A Fairy Tale of New York (8 page)

"Sit down Mr Christian.''

"Sure."

"Take off your shoes. And give me your coat. See if I can match the buttons.''

Christian taking off his shoes. Musk looking for buttons. Put the socks away back in my pocket. Where they make a nice cold wet impression on the thigh. If you get up one strange female. The organ wants to get up another. Globes of her arse. Mouth watering rotundities. Hear hammers banging. And something being sawn. Vine has turned undertaking into heavy industry.

"How do the shoes fit."

"Fine."

"Here. The buttons aren't exact but you can't really notice."

"Take off your pants."

"I beg your pardon.''

''Don't you want them pressed.''

"I think they're all right"

"Mr Vine likes everyone to have a sharp crease.''

''But this is tweed. Bagginess is de rigueur.''

"I don't know what this rigor is but Mr Vine still likes a crease. It 11 only take me a minute.''

"Miss Musk all I've got is my shirt tails. I was in such a rush this morning to get to work I forgot a lower undergarment.''

"I don't mind. I'm open minded. As naturally you'd expect I would be."

Christian stands unbuttoning his trousers. Miss Musk turning away. Clearing her throat as she pushed back drawers and stacked back shoes. Cornelius's shirt tail draped over his projecting organ. As Miss Musk reaches for the trousers held out to her. Stares me right in the eye. Her skin has peach fuzz. My stiff and naked prick has none.

"Miss Musk I want to thank you very much for doing all this."

"You 're welcome.''

"I guess you really enjoy your work.''

"Yes I do. It's so interesting. And such a privilege to work for such a great man like Mr Vine.''

Miss Musk unfolding an ironing board from the wall. Plugs an electric cord into the two little socket holes. Lays and smoothes out a trouser leg. Takes off her gold bracelet. Sprinkles water on a cloth from a bottle.

"What did you do before you became an undertakeress.''

"I tried to be a model. But I guess I wasn't good looking enough. They said I had the figure but not the face. Then I went back to graduate from high school.''

''I think you 're very good looking.''

"Well thank you."

"Are you athletic."

"Yes very. My best subjects were civics and physical education. I was head of the cheer leading squad and then drum majorette. I won the Bronx twirling championship and the trophy awarded annually by Mr Vine.''

"Really."

"And he offered me a job. I've never regretted it. All the important people you meet. In suite three, the deceased was killed by his wife hitting him with a plank. It was all over the papers she only weighed ninety eight pounds and her husband was two hundred. Wonderful how she did it. And in suite two next to the chapel it's the boy who was murdered by this gang. He was from a good family and home. The gang just stabbed him to death. All over the face and body. Twenty two stab wounds. Mr Vine prepared him. I'll show yon, he looks marvelous. You just couldn't tell where the knife went in. Just let your pants dry a minute.''

Miss Musk hanging Christian's trousers over a casket trestle. Slips her bracelet back on. Turns to face me. I sit my shirt tail poked up. Just like her nose. Her shoulders slightly heaving. As she walks past and locks the other door behind us.

"I wouldn't like any one to walk in Mr Christian while you're like that. So easy for someone to get the wrong idea. If they came in. With all the going and coming today we 've got.''

"Miss Musk can I ask you a question."

"O sure."

"I hope you won't be offended.''

"O I won't be offended."

''Would you hug me.''

"What are you asking. I mean I'm not offended but I don't know whether I could answer a question like that.''

"You mean no, you won't hug me.''

"It's during working hours. And it's kind of fresh. Besides I hardly even know you.''

''It would help you get to know me.''

"Well I don't get sexually excited at the drop of a hat.''

''I was only asking for a friendly touching gesture.''

"You're a fast operator. How do you know I do that kind of thing."

"What thing."

"Hugging."

"Do you."

"Well I think that's my business.''

"Just an endearment, a dalliance while my trousers are drying."

"I don't think you should get so familiar, undressed like that Mr Christian. I know sometimes girls are forward but I'm not that kind of girl, even though I'm very broad minded. But I'm not off ended."

"Then don't stand so far away.''

"Well I 've got to, lordy sakes. I have responsibilities.''

"I admire your fingers. They're so delicately tapered. The soft peach fuzz. You have on your arms and your face haven't you. Please, may I. Just rub it. Please."

