Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man (13 page)

May I offer some unsolicited advice? It is, after all, one of the prerogatives of old age. If you’re not in the mood, just skip the following paragraph.

Here goes. The thing is, it looks as though you’re pretty sure to have a shitty summer. I wish you just the opposite, but in view of your intrafamily conflicts and your particular social role in Hicksville (and in view of Hicksville itself, which certainly must live up to its name) you and I both know that an idyllic summer is less than likely.

You may be tempted to try to work out some of these conflicts, to try to open things up and assert yourself a little. This sounds like an invitation to cop out, but I think you should, well, cop out. There’s no way you can really resolve anything, and if you try you’ll just make yourself (and everybody else) still more miserable. A vital part of the whole maturation process is learning when to cop out, and this is one of those times.

Take the frustration and put it into your painting. It’s very important to develop a creative means of getting accumulations of garbage out of your head. I do it with a typewriter. You learned a long time ago to do it in paint, and you have the advantage of producing something beautiful, while all I do is write silly letters. Stay with it, Alison. Paint like a madwoman. I think you’re phenomenally talented, for whatever it’s worth.

Things have been generally good for me lately. As you can see from the return address, I’m still living with Rozanne. She knows you were here that day, by the way, and is perfectly agreeable about that sort of thing.

Have a good summer, kid. I envy you all that fresh air and sunshine. But New York does have its compensations, as you well know.

At least you’ll be able to get away from time to time. Whenever you get a chance to come into the city, please do. You can always stay overnight at our place. Rozanne is anxious to meet you.

Madly and poetically,

Larry

24

WHITESTONE PUBLICATIONS, INC.

67 West 44
^th
Street

New York 10036

From the desk of Clayton Finch, President

July 15

Mr. George Ribbentraub

Ribbentraub Realty Corp.

414 East 14
^th
Street

New York 10003

Dear Mr. Ribbentraub:

Mr. Hector Carbo has given your name as a reference, and I would greatly appreciate your giving me any pertinent information on the man’s employment record with you, plus any general remarks you might care to offer concerning his character and personal habits.

The post for which Mr. Carbo is under consideration carries a considerable load of executive responsibility and calls for keen all-around judgment and accomplished editorial skills. Should we decide to employ Mr. Carbo, he will take the helm of
Rachel Rabbit’s Magazine for Girls and Boys
.
This publication, while essentially a revamped version of a proven success, is in other respects a new venture entirely, oriented as it is towards Women’s Liberation for the junior set. We feel very strongly about its potential, not only as a highly marketable item but as one which may beneficially influence contemporary American culture.

In this light, I would appreciate any information which may reflect on Mr. Carbo’s suitability or lack thereof.

Warmest regards,

Clayton Finch

CF/rg

25

WHITESTONE PUBLICATIONS, INC.

67 West 44
^th
Street

New York 10036

From the desk of Clayton Finch, President

July 19

Mr. Laurence Clarke

74 Bleecker Street

New York 10012

Dear Mr. Clarke:

You go too far, Mr. Clarke.

I had begun to think that this unilateral war directed against me was over. It seems you are determined to persist in it. As the result of your latest folly, I found myself entangled in a completely hysterical conversation with a person named Ribbentraub, who wanted to know why I wanted to hire some Puerto Rican janitor as a magazine editor. I had a great deal of trouble disengaging myself from this lunatic but ultimately managed to convince him of what I suspected myself, that the whole affair was the result of an innocent misunderstanding.

Innocent!

Mr. Ribbentraub, however, was not so easily put off. He promptly mailed me a letter which he had received, typed on my own letterhead with my own signature rather inexpertly forged on the bottom of it. I might still have been in the dark but for your use of the
Rachel Rabbit’s
nonsense, which instantly identified the perpetrator of the deed as yourself.

I could even forgive this last, Clarke, but for an even more grievous effort on your part, which I uncovered only through further communication with poor Ribbentraub. I called him to attribute this madness to you, and to persuade him to give me your forwarding address. This he did, and I thus discovered that you had the temerity to supply him with the address of my secretary, Miss Gumbino.

