A Singular Man (19 page)

Through trial

And misfortune

Through misery

And pain

Maybe later

Vaulting fences

Like their

Daddy.

Smithy, I feel so good full of you. Want to kiss it up again. Does it need a rest. Did you get drunk with your friend Bonniface. Yes, near the canal. He said he desired malt, must find malt. And ripped a divining rod from a nearby innocent fence. Held it high in his hand, said, ho. Ho what gives. Ho. We crossed the bridge. As the divining instrument led. Yours Smithy. It's now so small and sweet. We went under the trees. By the little gardens. Up a path to a green door through flower beds. Ho. The door of this house ajar. And we walked in. Bonniface behind divining rod, through the blackness. Up stairs. I was holding to the back of his coat I said vouchsafe. He said me leader. Follow. Down a hall. Another door ajar. Bonniface fiddled with a switch and lo, there was light. Jesus saves and satisfies. Smithy, do you ever think he's been laid. Sally there were a hundred bottles marked X and Watling Street on a table in a room. Which we grasped and consumed foolishly in the dark. Bonniface said will the world ever be this way again. And if not, why not. Good things are now. Not hereafter. Smithy youVe often been silent. Did the world do something to you. To make you such a quiet man. Because it's so good to hear you talk. I must pee. That's what happened that night. Bonniface said, Smith I do not trust this divining rod to steer you to a suitable bowl. Therefore suggest you use the window this dark night. I said I wouldn't. Jesus don't pee out this window Smithy. But Bonniface said, my dear George, let me show you how. A manner and method in everything, thus, you raise the window, quietly. Handling the part carefully out through the opening made thereby. A mechanism I don't quite fully understand in the skull sends a message to the apparatus, pee, it says. And whee, signal received, a stream now emits arclike over the windowsill. Cascading down upon the old fashioned flowers spied walking up the path to the free repast. Just as Bonniface lectured, tasting each beautiful vowel, I heard unbecoming stirrings in the room below. A trembling of voices. Lights had been switched on to watch the demonstration. But with the murmurings below, Bonniface requested smartly a dousing of illumination and pronto return to stoicism. We sat stony in the dark, each with a refreshing thick brown beverage to hand. Steps up the stairs now, following upon the slamming of a door below. And click click along the hall. Another click. The switching on of the lights by an unknown hand. Bonniface yelling out the window, O my God I will roll mothballs in your direction soon. The door which was green swung open, the lights blazing, just as they were when the world was born. A brutal busty madam of fulminating nature stood framed in the door, shouting, what are you doing in my house, who's responsible for that disgusting downpour. Bonniface looked up from peaceful reverie. My good madam, how dare you address my friend and I in such a fashion. How dare you. And interrupt this gentle and kindly celebration following upon the heartfelt pleadings of my tutor. Mr. Smith, here, was a field officer in the last conflict. Many footsoldiers gave willingly of their lives under his command, as he busily figured new strategy. Furthermore I envisioned for him a nice mercantile future, with marriage, children and ponies for them to ride. She said, get out of my house I'm calling the police, you bastards pissed right in my bedroom window onto my husband and me in bed. Smithy go and do yours and come back, and tell me. You shy, aren't you. Yes Miss Tomson. Go to make a tinkle. Tinkle. Now tell me Smithy, push in close, let me hold them again, gee too small for tennis, if I phoned you, said I was full of a baby what would you say. Delighted. Would you. And what did Bonniface say to Madam. He said Madam I find it impossible to forgive you your manner in which you suggest such foulness. Who wants to waste piss on you anyway when it's needed for the benefit of roots and stems of flowers. Smithy you've never talked like this to me before, such a sweet story. Did this madam belt him one. Well madam was not lightly to be dismissed by the logical hauteur of Bonniface, she shook and trembled rather violently in the flesh. Made a rash charge at the Bonniface, who catlike was up, entwining wiry arms around her, her bosoms unflatteringly bursting forth from one of those modern manufactured fabrics. She screamed manhandling, fingering. As one heard a couple of hours ago in the Pomfret. Frequent fingering universal. And a figment, Bonniface said, of her imagination. Then gripping her person, as madam shouted loudly take your dirty hands off my tits, if my husband wasn't a cripple down there he'd come up and kill the both of you. Bonniface chucked her back out into her hall. Dare you madam, interfere with my social life. Nor should my lily hands toy with your mortal appendages. Vouchsafe they are huge. Wait till I get my stethoscope. Me mental and moral scientist madam. Bonniface then turned, said, my dear George, do pardon that unwholesome mar upon the evening, drink up, while I finish my pee. Smithy I really thought you were going to do yours out the window. Get us raided. Cops streaming in. We're on private property, Miss Tomson. You have it all figured, you scare me Smith. Guess we're both of us operators, without clothes, let me try a punch, watch this now, this left hook, below the belt, all them hours you spent at The Game Club. Christ Miss Tomson, got a nice little punch there. Smithy you see, I could really take you, I could. Want to fight. No, please Miss Tomson. Come on Smithy. Anyway, even though you're getting yellow, I like your stories. Little incident was rich. Whole big world behind you, I knew nothing about. You're a lion, you're loving what I'm saying, you bastard. I'm such an open hearted girl, do you think it will come up again. I'll make it. With a kiss. O poor Smithy I ask for too much. You got grey hairs here, and now I know why they make lolly pops. It stirred, ah ha, you don't know how exciting to make it stand up. Sort of sentimental, can I think it's all for me, it does. Yes. Sweet, I wouldn't play tennis with them, fun to tell you everything I think. Hold my breasts. Was going to tear up the newspaper a moment before I saw your ad with the slave pay, the funny sequence of words got me. Miss Tomson, I'm going to advertise more if it finds the likes of you. Smithy how did you escape madam. She rushed out her front door, turned and shouted up remonstration and got caught in the undertow as the Bonniface unleashed the urine once more. Gee he really needed a pee, Smith, like to meet him, in a raincoat, if we add up both our ages what would it be, length of it in feet, it's beautiful, to sit on. Miss Tomson. Open up my eyes at you, sitting so pleased, and all you had to do was look and askand up it went again, when I nearly think it can't, it won't, you said make it, you'll kill me, I'm dying, slipping right down, can't hold on, fingers slipping, shade pulled quietly over the brain, goodbye, don't go yet Smithy, I'm coming. Glued together. Sally, I'm only going just as I'm coming too. Sally. God. Don't mention him Smithy, they'll hear screaming in the lobby. Sally, you blanket over the desperate cold cares and mailmen lugging all the undelivered dread. Wait now till Monday. Till perhaps the Bonniface will come again rapping on the empty door of 604. Or enroll in The School Of Higher Graduation across the hall. My former friends will turn my funeral into rout. With some vulgar word drifting over the quiet peace. Four simple threadbare letters brought together. Scattering my acquaintances into the landscape. All listening cowering behind the gravestones and edifices to a meek Bonniface song.

