Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man (8 page)

It is in this spirit that this present letter is offered, and I can only hope that it will prove valuable, to everyone from yourself as Captain of the Ship down to the lowliest member of the crew, and indeed to the whole entity that
is
Whitestone.

I have several suggestions, so let me take them one at a time:

(1) It seems to me that, while an incident well known to both of us (and to half the world) may have been responsible for the commercial failure of
Ronald Rabbit’s,
the magazine may have had a strike against it to begin with. I refer, of course, to the charge of male chauvinism which was ofttimes leveled at us. Could we not revive the magazine, in essentially the same format—though slightly updated, needless to say—but with a change of title? Reborn as
Rachel Rabbit’s Magazine for Girls and Boys
, it would seem that we would be
au courant
in a rather exciting way. I had first considered the title
Rozanne Rabbit’s Magazine for Girls and Boys
but rejected it for the time being on the grounds that it might provoke any number of “inside gags” in the publishing industry concerning an executive secretary with that first name who is possessed, if you will, of an insatiable appetite for carrots. This would not be a problem with Rachel, or, come to think of it, with Rosalie, Rhonda, Ruth or Rita.

(2) Should your reaction to (1) be favorable, I would beg to be considered for the post of editor. I should be glad to submit a resume upon request, and, if policy dictates, would willingly assume the
nom de guerre
of Laura Clarke for the term of employment.

(3) This last point may well be the most important of all. In any mammoth corporation, Mr. Finch, an executive is faced with the problem of delegating authority wisely. One cannot take too much upon one’s own shoulders, nor yet can one put too much trust in the good judgment of inferiors.

What brings this all home is a letter I today received. It seems to have originated from your office, and was either signed by a subordinate or, in the crush of daily work, was signed by yourself without you having taken the time to read it. A glance will assure you that you would not at your worst moment be capable of producing such drivel. While a letter of this sort directed to me would have no obvious repercussions, you can surely imagine the results if a more important letter were handled in this fashion. For that matter, even this particular letter could have unfortunate results should it be widely circulated among, for example, editorial and sales personnel. While the word
laughingstock
is a bit strong, I’m sure the point is clear to you.

In the event that you do not have a copy of the letter at hand, I am enclosing herewith a Xerox copy for your attention.

With all good wishes,

Laurence Clarke

Editor Emeritus

LC/s

Enc.

12

Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls

67 West 44
^th
Street

New York 10036

LAURENCE CLARKE,

EDITOR

June 23

Miss Rozanne Gumbino

Whitestone Publications, Inc.

67 West 44
^th
Street

New York 10036

Dearest Rozanne:

The offer still holds, you gorgeous cunt, you.

Hungrily,

The Phantom

13

74 Bleecker St.

New York 10012

June 23

Mr. Ronald David Caulder, Esq.

Muggsworth, Caulder, Travis & Beale

437 Piper Blvd. Richmond, Va.

Dear Mr. Caulder:

I have it on reasonably good authority that you are presently engaged in the preparation of a suit of defamation of character against Mr. Clayton Finch, President of Whitestone Publications, Inc.

This puts me in a rather awkward position, as I have ties of allegiance to both Mr. Finch and yourself, having served one in the capacity of editor and the other in the capacity of son-in-law. My first impulse was to sit this one out on the sidelines, but further reflection has convinced me that neutrality in this instance would be cowardly and irresponsible.

Accordingly, I’m enclosing herewith a Xerox copy of a letter I received today from Mr. Finch. You’ll note his reference to yourself in the passage I’ve marked. His characterization of you as “either terribly confused or a raving maniac,” and his recommendation that I cease to employ you professionally, would certainly seem to be actionable. Of course mine is only a lay opinion in every sense of the word, and you will no doubt be better able to judge this point.

At the same time, I do owe a measure of loyalty to Mr. Finch for past favors. Thus, should this matter ever come to court, it would be my duty to testify on his behalf. I would then confirm his charge and would testify that, during the time I have known you, you have frequently been terribly confused and have more than occasionally acted the role of a raving maniac.

My regards to your client Mrs. Clarke. Please convey to her my best wishes for success in her forthcoming marriage.

Very truly yours,

Laurence Clarke

LC/s Enc.

14

219 Maple Road

Richmond, Virginia

Saturday

Dear Larry,

I ought to know better than to write you this letter. You’ll probably send a copy of it to my father, or to
The New York Times
, or God only knows where. And I get the feeling that the more I ask you not to, the more likely it is that you will, which gives me pause. I’ve always said that you were the strangest person I’ve ever known. That’s your charm, sugar loaf, but it’s also your downfall. I think right now your madness has taken its strangest form to date. I’ve heard of dancing manias and praying manias. There was a poet, Christopher Smart, who used to make his friends fall down in the streets of London and pray with him. They tucked him away in Bedlam. Samuel Johnson said he didn’t think the man was all that mad, and that he’d as soon fall down and pray in the streets with Kit Smart as anyone else in London.

Why am I telling you this? I think it’s because there’s nobody to talk to about anything much more complex than the weather and baseball. Dammit, I miss New York. It’s nice breathing fresh air, but it gives you all this energy, lover, and then you have nothing to do with it because you’re in Richmond. Or rather I’m in Richmond.

But to get back to you. You seem to have a correspondence mania, and I don’t understand it, but I can see where it might be fun. And at least you’re writing something. You know, sometimes I think that’s why I left you. You were a writer and you weren’t writing anything, and that went against the grain of the old Protestant Ethic, of which I suppose I’m still a willing captive.