For heaven’s sake, Clarke, what’s the point of this sort of nonsense? Why besmirch the name of an innocent girl simply to gratify your sense of the ridiculous? It accomplishes absolutely nothing. No one is fooled by your little performances, no one at all. I’m happy to report that I passed this information on to Miss Gumbino, who as you may well imagine was roundly shocked by what you attempted to imply. Fortunately, however, she was able to tell me that there have been no repercussions from your little prank, and that you have ceased to press your unwelcome attentions upon her. Perhaps you do have some element of decency in you. Hardly an abundance thereof, but some.

Nevertheless, you have gone too far, as I said above. I am thus obliged to tell you that, in the seemingly unlikely event that you eventually bestir yourself to seek gainful employment, it will no longer be possible for this office to provide you with a favorable reference.

How on earth did you manage to filch my personal letterhead, Clarke? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear from you or of you ever again. While I cannot go so far as to say that I wish your death, I must allow that your obituary is one I would read with some pleasure.

I am sending this letter to your old address. I assume you did not play the same odd prank on the Post Office that you visited upon Mr. Ribbentraub, and that this will reach you in due course.

Clayton Finch

CF/rg

26

Ribbentraub Realty Corp.

414 East 14
^th
Street

New York, New York

“A Realty Corporation With A Heart”

July 20
^th

Mr. Laurence Clarke

c/o Gumbino

311½ West 20
^th
Street

New York 10011

Dear Clarke:

All right already, you little bastard. This is to notify you formally that Ribbentraub Realty Corp. hereby formally agrees to termination of the lease on premises occupied by you at 74 Bleecker St., New York City, and further agrees that no obligation, financial or otherwise, exists between the parties.

You got what you wanted, you little son of a bitch. I fired that moron Carbo but hired him back again. You ever show up around 74 Bleecker and Carbo is probably going to break your fucking head for you.

As far as I’m concerned you’re a dirty little son of a bitch, but credit where credit is due and all of the rest of it. Which is that I have to admit that you’re one sharp little cocksucker.

You ever want a job, I can probably find something for you to do, you little bastard.

George Ribbentraub

GR/rls

27

c/o Gumbino

311½ West 20
^th
St.

New York 10011

July 20

Mrs. Lisa Clarke

c/o Mr. Roland Davis Caulder, Esq.

Muggsworth, Caulder, Travis & Beale

437 Piper Blvd.

Richmond, Va.

Dear Lisa:

Forgive me for writing you in care of your attorneys. I somehow misplaced your address, but knew that it would be safe to write you in this fashion. Certainly a man like your father would not dream of opening your mail, not with his high ethical standards.

Of course if he did open it, he would be sure to seal it in such a way that you wouldn’t suspect a thing. Makes you stop and wonder, doesn’t it?

But my purpose in writing is not to provoke you, much as you may think so. Actually I’ve mellowed lately to a degree which might surprise you. If you’ll think back to your last letter, you were dead certain while writing it that I would pass it on to your father. As a matter of fact, I haven’t passed it on to anyone. Of course Rozanne has read it, along with various people who have turned up at the apartment, but there’s no reason for that to bother you.

As a matter of fact, it’s that very letter that prompts me to write this one. For a couple of weeks now I’ve been expecting you to write or call or turn up on my doorstep, and was rather looking forward to a reunion with you. I know Rozanne has expressed an interest in meeting you, and it is an interest I share all the way.

I really expected you to show up this past weekend. You might say I was counting on it, and so was Rozanne. But fortunately we did have company, as it happened. Ellen Jamison turned up Saturday afternoon and stayed with us until just after lunch Sunday, when she had to catch a bus back to Bryn Mawr. While her presence wouldn’t have made you any less welcome—Ellen has heard a lot about you and would like to meet you sometime—it might have been just the slightest bit awkward having two guests, as our space here on West 20
^th
Street is somewhat limited. There’s only the one bed, and four would be an awfully tight squeeze.