In twilight

Too true

The enemy farts.

Get ready.

Miss Tomson throws back her long fishing rod arms. Two mouse blond powdery puffs of hair. Steamy incense of her sweat. Kiss her all down the inside of the arms. And ask her now.

"Miss Tomson."

"Yesh."

"Will you come to my funeral when I die."

"Jesus Christ, Smithy. You poor kid. Sure I will. But you're not going to die. You've got a long way to go. Sure I'll come to your funeral. But you're going to live for years and years. Tell me who was the first woman you ever slept with. So I'll have plenty to think up when I write your epitaph. I'll come to the cemetery with it written on a sign. You know you were the sweetest employer I ever had. When I hold this. It's going to be a great shame when you die."

Miss Tomson's eyes gone grey because they do at dawn she said. Marble canopy over my last remains. Few miles south of here. And she'll walk that day on her tall blond legs through the gate of the garden of deads. In her hand a little bunch of violets. Crossing the pebbled paths, a wind blowing and bending the branches of trees and some leaves will fall and float to the first step of my tomb. Near the grass verge with its little sign. Perpetually Endowed. And Sally it was that latter word the first woman I ever slept with said to me. She was a queen with hair like sugar cane and her face and lips like soft sweet putty. She saw it and said you're well endowed. The night it happened I had been tempted away from my college rooms. Had a crazy man who visited me every Friday afternoon and smoked a cigar in front of my mirror. Would laugh loudly at his image uttering dramatic remarks, and said he was an actor. I left him and went to a tavern by the quays where the college bucks were drinking and singing hymns. There was Giles who invited old men back to his college apartments for games. Members of the rowing club riposted, for God's sake, man, clean up your life. Outside this pub ships were wheeling in the river, winches trembling, cables stiffening across the dark waters as they pulled bows towards the sea. And under a table there was her leg. She was blond like you as well as a queen.