"Just ordinary little hairs that's all."

"Please. Come closer.''

"You haven't even dated me.''

"I'd like to. Come on. Just a touch.''

"I'm engaged to be married.''

"Is he an undertaker.''

"No he's a salesman. And maybe I think you've got your nerve. You didn 't seem like that kind of person at all.''

"Miss Musk, I'm an orphan. And just a pampering enfolding caress, sinless and pure often rids me of the awful glooms I sometimes feel."

"Well gee I'm sorry you're an orphan but everybody feels that way once in a while, lordy sakes. People just don't get right away what they want. I'm just surprised. I wouldn't expect that from you being cultured the way you are and coming back from Europe. Such a lousy trick too, to pull on your wife. She was one of the most beautiful deceased we've ever had. Sorry. But that's how I feel. Here maybe you should get your pants back on.''

"This city is against me.''

"No it's not at all. Not if you give of your best. And please don't feel I don't appreciate what you've said to me, I would like it if we got to know each other better. Mr Vine said you were very smart. And that you would go a long way and get right up to the top.''

"And jump off."

"That's cynical."

''What's your first name, Miss Musk.''

"Elaine. My friends call me Peaches.''

"Ah Peaches would that you give me a chuck under the chin at least."

"Can we have an understanding. I would like you to get over your wife's death first. And then.''

"And then."

"Well then. I don't know. But lordy the time. I've got to get back to work.

Trousers creased I watched streams of school children enter Vine's Funeral Parlor. Miss Musk organising them in relays throughout the afternoon. The little attention buzzers ringing. Folk standing in the lobby smoking cigarettes. A squeak in the rest room door as it opened and closed. Miss Musk found me a can and I oiled the hinges. She smiled at me. Made my pecker go up again. Then two little boys approached.

"Mister are you the undertaker.''

"Yes."

"Well we brought our own plant here and we wanted to put it by the casket of our friend who died in there but they wouldn't let us. Could you put it somewhere for us. Everywhere they got all those roses. Guess our plant doesn't look so hot. But we don't have any money for flowers."

"Ok kids. Follow me."

Christian entering the suite. Dead boy with his hands folded one across the other. Entwined with rosary beads. Faintest pink marks on his face. Where the knife went in. The white casket top open under a bower of fern. Red vigil lights burning. A pillow of flowers. A small blond head and wavy hair. Christian taking the plant from its wrapping and placing it center of the green draped altar.

"There you are kids.''

"Thanks a lot mister. He was our best friend. We don't hold no grudge against the killers. Now that he's dead. What good would it do. But we want the police to catch them. And give them their just desserts.''

Darkness falling. Vine leaving his office. Carrying away his rolls of drawings. Miss Musk holding open the front swing doors for him. I checked the temperatures and ushered people to their suites. Took coats and hung them in the little cloak room. Couple of people gave me a quarter. Bead the newspaper on a long visit to the crapper. Where I thought the thoughts of all my dreams. When I would come to this new world. And skim over the highways singing, arms out in a cross in the sun. A land sprinkled with money. Cry out for joy stuffing it in my pockets. And climb into the sky rich and strong. Instead of sitting here. Leaky arsed forlorn. Staring down on the black and white tiles. In this steel grey walled cubicle. So hoping Miss Musk would get down on her knees and take it in the mouth. But everybody wants to blow their own horn instead of yours. No matter how much your melody is laughter sweet.

Passing cars crackling the ice as people dwindled away out into the cold night. Taking their sadnesses home to sleep. Sat starving till ten o'clock when Miss Musk came back with food. In a big brown paper bag. I waited tilted back on a chair against the wall. Folded hands in my lap. Licking my lips as she took out the neat white little packages. Set them down in their wax paper wrapping. Bolls with slabs of Virginia ham and caraway seeds. A container of hot coffee and cinnamon buns. Two pickles and cardboard trays of potato salad.

"I hope it's o k what I got. Well what a day. So cold out. It's zero. There shouldn't be any more mourners this late. I've locked the front. Now how do you like that, there's the emergency bell. I'll go. Help yourself."

