A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  "Miss Tomson, I'm glad."

  "What for Mr. Smith."

  "I'm just glad"

  "Mr. Smith what are you doing on this train."

  "Just glad I took it."

  "You can't be on a train because you're glad."

  "What stop, Miss Tomson, are you for."

  "The last. What's yours."

  "The Junction. I take a branch line."

  "All by yourself, Mr. Smith, on this train like this. I can't get over it. Guess you're seeing friends."

  "Not exactly."

  "You're a mystery."

  "What do you mean Miss Tomson."

  "Why don't you find yourself some nice girl."

  "Are you suggesting Miss Tomson I just find some nice girl just like that."

  "Sure just like that. Crazy for a man living alone not getting any."

  "Miss Tomson-"

  "And you could get plenty if you got rid of that Matilda, While she's in the house you won't get a smell. I don't mean to sort of go into your personal life or anything, you know what I mean Smithy. It's unnatural."

  "What's natural, Miss Tomson."

  "This is for your own good, Smithy, and you ought to know. That Matilda will suck you dry. Before you know it you'll be one of these guys running around to museums collecting brass monkeys and that kind of thing."

  Miss Tomson had her mixer out. Waiter gave her a tray with hers. Must be the brilliant pile of blond on her head and the legs. And in this dim blue her hands look longer than anything F^e ever seen before. Her fingernails around the glass. A black sweater and pearls.

  "You looking at these, Mr. Smith."

  "Yes."

  "Pearls."

  "Nice."

  "Real ones. Ought to be hanging right between here but I don't feel like being half naked on a night like this. I just can't get over seeing you all by yourself on this train. Guess that's all right. But Jesus you're taking the branch line as well. Come and meet my brother and his friends why don't you. Maybe you want to be alone. And I'm barging in."

  "Miss Tomson, no."

  "But you don't want to meet anybody do you."

  "Are you coming back."

  "You mean the office. I don't know, Mr. Smith, I just honestly don't know. I've been laying in bed late just thinking of it. And I bought a machine that wakes you up with music and pours out hot coffee. Boy you ought to get one. You know that's what you need, Smithy. Lacking a loving hand when you wake up."

  "I suppose so. Miss Tomson does your machine spit and grumble."

  "It's magic."

  "Where did you buy your machine, Miss Tomson."

  "It really was a present."

  "O."

  "I couldn't refuse it. On the floor outside my door in the dark. I tripped over it and broke the glass on the clock. And couldn't give it back. Now I don't want to give it back. The guy I gave the cheapest thrill he ever got to. That's who. You know all the while I'm working for you he had me watched. How do you like that. The nerve. My apartment's like a funeral parlour with all the flowers. I say to the boy, take them and give them to your mother sonny or your girl friend. You know what one little upstart says to me, I laughed, he said I like men. Smithy, can't get over this, running into you like this."

  Miss Tomson's hand came down and for a second touched Smith's knee. The train slowing through a station. A strain of Christmas carol. Look out now in the night. Community singers with a Santa Claus ringing a bell. Soon see the lights of the dam and we'll be reaching the fountains all lit up and then it won't be long. Her eyes are even bigger than they seemed before. And lashes longer. Daren't ask where she got the great bracelet. Looks too much like something I might give her and I feel too much like the guy she gave the cheapest thrill he ever got to. The touch of the hand on the knee electrified me. The dam. Great granite face. And the gem like lake below. Lit up. People on the ice.

  "Miss Tomson, they're skating down there."

  "Isn't it beautiful. Love to be on that."

  "You skate."

  "On my ass mostly. Maybe you'll give me a lesson sometime. Say where you going on the branch line."

  "Last stop."

  "Just like us on the main line. But that ain't too far, last stop of the branch, from the last stop on the main. Ha ha, sounds like a song. Why don't you drive over."

  "No car, Miss Tomson."

  "Well, why don't we drive over to you."