"Don't leave me Smithy, not for a few hours anyway.

Promise."

"Promise."

"I'll drive you back to town. You know. I went by Golf Street once. Taking Goliath for a walk. It was so sad. Looked up at your office and all of it empty and I nearly cried. Cigar guy, out viewing his big time display window comes across the street. Wants to know if he can help. Told him to mind his own business. You know what he said, sister if you got any connection with that guy, they caught up with him, so you better beat it. I said sic him Goliath. Did that guy skidaddle. I was gloomy. I thought God, here I am making all this money, and my poor old friend Smith had to beat it. Felt like leaving you money in my will. Even talked to my lawyer about it. You know they made a plaster model of me, it's everywhere all over town. Gave me the willies thinking what some guy might do to the cast. They had to tame down my lines. I don't know, you don't think they're too big. Why do you smile. You know Smith I don't even love you. I'm going to look at you as a curiosity in my life. You never even took me out. Or even bought me a soda. All the while I'm thinking you're broke. Till I see your apartment then I think you're the biggest tightwad who ever lived. I still do. And here you are in my arms. You haven't even offered to pay for smacking up my fenders."

"These are fine fenders."

"Just fit your hands. Wish I didn't have troubles. I'm supporting my brother. He's out of work, trying to start a corporation. I said why don't you operate like a friend I know which was you. I said he just has four walls and a pencil and cleans up. My brother wants his own building with his name on top. Said it's necessary with the kind of people he knows. God Smith you're so beautiful just lying there. You even have shoulders, not much, but impressive. If I tickled it like this it will grow big again. You better realise I'm just an innocent girl. Saying it to such an innocent guy. Sure I'll come to your funeral. This will need a little box all by itself."

Sunday morning down on the station with big stacks of newspapers lifted off the train. Cars come slowly by and take one home. The Boar Hotel, four windows curtained, closed to the light. Rain cleaned sky, with white puffs of new clouds coming from the west. Miss Tomson's black long car parked with five others on the circular drive. She pranced up two steps and waltzed in between the shrubberies. Perhaps took a right swing towards Norbert's jaw. God will never keep her out of heaven. Even when he knows.

Hers

Were large

Without hope

For tiny

Hands.

14

G
EORGE
Smith standing three thirty in the afternoon on the sultry dim lit platform of Battery Station. The day's work done. Express trains speeding by on the central track between the pillars of the rapid transit system. Forty eight days since the Sunday with Miss Tomson. Counted, for their lonely, empty deadness without her.

Smith looking at his watch. Three thirty three. Removing a white silk glove to take a square of hanky to wipe sweat off the brow. A slender black briefcase sadly full of onion paper copies of recent correspondence. Miss Martin glum as she types the actionable acrobatic answers in room 604. While I look out at the white lavatory wall of the air shaft mentally writing there antidotes to naughty scrawls elsewhere in the world.

The yellow caution lights go green at the end of the station. As Matilda with her five wedding rings, had white little circles under the gold on her dark finger. Red lipstick on her lips lighting her face. Chopped me little lambs livers for dinner and said Mr. Smith you're not ready for redemption. Or burning holy shit. We got tight together on corn liquor. Mr. Smith, forget that high class whore Miss Tomson.

Today, like all the afternoons since, I go for a sit in the park zoo. On a bench under a tree hanging with colored balloons. Mothers munching popcorn pushing new babies by. Forlorn on this Battery Station waiting. To take tea in the hotel with the dull green high bronze roof. And stay to stare down through soft green cocktail light. At my white thick cup floating a tiny bag of leaves. Hunger in stomach and heart.

The disappearing swaying rear dots of a train down the tunnel. Stale faces. Person there full of rancor. Lurking among a few grabbers at life's banquet taking early trains. Five o'clock my fencing lesson. Hopeless foil lashing in all directions. Can't help smiling behind the mask at my amusing madness. Till yesterday Master Ferendelli wrenched back his head gear, gave me a great show of teeth, said really Mr. Smith, it would be so easy to run you through, please don't smile because you think I am a pin cushion.