Something strange. Makes you get up. Just as you enjoy a mouthful and it gets lumped in your throat as it squeezes down. Just take a look. Two policemen entering. Politely taking off their caps, standing asking something. Miss Musk points this way. Move my balls to the left side of my trouser leg. I need to pee. All three turning to look at me. What in god's name have I done now. Besides make a carnal suggestion of hugging. Just beginning to feel at home here. Genuinely liking the hushed whispers, the odd little wail. The sorrow, the peace and quiet. The blue uniforms approach.

"You're Cornelius Christian."

"Yes."

"We're police officers. Don't do anything foolish now and put your hands up."

''I beg your pardon.''

"We're arresting you under suspicion of murder. Frisk him Joe."

Christian slowly raising his arms. Miss Musk open mouthed backing away. Officer behind Christian patting him up and down. And over the pockets. From one of which he pulls my still wet lump of socks. A mourner coming out of a suite, her bent head straightens and her handkerchief drops from her face. Takes only a casual incident to knock sorrow for a loop. When you become a prisoner. Other people become free. And look at you.

And

Murmur

Golly

Winikins

9

Squad car siren roaring through the icy streets. Pulls up outside a red brick police station. On the west side of town. Up the stone steps between the twin globes of light. Inside desks and shirt sleeved policemen. And through a very brown door. The bars of cells.

Christian sitting on a plank. With a blanket and a pillow. Across from a man lying his hands folded behind his head quietly murmuring mother fucker and staring at the ceiling. Joe, a policeman pounding a type writer, shook his head and offered me a cigarette as I sat by his desk answering questions. Said what does a presentable decent looking guy like you want to go and shoot someone for.

And just before midnight. On my second day of work. In prison accused of murder. Said my fingerprints were all over the joint. I said what joint. You know fella what joint. An elegant guy like you killing people with such a cheap gun. Sit with the nightmare storming through one's head. Mrs Sourpuss's soft pliant body riddled with bullets. Doorman saw me coming and leaving. She looked alive and snoring when I left. They ask why did you do it. And I wish I were Mr Peabody instead of me.

A loud voice outside coming along the corridor. Familiar drawling quiet words of power. Keys opening up the cell. Mr Vine stepping in.

Cornelius standing. At absolute attention, hands straight down at my sides. Clarance Vine with a black satin collared overcoat. A white silk scarf flowing from his neck. Black gloves folded in his hands, his cheeks red and eyes watering.

"Christian. When are you going to get on the ball."

"I'm innocent."

"Take it easy."

"I didn't kill Mrs Sourpuss I swear it. She was asleep when I left."

''What do you mean, Mrs Sourpuss she was asleep.''

"She was. There wasn't a thing wrong with her.''

"Now wait a minute Christian, let's get this straight.''

"I only know her foot was sticking out from under the covers."

"I see. Sticking out. From under the covers. Well that's nice. And where were you.''

"I was standing right there. I mean I went to the bathroom to get dressed so I wouldn't wake her up.''

"I see. A true bedroom gentleman. Well that's very interesting Christian.''

"I heard someone at the end of this long hall as I was leaving. It could have been Willie looking for revenge.''

"Well I hope I'll get my revenge for being woke up after I just got to sleep. I don't know Willie but lucky for you I know the captain of this precinct. Otherwise you'd be spending the night here."

"They 're going to let me go.''

''That's what the sergeant says.''

"Why, have they found the killer.''

"They caught him twenty minutes ago in Brooklyn."

"Wow thank god. Who did it.''

"Her nephew. They're still getting the confession. And by the way Christian, the victim was a Mrs Grotz.''

Wednesday morning and for every morning of that week I was nineteen minutes early for work. Would have been twenty but I spent a minute's silence rejoicing outside Mrs Grotz's door. This town might yet be fit for the pure of spirit. Clarance Vine took me to a diner after my arrest and bought me two hot chocolates and two pieces of lemon meringue pie. Also gave me a little lecture on loose living and electrocution. And as I left the taxi he said Christian maybe they should have booked yon on another charge. Lady killer.