  If I told Miss Tomson die whole truth I suppose she'd understand* But I don't even know myself what the truth is. She's got such a good nature. If I let this chance go, it may be gone forever. It is gone forever. Miss Tomson's brother I see somehow on top of me in the snow, take this buster and it wouldn't be a straightforward manly type of defeat like I could feel some pride being prostrated by a fist, but I get the impression from his blue shadow that there would be snow rubbing in the face and my collar opened to stuff snow down my back. And of course the red underwear would excite him to visit even greater ignominy upon me. He may even carry a whip.

  "What's the matter, Smithy, you've gone silent. You don't want us to drive over."

  "Forgive me Miss Tomson, just suddenly lately my mind goes vague. I suppose it's a few problems I've got on it recently."

  "We could go skating together. Unless of course you're all tied up."

  "O no, I'm not tied up."

  Roped with cables I guess would be more like it. But how can I explain. What do you do. Can't say let's take this train ride all over again some other time and just plan to meet by accident. With all the night air frosty and hand in hand walking the ice hard ground. Looking for some chalet in the woods. Find it by its curling smoke. A log cabin made for us to have our hot chocolate drink. Or lemon and honey. When I could just lean over and eat her breath.

  "What's the matter Smithy. It's O.K., you don't have to say anything. Just a wild suggestion. I used to love these weekends, mad and crazy. But they don't thrill me any more. Just if you didn't have anything better to do, you might enjoy a skate, that's all."

  "Miss Tomson, I'm not really such good company."

  "You're swell company."

  Station name flies by. Another cemetery. Not much time left. Why do they need a junction. Tearing two people apart. Where the tracks divide. She's never said that before, swell company. Bring marshmallows to the side of the pond. Could support her under the armpit to the ice. Permit me, Miss Tomson, to show you how. Could start off with a flashy backwards figure eight, last year did it twice in a row without thundering on my ass. Need only do it once. So many excuses for grabbing her. And of course both of us could thunder down together. Doesn't bear thinking about. Save she'll bring her brother who seems terribly the type who sweeps around the ice so fast you don't know he's there till he's laid you out unconscious with a collision.

  Conductor entering the blue haze. All tickets please. Passing with his little punch. Stuffing pockets. Peeling off bills. A little roving business all by itself. Has false teeth. Says, Pleasantville Junction, next. Euphemisms everywhere.

  "Smithy. This is a house party. You know, just sort of drop over. You don't go for them."

  "Never seems to fit."

  "They'd go crazy over the bashful conservative way you are. I just wish myself I could be a wall flower like you. Come on Smithy, you got a girl up here."

  "I beg your pardon, Miss Tomson."

  "Don't hand me that I beg your pardon, Miss Tomson stuff. You got some nice rural nest tucked in the woods somewhere. Is she beautiful. A hick, maybe a farmer's daughter."

  "Really, Miss Tomson."

  How do I tell her with only minutes left that there is nothing of the sort. That I want her to come over the country hills. Meet me where I wait at some junction under the frozen winter trees with a gleaming pair of skates slung over my shoulder.

  "Smith like all quiet guys, boy. Maybe I'm thinking you're a real operator. Anyway I got to go."

  "Please stay."

  "Your stop's next. Anyway I better get over to my
brother, see the way he's rocking back and forth, means he's bragging. Don't fall through the ice with this little dish you're seeing. Thanks for the derobe. And Smithy, really have a good time, I mean it, so long."

  "Goodbye Miss Tomson."

  'Try Sally."

  "Ha ha, Miss Tomson."

  "Ha ha, see you."

  Smith watching her dark figure float away down the blue train. I care so much. Inside me. And wonder why in this world you've got to look you're going someplace. To trains, planes or meetings, otherwise you get ignored. George George George. No sad now. Life is a big bowl of cherries. Provided you get most of them. Just grab. And you'll get Miss Tomson. Sure you will. Have her dark sweatered bosoms. Kissing those mounds like mad. Goodness. And hands gripping each thin shoulder. Four freckles under the right eye. Something awkward happening in my trousers. Which could block the aisle of the train, God and his apostles forbid. Conductors and commuters trying to get past. Watch the pushing, please. O watch the shoves. As George Smith in bare skin. Spiritual. Steps down from the high frosty train onto the snow of Pleasantville Junction platform. Light shines yellow under a green glass shade in the station office. Conductor with lamp and whistle. Swinging and blowing. Train gliding away on the track turning into the winter trees and snowy woodlands.