Well, if nothing else, Lisa love, I can at least tell you what you missed out on. You already know a lot about Rozanne, because I remember I sent you a copy of a letter I wrote to Rozanne herself. Suffice it to say that the situation worked itself out surprisingly well, and that the cloistered Italian virgin was turned into a sexual dynamo by the simple expedient of—

No, come to think of it, I’m not going to tell you how I did it.

Some other time, perhaps.

You’ll want a description of Rozanne, and of Ellen.

I’ve already described Ellen for you, but how do I know if you keep all my letters as faithfully as I keep yours? Here we go, from a letter I wrote to Steve Adel:

“On my right, Ellen Jamison, red-haired and slim-hipped and flat-chested and freckled. If her father ever loses his several million dollars, she can always earn a living posing for Norman Rockwell. She even has braces on her teeth.”

And now a description of Rozanne, from another letter to Steve:

“But one look at Rozanne and a guy like you would begin to salivate. The easiest way to describe it for you, Steve, is like so—picture your ultimate unattainable ideal in tits, improve on it, and you’ve got Rozanne…. Aside from her breasts, Rozanne is just an average beautiful girl. Long black hair, dark complexion, fierce eyebrows, deep, liquid dark-brown eyes, and a strong nose and chin. A slim, supple body that is far too slim and supple for those breasts (but who’s complaining, right?) tapering to a tiny waist and widening to
a perfectly round ass. Hips designed for easy childbearing and joyful childconceiving. Good legs. Not great legs, but damned good legs.”

So there the three of us were in our apartment.

It was awkward at first, I’ll admit it. See, Rozanne had never made it with a girl before, and she was nervous about it, and the nervousness was contagious, as nervousness so often is. We had talked about it, Rozanne and I, but talking about it is not the same thing as doing it.

Rozanne was all for it, actually. She liked to talk about what she would do in a situation like this, or have me talk about what the daughters of Lancaster had done with each other. Talking about it served as an exciting prelude to sex for her. But now Ellen was right there in the room, and we all knew we were all going to ball, and none of us were coming right out and saying so, and it created a certain degree of tension.

Rozanne asked what kind of a summer Ellen was having.

“A dreary one,” Ellen said. “Perfectly drab. There are no people around.”

I said, “I gather nothing happened with Ralph.”

“His name isn’t Ralph.”

“I didn’t really think it was, but I couldn’t remember it for some reason.”

“It’s Ronald.”

Rozanne said, “How could you forget that? Ronald as in Rabbit.”

“It guess that’s why I forgot.”

“I wish I could forget,” Ellen said. “He’s Ronald Rabbit, all right.”

“Oh, then something did happen.”

“Barely. He came while he was on the way to the bed. It won’t be hard to follow your advice about not falling in love with him, Larry. And he won’t fall in love with me. He won’t even look at me. My poor mother.”

(Oh, I forget to tell you, Lisa. Ralph—I mean Ronald—is Ellen’s mother’s current husband. But not for long, if Ellen is to be believed.)

Well, that at least got the conversation around to the topic of sex. Next, I told Ellen to come over and give me a kiss because I had forgotten how braces tasted. (She wears them on her teeth.) (Where else?)

We have a long absorbing kiss, and then I went over and kissed Rozanne, and then I said, “Well, that’s two sides to a triangle. Now why don’t you two kiss and make out?”

Rozanne’s face took on a troubled look. She had already told me once or twice that she could see herself doing all sorts of more obviously sexual things to a girl, but couldn’t quite picture herself kissing one.

Ellen didn’t share this hangup. She went right over and put her arms around Rozanne and kissed her full on the mouth, and I looked at the two of them, and all at once my pants felt too tight.

Rozanne’s face was all flushed when the kiss ended, but whether this was from excitement or embarrassment I couldn’t say. Perhaps a mixture of the two. She sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed and Ellen sat next to her and put her head on her shoulder. (Put her head on Rozanne’s shoulder, that is to say. It’s a lot easier to describe situations involving only one person of each sex, let me tell you. As soon as there are two girls in the game, pronouns start getting screwed up.)