Lay in bed that night hands cupped upon my organs of regeneration. Thinking of the electric chair. Which Vine said is not nice to watch nor smell in use. But no shortage of folk on the train to Sing Sing who slip in for the show. Photographs of previous clients up on the wall. Some of them nice looking guys. Just like you would have been Christian if you'd got the hot seat. They slam in the volts. A nice and generous serving at first. Supposed to blot you out instantly. Then five hundred volts every half minute for two minutes afterwards. To get rid of your twitches. If that doesn't work they cut you up in an autopsy to see why. One guy walked away alive twice. Hadn't drunk enough water recently to conduct the electricity. Which heats up the spinal canal. And your heart's hot when they cut it out. Also nice and soft at first but it then shrinks, the blood goes dark and the heart gets hard. Not nice if people still have feelings after death.

Miss Musk clapped her hands silently upon my return. Rising on her toes in a navy blue dress. Said lordy sakes Mr Vine wouldn't believe me when I said you'd been arrested. And she brought me the daintiest of delicacies for our little snacks we shared on her desk. As well as her pictures in the newspaper when she was twirling champ. In boots and thighs and a flimsy satin skirt. Said she liked my tailoring I got from Brooks Brothers. Where the gentleman haberdasher remarked confidentially that I was one of those rare customers whose body was just made for their suits.

And Saturday afternoon. I sat alone after four times counting my week's pay. Browsing through the Social Register. Not even one Christian mentioned amid all the awesome privileged names. Among which I would love to be deeply embedded. Born in Brooklyn, raised in the Bronx and elevated to a listing. With an address of a yacht anchored off the Bahamas. And a string of clubs designated after my name. The morning mailman wobble kneed with a bag full of invitations. To play real tennis and dine later with the titans of industry. Warmly smiled upon by their loose living face lifted ice skating wives.

And the phone rang. Said please may I speak to Mr Christian. I said speaking. She said I just thought I'd call you, it's Fanny here, how have you been.

"I was in prison for murder."

"Already."

"I didn't do it."

"Well come over here and see me why don't you Monday about eight."

Sunday washing all my socks, shirts and underwear, hanging them drying on a string strung across the cold room. The tenants of the house shouting out their doors. Complaining of no heat. And Monday I had a full day. First in the crimson lined casket and then in the purple. Vine shouting everytime I smiled, to be dead serious Christian or it ruins the picture. Amazingly comfortable lying head back on a soft pillow. Miss Musk powdering my face and pressing my hair in position with her fingers. The photographer behind his box and under his black cloth, squeezing his little bulb saying steady now, here we go, that's it.

Vine paid me an extra ten dollars for posing. Said I really had the knack when it came to looking like a corpse. I said thanks a bunch. And Miss Musk helped me dismount and gave me a reassuring squeeze of the hand. Her boy friend took her to Radio Center Music Hall and night club dancing afterwards. I stood sneaking a look out between Vine's curtain as her swain opened the car door for her. Can tell by the roadster he drives and the kind of natty hat he wears that he can't take punches in the belly. Which I 'd like to give him free of charge.

And on a former afternoon. Taking a breather from a rich Italian mother whose fat son was killed in a car crash. And who after seated convulsions of sobbing would rush to rain kisses down upon him in his casket, smearing the cosmetic work all over his face. Miss Musk finally took her to the private rest room. While I read the afternoon newspaper in her office. And thought of Fanny's gem like belly button. Foot up on a chair, elbow on my knee and chin cupped in the palm of my hand. Took a feel of the tiny silver tits on Miss Musk's drum majorette trophy engraved with Donated by the Vine Funeral Parlor. And foot steps came in. And I said how are you doing, Peaches, how about that hug. In the lengthening silence I looked up.

"O I'm sorry Mr Vine, I thought it was Miss Musk.''

"Christian, you do make it tough for me at times. You know that."

"Yes Mr Vine."

"And with the door open here and you standing there like you were at the race track."

"Sorry."

Vine also said with the air warmer and the snow melting, pneumonia and the flu would be getting them these days. And water dripped down the brownstone steps of Grotz's. Who had a whole gang of distant relatives sizing up the premises. I looked out the door right over the head of the hunched backed lawyer who came collecting the rent. And one long eared swarthy lout suggested I give him my key so he could look around my room at his leisure. I quietly said out a crack in the door in my cultured accent. Get the hell out of here. Before I come out there. And hand you sliced to the seagulls. After I blast your god damn head off. And shove a fire hydrant up your arse. And turn it on. So you get a jumbo enema.