  Smith a solitary figure with his little bag. Save for an old lady and a dog. As the great grey cars click down the rails, window by window, moving away. Give anything to be able to stand in a crowd. She'll be looking out of the club car showing me to her brother as they pass. Stand here. Show utter indifference to big country house parties everywhere. Here come the windows. All her friends will be looking too. Ready now, the pose just right. These first windows. No. The second. Must be at the observation glass at the end. Look more indifferent. Gee. Not a soul. To look at me.

  Orget

  The message

  I'm self

  Contained.

  5

  WHITE clapboard country hotel. The Goose Goes Inn. Often reminding George regrettably of Mrs. Goldminer. Last night the snow flurries turned into a blizzard. Whiteness now lays heaped high through the morning woods and pink on the sunny hills.

  Smith arrived at the hotel in the dark. And in his room pulled the curtains over and sat in the big flowered chair with legs crossed sipping a drink. Said snow you can't get me all cozy and warm in here. Standing in front of the mirror, red from neck to ankles. Rotating the throat and outstretched arms. A little ritual for the good night's sleep. It's freezing outside. And with that cold thought tuck the head into the white crisp pillow to sail away on the magic carpet. First checking the zip on the red underwear. Never know who might trip to the wrong door in the night. It is a matter of basic good manners to be properly zipped up. And then when they say O I beg your pardon, one can smile and pass for a glowing ember.

  Few taps on the phone. Gay voice.

  "Good morning, Mr. Smith."

  "I think two eggs, toast, honey and coffee."

  "The juice of some fruit, Mr. Smith."

  "Not this morning, thank you. Think there'll be ice today."

  "Hard to say Mr. Smith, going to be a white Christmas, sure was a lot a snow last night."

  "Skiing, how's that."

  "Plenty."

  And breakfast on the big maple tray. As Smith snaked up from behind the blankets when the maid was gone. Toast hot in the napkin. Pop on the butter and honey. Live and let live. Pour out the steaming dish of coffee. And the train just pulled out of the junction and Miss Tomson never took a peek or gave a wave. Didn't even want her pay. Just disappeared off to her house party and fun with the flashy makers of her life's laughter. Why do the odious manage so well in this world. And people with principles get trampled and kicked and crushed to the bottom of the pile.

  And Smith in galoshes, a parcel tucked under each arm, set off down the road from The Goose Goes Inn, walking in a tire track. By a closed up shack for selling summer vegetables. And another two miles by white fields, to a fork in the road. Where a narrow lane climbed a little hill lined neatly with young trees. And beyond a stone wall the white gabled roof of a house. In die first month I bought it I planted a rare row of saplings along the drive. Carried away by the thought of summer evening strolls under a canopy of leaves. The kids got at them with hatchets. What's left looks all silver now.

  Smith gingerly making tracks through the snow, drifts up to the knees. Stone wall with a tall rustic figure and light and sign. Mrs. George Smith. I don't suppose she'll be looking out the window or God forbid, down the sights of a gun. Always had a horror of living near roads. Now when I come out here I wish I could hear the odd car go by. Catch my breath. They don't see me coming. She's in there combing out her hair. Which is brown. She used to say when I first met her, hey George grab handfuls of it and pull me down on your knee. I obeyed in a stiff mechanical manner because it was all so overt. Yet once she gave me a whole bowl of cherries and they were side by side on the kitchen table and I thought this will be the test, she's always withholding and depriving and I counted the cherries in each bowl and I was stricken when mine had two more than hers. Found all the good things about her in some secret moment.

  Up the little path press the bell and the chimes are ringing. No carefree children's foot prints out in the snow. Maybe they're not up. I hear a clatter, and a voice inside.

  "It's daddy."

  "O.K., it is. Open up the door and let me in."

  "Hey daddy, you a snowman out there."

  "Please open the door, it's rude to leave someone standing on a doorstep."