Hmmmm. Why, indeed, am I telling you this? I guess to warn you to be careful of Father. You know about his bark. His bite is even worse. Please do not provoke him.

You’re going to send him this fucking letter. I just know you are. Dammit, don’t.

Well, Richmond is beginning to get to me, as I think I said. I’m getting the old urge for a trip to Big Town. Thought I might come up next weekend and take in a couple of shows. Maybe I’ll give you a ring and we can gripe about old times or something.

If I thought you could be trusted, I would make you a deal. I know you can’t, but I’ll offer the deal anyway. If you’ll quit mailing things to Daddy, especially this letter, I’ll stop trying to get blood from your turnip. In other words, I’ll lay off on the alimony demands until you start to get things together.

On the other hand, Larry love, if you decide to be a total rat bastard and send this to Daddy, I’m going to drop the reins and give him his head. He has been telling me to have you thrown in jail for nonpayment of alimony. I have been telling him not to be silly, because how could you earn money to pay me if you were in jail? Still, prison would keep you from mailing any objectionable letters, so if you force my hand, you’ll get locked up, darling.

You can still send
me
letters, though. Stories about your various escapades and all. I’d like to hear more about your role as Mad Poet with those damsels, for example. It’s something to read whilst playing with myself. I’ve rediscovered masturbation lately, which should give you an idea of the social swim here in Richmond. Incidentally, masturbation is a lot more fun when you’re old enough to know what you’re doing. Like youth, it’s largely wasted on the young.

I’ll call you when I get to town.

Lisa

15

74 Bleecker St.

New York 10012

June 29

Miss Rozanne Gumbino

311½ West 20
^th
Street

New York 10011

Darling Rozanne,

You’ll note that I am not writing this letter on my official
Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls
stationery, nor am I sending it to you at your office. That’s because it is not official company business. On the contrary, this is a personal letter from me to you, from a man to a woman, and thus I am using ordinary typing paper and sending it to you at your home.

The reason I am writing you, Rozanne, is to provide you with transcripts of several telephone conversations I’ve had over the past few days. Perhaps you have already made notes of these conversations. If so, then this letter is a waste of time for both of us. But you seemed so agitated when I talked to you that it occurred to me that you might have failed to make a permanent record of the conversations, and so it seems worth the risk of duplication to put this down in writing for you.

I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I am rendering the conversations in simple dialogue, without identifying the two speakers. This is precautionary, to prevent identification of the speakers should the letter fall into alien hands.

“Hello?”

“How do I know that’s all you’ll do?”

“Who is this?”

“What I mean is, if I knew that was all you wanted to do, if I thought I could trust you—”

“Oh, hello there!”

“You know who this is?”

“Yes, I think I do. I think I’ve heard this voice over the telephone before.”

“Yes, telling you to come to his office.”

“Yes, indeed. It’s as though the earpiece of the telephone suddenly filled up with tits.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that!”

“Tits, tits, tits.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Tits, tits, tits. Did you get my letter? The offer still holds.”

“You’re really terrible, aren’t you?”

“Not to those who know me.”

“The thing is—”

“Yes?”

“Oh, my God.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong number. This is the Mad Poet of Bleecker Street.”

“I know who it is.”

“For a minute I thought—”

“Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“What you wrote in your letter. Are you listening to me?”

“I’m all tongue.”

“What did you say?”

“Ears. I’m all ears.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“True.”

“I ought to hang up.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“If I thought you meant it—”

“Of course I meant it.”

“I mean if I thought that was as far as it would go, if it would be just that—”

“Yes?”

“I have to hang up.”

“Tits, tits, tits.”

“I’m hanging up. I can’t listen to any more of this. I’m hanging up.”

“Tits and cunt, tits and cunt—”

“Good-bye.”

“Hello? Hello, is anybody there?”

“Hello.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. It’s the girl with all the tits.”

“You make it very hard for me.”

“
Au contraire, ma cherie.
You make it very hard for me. I’ve got it right here in my hand.”

“Oh, my God, the way you talk!”

“Aren’t you ashamed that you love it?”

“Oh, stop it.”

“All right.”

“… Hello?”

“I’m still here.”

“Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Oh, my God, I know what I want to say but I can’t even say it.”

“Give it another try.”

“If I thought—”

“If you thought you could trust me—”

“Yes.”

“—to just eat your juicy little cunt—”

“Yes, yes.”

“—and if you thought I would stop there and not try to screw you—”

“Yes, yes—”

“Then what?”

“Huh?”

“If you could trust me, really trust me, then what?”

“You know.”

“Then you might be interested.”

“Maybe.”

“How old are you?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Probably nothing. Don’t you remember?”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“Uh-huh. I guess you lived at home for a long time and now you have your own place.”

“How did you know?”

“The Phantom knows everything. He has spies everywhere. Are you a virgin?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Probably nothing, but I guess you don’t remember that, either, huh?”

“Suppose I am.”

“I already supposed you were. When you play with yourself, do you like to pretend your finger is a tongue?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“I bet you’re playing with yourself right now.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“You can trust me, you delicious cunt.”

“Trust you? I can’t even talk to you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been doing pretty well.”

“I have to go now.”

“Come on over and I’ll eat you.”

“But you would want to do other things.”

“That’s not what you’re afraid of.”

“What do you mean?”