Monday was the bluest day above. A balmy air rolling down the street. Felt it on the back of my ears as I headed for the park. To trot and walk to work. Save bus fare. And get into shape to carry out the threats I make. For the sake of instant justice. Went by the lake. Tossed a couple of stones at the ducks. Cantered up a rocky hill and across the open space they call The Green. Which is white with grass and brown with mud and never green. Walked down the back steps of the zoo past the bears. The seals through the water crashing up and down and churning back and forth. The camel peeing. The zebra with a hard on. And kids' colored balloons caught up in the trees. As I headed out onto Fifth Avenue. Jauntily strolling. Nearly said a cheerful how do to people. A sure sign you're out on an airing from the institution. And as a matron took umbrage at my passing gaiety. I whispered. What kind of soulless additives are you using to preserve you, madam.

Christian loping down past Fifty Sixth and Seventh Streets. Traffic thick. Gleaming richery exploding out of the ground. Curtained glass and radiant jewels. Placed softly ready for females. Who ease out of their limozines. Choose diamonds in the mornings. And sit under the face packs in the afternoons. Men with hairy wrists fussing a lock of blond dyed hair into a curl against Florida tanned skin. Massive windowed monuments ascending into the sky. Where pale pigeons unleash trifling indignities splattering on balconies and window sills. The glamour clean within. Where someday in glory I'll hide myself away a mystery with all my riches. With room to fart and sneeze in peace.

Miss Musk wearing clinging pink this morning. A well known publicity agent in the theatre industry reposing. With my best possible face and demeanor I waited at the door of the suite. Any second I could be discovered. And instead of imprisoned, cast in a movie. A role of swashbuckling ball clanging romance. With a huge salary dumped on me weekly with a wheel barrow. And a very chesty nipple conspicuous Miss Musk waltzed back and forth on the canary carpet. Arse wagging like a flag in a hurricane. Plying from the pole I had which-made me have to sit down. But no one came to see the deceased with his kinky grey hair except a rabbi in robes and an ancient thin wife hobbling with a cane and helped by the janitor of their building. But the bier was stacked with wreaths. From Jimmy and the band. From Tally on tour. From Zeke The Human Zeppelin. From Perth Amboy.

I helped Miss Musk prepare the casket. With a bower of lilies of the valley. At seven p.m. we were alone with this show biz departed. And his sunken eye sockets. And large round nose. Miss Musk kneeling, still trying to be discovered, making a list of names she thought might be famous. I put my hand on her shoulder. She turned, looked up and smiled. Teeth sparkling for stardom. And I don't know what made me do it. Except my enfeebled sense of humour. To anoint Miss Musk for fame. And reach and take the hand of the deceased with one big diamond ring on a finger. Lift it stiffly over, put it where mine was. On Miss Musk's back. Silently tip toe away. Leave them together. To make publicity.

Christian taking a paper cup from the glass cylinder. Pressing a foot on the pedal of the brand new water cooler recessed with terra cotta tiles in the lobby wall. Just as Clarance Vine enters, his coat open, a small black briefcase in his hand.

"How's it going Cornelius. Did the O'Shawnessy reposing get a crowd. He was prominently connected with the dramatic arts"

"No Mr Vine."

"Gee that'll be tough on the wife. She said he had a lot of friends. Boy I'm tired Cornelius. Sons of bitches are threatening a strike. And nearly every employee of this city is up there on the building site with his hand out. Feel like giving them beads they gave for this place in the first place.''

A long blood curdling scream coming from the O'Shawnessy suite. Vine's eyebrows converge. Like two battleships in collision at sea. And the hairs go up on the back of my neck. And a bowel or two trembles.

"What the hell is that Christian.''

"I don't know."

Vine dropping his briefcase on the hall table. Christian following him along the corridor and into the green darkness of the Isidore O'Shawnessy suite. Miss Musk on her back on the floor. Absolutely spread eagled. Her mouth open. Pink dress half way up her muscular thighs. Stockings pinched and pulled tight with a bright red garter belt. The deceased's arm hanging out over the side of the casket. Fingers dipping into the tips of the lilies of the valley.

Fuming up

Their fragrance

When all

We need

Is smelling

Salts