Hoped so much to show Miss Tomson. My sword play which I took up Tuesday first thing after that Monday morning. Lathering each other in the deep blue tub before we left for town. As she stood in the bathroom doorway ready to wash. Breasts freely flashing. I nearly fainted. Till she covered them with her elbows. Nature gave you everything Miss Tomson. Yesh I guess I'm really something. She sat quietly on the edge of the bed. I pressed it harmlessly against her tit gently nudging her backwards one last time. Timbers shivering. Not bearing or caring to go back into the public world. Or silence as we drove back to town. Said I'd pay for all the bumps and damage, as she popped me out in front of Merry Mansions. Hugo opening the door. I blew a kiss to her from behind his back. And she smiled and waved roaring off down the street.

This leaning lurking shadow near me on the station. Don't dare to look up these days in case Bonniface is staring at me out of those red barrels he calls eyes. His presence has always led me drifting to disaster. The note he sent to Dynamo full of gentle beauty, regretful for the death of Miss Tomson's dog, which he said was buried in Dogdale Cemetery with every dignity. In soft moments admit that Bonnif ace is the kindest man I know. And after all the unanswered phone calls, I mailed the news to Miss Tomson, said I'd take her there to Goliath's grave, if she drove.

The shadow bumping against Smith's shoulder. Passengers filling the platform. The distant rumble of a train. Sound of spitting. A misdemeanour. Smith looking. Rancid face. Giving one a frosty spine. And a voice growling. At me.

"Why I'm better than you are."

Smith looking up. Into dark unkind eyes. Glaring. The mean head turning sideways to spit again on the platform. Smith sidestepping into a puddle collecting a drip from the roof. Hoping for the train. Someone throwing a piece of chewing gum at the large rat gambolling down the tracks. A shout said the rat will get electrocuted. Can only see Miss Tomson everywhere, stepping out of the distant ads on the wall across the tracks. Train please come. Before this voice says something again. Clouded in an apple smell of drink.

"Why you fancy pants."

Smith's cast down eyes. Such random sadness. The world will never rear up green again. And I've had to come out into life to mix on stations, benches, in zoos. To see others living. Walled and curtained off, by the blankness Miss Tomson left. Great dim desert. Coast to coast. Where horses run thirsty and thundering. In our short sleep together I never closed an eye. And she sat up strangely and said help. Help me. I kissed her on the brow and pushed her down again. She fell silent and asleep. Her hand toying between my legs. A touch I feel across all the grey stretch of days. To drown this ugly voice.

"Why I'm going to bust you one."

Smith stepping back. Naturally. This growling person advancing, putting forth a hand to grab Smith's tailoring and tie held with such a small neat knot. Walked out of a Dynamo house so hushed and still Checked my watch on the big clock of the Treasury Building. They keep close track of time. My half day rest from letters, phone calls, and the keester harrowing communications by hand. Smell weakness and they close in all at once. Muscles across the stomach in fine fencing trim to take the first blows there before they get lower and lower. Fisticuffs from an utter stranger. Always run into trouble taking a local train. Pee on the live rail you oaf. Electric will jump up the liquid arc and snuff you out. If it's death you're looking for.

Stranger's clenched fist pulling George Smith's face close to his own. For a gaping contrast of class. Smith's left hand with briefcase raised. Right paw tightened hard in its white silken glove. A flash in the air. Smith's fist landing with a thud on this stranger's jaw. Little pearls of teeth shooting out bouncing bonelike in the puddle. A deflating sigh. Stranger spinning slowly to the platform. Brief splash in the puddle. And rolling head first from the platform into the tracks. Now tingling with the thundering of a train.

Two feet thumping over the turnstile. Shirtsleeved man from the change booth. A citizen covering his eyes and peeking through his fingers at the prospective slaughter. Some hands over mouths and a long high pitched scream. Race of more feet. The nose of the black swaying train. Towards the bleeding unconscious figure stretched on the gleaming rail. George Smith lips tight compressed. Brain tabulating all bank accounts, canes, brass pigs and umbrellas. The moments on Miss Tomson, crying
out against the nape of her neck. Soft skin of her shoulder. Her hand up over my mouth as I screamed. Hush, O George, it's all right. Yesh. Long fingers pressing in on my back. It's all right. Hold you in this terrible terror. Sleep there gently on my shoulder safely from all harm.

Crowd on the edge of the station platform. Train squealing and screeching. Yards ticking off. Hold my breath one year for each. Staring through the backs of all the heads. Silence. Voice shouting get back, get back. An elbow nudging Smith.

"What happened, suicide, someone jump. They should stop it. Work hard all day and somebody blocks the tracks when you want to go home. And ruin your appetite."

