irrelevant.

Dear Sir,

Obviously you intend ignoring my communications. I do not think you quite understand who I am.

Yours faithfully,

J J J. & Associates

I dispute that this man is the result of what his mother and father did. Joyless as it must have been. If you get slammed with one thing. Another, don't worry, is on the way. Where once there was no hope there is horror now. And if you are sad and remembering, wham, not long till they wake you. One brief reply for Miss Martin to send
off
when she comes in on Wednesday. And ask the obvious question with perhaps something as a post script. Make jocularity his lot. For the moment.

Main Gate

Renown Memorial Cemetery

December 24th

Do choose a year.

J J. J. & Associates

i Electricity Street

Dear Sir,

Who are you?

Are you possibly a live wire?

Yours sincerely,

G. Smith

P.S. What are your connections?

George Smith's car pulling up in front of a grey stone building. Entwined with winter shrunken ivy vines and in summer full of buzzing bees. Tiny windows sunk in the thick walls. A gable roof, so like the little country cottage one keeps in a dream. Chauffeur popping up the steps. Nearly skidding on his arse on the porch. Whoops, neatly regaining balance. Pity. Gone by the board. Nice little action for damages. Liability for one shattered pelvis. And while I build my monstrous mausoleum my mother and father go to their small graves.

Cemetery looks whitely sleeping. Big tombs. One round, with pillars as high as five men standing on each other's heads. Something to be said for these blue spruce trees. For their silence. And cold perfume. My mother and father lived laced in by roses. And walked once a week along the train tracks by the sea to buy pressed beef, four miles away. A spring at the bottom of their garden. Grey cat called Snooky who was a good ratter even with his balls cut off. Nature's full of foolishness. They had me late in life. Nothing else to do in the country on the edge of a bog with the sea getting nearer every year until it would take it all. Just like the village postoffice fifty years ago, now three miles out under the waves.

Chauffeur carefully back down the steps. Smiles, looks over his shoulder, one glove on and his bare hand carrying a long white cylinder. His friendly face. What more can one ask for in these obtuse times. And handing the scroll through the window to George Smith, the car moved off down the crackling curving road. Sandalwood Drive. Marble, granite mausoleums bleak, cold. Up a steep hill. Along an avenue of leafless trees. Past a pink squat edifice, and a sharp turn into a narrow lane of spruce. Buttercup Drive. An open space of land, dark mud turned up on the snow. Tripod derrick and winch standing over the white stack of chiselled blocks of stone.

A man with a soft smile round the edges of his mouth walks out to Smith's car. The door opening. He climbs
in
with George. The plan withdrawn from the cylinder is pulled open across their laps. Click, the map light. On.

" Well Mr. Smith, mighty cold."

"Yes. Cold."

"That way this time of year."

"Yes indeed."

"Well I think I know what you want here, Mr. Smith. Given it a lot of thought. Kind of gate house you have in mind. The fireplace has in fact been passed by the committee."

"Good."

"But the wall surrounding the plot the committee has decided must not exceed eye level."

"Whose eye level, Mr. Browning."

"Ha ha, Mr. Smith, that's what I said. And they want to be liberal Been objections raised by several neighbouring plot owners but as they are some way
off
we feel they won't object to a height of six three. And of course upon that will be your boxwood hedge which ought to give you another foot or two in five years."

"Mr. Browning are you a happy man."

"Ha, Mr. Smith you always ask me that question."

"Are you."

"No."

"Good. You always give me that answer. There's a blue jay."

"Savage mean bird Mr. Smith. A grabber. Steals."

"Seems I've blundered onto rather awkward ground here Mr. Browning."

"Are you satisfied with how the work is going. As you can see we're at about sixteen feet now. Might make completion date with a month to spare. With luck and a good summer. And we don't run out of stone."

"Know a gentleman by that name."

"Use him Mr. Smith when we run out."

"Ha ha Mr. Browning. Certainly you achieved my general vision. One gem of rustic simplicity. With several small inconsequential motifs of sadness. Ivy leaves unevenly hanging over the entrance. But discreet."

"Discreet, Mr. Smith. As we discussed."

"As we discussed. Glad about the wall. And a most merry Christmas to you Mr. Browning. And would you divide this among the men with my compliments."

"They'll appreciate this Mr. Smith. Thanks. And a most merry Christmas to you Mr. Smith."

"Thank you Mr. Browning."

"Just one thing before you go Mr. Smith. Nothing at all. But thought I'd just mention it. It's just had me wondering. But you know the great black slab over there, the big financier who died mysteriously. Well for about the last couple of months or so, maybe twice, three times a week a woman comes. Spends an hour or more. Sitting on the bench there. In black, thick veil over her face. I'd say she was fairly young, really beautiful legs is her distinction. For awhile we took no notice and just thought she's visiting the guy's grave but the funny thing is, I don't think she's coming to that grave at all but is watching this mausoleumgo up. Just strange. Thought I'd tell you. Brought opera glasses last few times."

"That is interesting Mr. Browning. But sounds like just someone interested, perhaps in the design, which as we know is a departure."

"To say the least, Mr. Smith. I mean, you know, pioneering so to speak."

"Well merry Christmas, do take care of yourself, Mr. Browning."

"You too, Mr. Smith."

"Bye bye."

"Bye."

Waves of the hand. Car moves off quickly across the hard snowy road. Past the black slab all white now. Brings opera glasses. Beautiful legs. Mr. Browning says it's nothing at all but why say it isn't anything if it isn't. At all. Legs. Black veil. Pity I have not employed the latter myself. Everyone tries to pry. And after prying they want to jeer. Good legs is her distinction.
And
my mother and father are dead. In a watery cottage with creepers growing out of the wall. But had they lived, to take them away from that, ripping them up, bringing them to a world of impersonal luxury. Snuff their lives out in no time. Crashes on you this Christmas eve. Lonely. Out the window, death everywhere. Stacked up. Sealed up. Paid up, a few celebrated, some famous, the rest rich. Things God gave them. And when I beat up my children's mother, they ran clutching round our batding knees and those who could reach higher did so, they screamed leave our mommie alone, leave her, leave her, tears streaming down their faces. Each of those four little bodies came on four distinct afternoons when take me George, take me, from behind, in front anywhere you fancy because golly. Never remember what side I took ShirL Four little freckled faces with constant throats and beating little fists drive it out of your mind.