  "What's the snow, hard or soft."

  "Please open the door."

  "Please "No."

  If you don't live with kids they grow to hate you. If you five with them they hate you more. Not a shred of respect. Left standing on what technically is my own doorstep. Just one careless night, getting carried away, George pull me by the hair down on your knee. Then end up standing stiff with cold and they won't let you in.

  "I'm asking you, quite civilly and calmly if it's you Roger, to open up this door."

  "No. This isn't Roger."

  "Whoever it is, open it."

  "No."

  "Why won't you open it."

  "Because I don't like you."

  "Who's speaking in there, is that you, Wilbur."

  "Stop calling me boys' names."

  "Clarissa."

  "Smart. How did you guess."

  "What's happened to your voice."

  "None of your business."

  "I'm asking you for the last time, Clarissa to open up this door. I'm frozen."

  "It's not your house."

  "It is my house."

  "We live in it and that means we own it and that means I can keep this door shut and you out of here if I want. I guess you understand English don't you."

  "Call your mother."

  "You call her."

  "Where have you learned to be so revolting."

  "Out of a book."

  "Sassy little bitch."

  "And you're a revolting degraded human being."

  Smith chose silence. Toes hardening to ice. Can't see through the steamed up glass. If this goes on any further I'm going to turn on my heel and walk straight back to the hotel, pack and if necessary hitch hike back to town. After a couple of miles ramble through the snow overstraining my heart I have to stand here and take this offense. Can see what open country, summer green fields and shady woods with crystal lakes do for kids. Makes them into savages. Ah, a sound of authority.

  "Just a moment George, it's bolted with half a dozen locks. Now get, Clarissa."

  "Thanks. I'm frozen."

  "Come in, you're early. Just lost my slipper coming down the stairs. Forgive the chaos. Roger and Wilbur were building a jail on the stairs last night."

  "For me I suppose."

  "Don't be so sensitive."

  ''Naturally one wants to feel welcome."

  "Well, all right, you're welcome, George.
Give me the galoshes. Take a seat and I'll get you a drink. What would you like."

  "I had a derobe on the train last night."

  "Is that you being objectionable or a drink."

  "Just a drink."

  "I'll make you one. How do you make it"

  "I don't know. I don't know anything."

  "Don't bleed all over the furniture now."

  "It's two miles walk here."

  "I know."

  "Well what do you mean don't bleed over die furniture. I've come in an absolutely friendly mood. Ha ha, he he. Just bubbling with good nature."

  "So am I, ha ha."

  "And get locked out on my own doorstep."

  "O.K. George, I know you own the house."

  "Just an ordinary decent reception is all I'm asking for. And I get abuse."

  "Do you have to take a young child seriously."

  "A revolting, degraded human being. No father wants to hear that."

  "Well you heard it."

  "That's what I'm saying."

  "And George, I'm saying don't sit bleeding over it."

  "Welcome. Come in George. Sit down George. Attempt a pleasantry."

  "A gruesome pun."

  "Even so, you ask me if I'm trying to be objectionable."

  George leaning back. Stare out at the family unit. Her handfuls of brown hair. I have never asked my kids to treat me like God. Or for that matter even like some saint. O I've been guilty. Shouted when I should have shut up. Shut up when I should have shouted. I admit those things. Lashed out when the child was only trying to give me a friendly punch in the kidneys. Even got down on my knees with the toys and they tell me get away, you're ruining our game. I said O.K. kids I don't mind, youth wants to play together. Youth is exuberant. All I was trying to do was push one of the little trucks up the ramp and they push me away. Why should I mind. Haven't I been honest with you kids. What's the matter, don't you get enough to eat and the best of everything. I never had toys like this as a kid. They look up at me and say coldly, don't blame us, we weren't your father. And when feelings are hurt. O.K. that's that. But make no mistake, I've got feelings.

  "Georgie, boo, Georgie. Boo. Here's a nice little cocktail for Georgie. Made it all my ittle self."

  "Look Shirl, it's a long way in the snow out here, if you don't want me, say so right now."