Smith's lips stiff and dry. Cold tight band of fear around the throat. Human being prostrate in the tracks under a train. A trip up river. To the great pile of rock I saw from the Prep school boat ride. Walk a last mile down the rattling corridor. To the electrodes. Juice must hurt just a little in that terrible instant. Answer the phone Sally, please. Don't leave me any longer with the sound of sirens above in the street. And this manslaughter. Lying down there.

A dark sleeve of uniform. A chocolate colored face. Looking down into George Smith's own.

"Are you a witness mister."

"O dear God."

"Look relax."

"How dead is he."

"He's all right. Train missed him."

"God."

"O.K. whos awit."

Hands dragging the body up on the platform. Blood running down over an eye and out the corners of the stranger's mouth, as he wipes a wrist across his face, lips mumbling and stares dumbly at the relieved George Smith.

"O.K. I got hit in the tracks. Maybe I started it. Took me by surprise. I could beat him in a fair fight. Look at him with them white gloves. I can beat him."

Chocolate policemen stepping in. Firemen arriving. With buckets of sand and little squirting pumps to clean the tracks. Policeman with the stranger and Smith by the arm, nodding back arriving reinforcements. Trains stopped over the whole wide city. Rumours spreading. A guy jumped holding his nose, blessed himself first. Party of police with Smith and stranger climbing up the chewing gum covered steps between the white balls of glass and past a man standing with a sandwich sign. Who was arrested on the spot because it said a large rude word.

Smith all stony and silent with his little briefcase in the police station. The entrance, flanked by green balls of glass. Glass swing doors. Rap of typewriters down long narrow corridors. Little group standing before a desk giving particulars to the sergeant. Doctor examining the victim sitting with a handkerchief up to his face. Chocolate policeman patting Smith quietly on the back.

"Don't worry mister, he started it. I got addresses of the witnesses."

Smith yessing his head. Flashes of fear over the knees. Silent eyes everywhere. Full of death. Under lids in the chilled air on this hot afternoon in all the squat funeral parlours dotted here and there on the avenues. Let me go to my little bench in the park. To tea. Back to all the sad memories of my shy big Miss Tomson. Hand under her thatch of hair. On her smooth egg of skull. Miss Tomson's knees bent were round just like the world.

Outside sky grows grey. Leaves of a little tree through bars in a courtyard turning over. Lights flashing. Rain pouring down with sudden white hail. Cooling moist breeze blowing in
off
the street. Police changing shift. Taking off caps and wiping their brows. The rancid stranger, a boiler watcher in a hospital. Had to talk to his lawyer. Three of his teeth in an envelope. Said he knew how to fall. His father taught him as a kid to be a champion diver. Chocolate policeman said why don't you shut up buddy before you get another bust in the face.

Outside the hailstones are melting in white ribbons along the gutter. Police station's barren windows and faint lights against a sky of mountainous black cloud. Smith with his little briefcase slowly stepping down to the sidewalk. The boiler watcher quickly following behind. Putting a hand to Smith's back and talking to Smith's cold eyes.

"What about my suit, it's all blood and dirty and I'm going to have to have a plate. Yeah, I need new teeth. What's a matter aren't you talking. I could of pressed charges. Hey, I'm going to sue you. Sure they said I can sue you, see my lawyer. I already got pains in the head. Doctor said it was too early to tell the damage. Wait till I get the specialists at the hospital. Hey, come back. I can sue. Don't worry I got your address."

Smith walking to Golden Avenue. Stop to look at a ship safely sitting dry in a window. With tiny funnels, lifeboats, and first class cabins on the promenade deck. Sail from one shore to reach another. Across the days till they're all behind. If winter could come charging down this street. Drive all the heat away. Make the people go crouching in the buildings. And leave me to vamoose on a silver sea. With all my money stacked and packed. Guilty hearts lurk in the giant marble merchant halls. Sally you would have been proud how all the eyes of the other successful people on the station took a deep sad interest in me. Prior to the fisticuffs. Those on the hopeful way up in life turned their heads to look as I passed. Think of me. Watch the way I wave down this taxi. Light on my feet and could go into old age like swans down and float up to heaven. That place Bonniface enquired after when he appeared according to Miss Martin at the information desk at the airport near Pomfret Manor, asking if there was an afterlife and was referred to the meteorological office. They may yet get me in this steamy street. All perforated with paper bullets. Come to my funeral as you promised. Keep what you want of me. A little coffin for it, all of its own.

Bury it

In

Your window

Box.

A poppy

Will grow.