A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  Smith driving Miss Tomson's long sleek black vehicle slowly away. Car lights flashing across spruce trees, faint flower beds and a gabled shingled dog house, a figure throwing a glittering dog collar in the window.

  "Smith the only thing 1 ever owned was that dog. And that shit shot him. Thoughtful some bastard giving me the collar back."

  "Your dog was winning."

  "That was no reason to kill him. Men stink. What's left for me."

  "Miss Tomson it's not the end of the world to be dogless. I had a dog when I was a little boy, called Brownie."

  "Was he shot."

  "No. He died a natural death of disease."

  "Well then Smith how do you know. I just saw my dog killed."

  "Which way do I turn."

  "I don't care just get us away. They can push me dead on a cart down a long hall of some hospital."

  "Don't say that Miss Tomson, please."

  "Guys use you. If you love him. Give him everything and they want to get rid of you. You're a chain around his neck. I always had Goliath. Jesus. Any good guy's already married with kids. Already with a padlock and chain. I don't want to be fine. Or beautiful. I want a baby. A rocking chair. A porch in the country undoing my sweater to put it on the nipple. Who wants to be fine. The rats win."

  "That's not always true, Miss Tomson."

  "You just don't know, Smith. What were you doing at that lousy party,"

  "A neighborly invite to a jamboree."

  "Don't shit me Smith. I'm just too depressed. What were you doing there."

  "Tell me about these gears. This right for third."

  "You're doing fine. Just drive. You got a license."

  "No. But I learned about gear shifting as a child."

  "Jesus."

  Smith motoring north. Past another entrance to Pomfret. Row of granite farm buildings on the road. Down a steep hill through the woods. High wire fence. Locking in Bonniface. Who as I drove Miss Tomson's car out of Pomfret seemed to be a shadow reeling beside the road, arms outstretched, coatless and shouting.

  Stop

  I am Bonnif ace

  Disposer of dead

  Calvin helper of

  The maimed

  Clementine, the

  Illustrious

  Banjaxed and cuckolded

  And Cedric too.

  Stop.

  You bastard Smith.

  In these trying times. Of swindles, dog death and utter loneliness, where just another sad body naked next to mine can mean a whole world of peace and tenderness. Miss Tomson who gives money to beggars, violinists, street corner kids jigging with a homemade band, the mute and blind. Any helpless thing she would lift up and love. Like all tall women. When I became a bum drowned in drink. And walk that wasteland street like all the others kicked out of family and home, severed, unshaved, unlaundered and unpressed. Miss Tomson will take my tattered leery self, say O Jesus Smith, you poor poor guy. Feed from the crumbs in the palm of her hand. Lift up my faint face. To hers so fair.

  "How many cylinders have we here, Miss Tomson."

  "Eight."

  "My."

  Lonely headlights far away on another road. A red Barn. Stone wall above a sunken field. Hides of cows grazing in the night. Use a glass of milk with this cake beside me. Branches bending over the road, grey upturned leaves in the headlights. Monstrous purring engine whispering under this long black hood charging through the dark. Toting this peach, strawberry and cream. My delirious appetite.

  "All the best steak I bought him. Perfect report on his three medical checkups. Never even had worms. Could have shown him in the dog show."

  "Mustn't dwell on it Miss Tomson. You look terribly good tonight."

  "You really mean it Smith. Do I look O.K."

  "You do. There's a road house. Let's stop. Get you a drink."

  First few fat drops of rain. Speckling the steps up to a porch under a neon sign. Jerry's Night Spot. Dark interior. Smith tripping over legs, leading Miss Tomson to the dim bar. White coated bar tender, eyes full of I know more than you think. Here come two pupils.

  "What'll it be."

  "Scotch for me Smith."

  "Two scotch."

  "Rightio."

  "Smith you look kind of handsome. Wish it wasn't that my dog gets killed just when I see you out of the blue again. You made the papers, even. How are you doing with your enemies."

  "They have vowed to get me. I will escape by submarine."

  "Ha ha."

  "Good to see you laugh again, Miss Tomson."

  Smith surveying her in the faint light. Not so sad now. Lanky arms nearly to her knees. Hair a blond blowable softness. Cool long fingers of her hand. Must touch so lightly the dashboard of her car, quietly lit panorama of switches, clocks and dials. My little dog I owned had big brown spots on the lids when he closed his eyes. Never cried when he died. Bonniface back in Pomfret. Paralysis in his extremities. Upheaval in the keester. I steal away north and east under the aristocratic weeping rain. With thick wads of fresh treasury bills clutched under the armpits. Looking for homecooked food. While building a little empire. House in the country. Flat in town. Retreats in the woods. Sultry with peace and other things. Thank you spider.

  "Smith do you get any letters anymore."

  Smith extracts an envelope. Handing it to Miss Tom-son. Who holds it up in the purple tinted light. A yellow paper, address embossed in red.

  Eel Street

  Easter

  (There is no time like the present)

  George Smith,

  c/o The Game dub

  South Park Side

  Dear Sir,

  It has come to our attention that you would wish to wrestle. We are not without strength. But rather we would wish you wasn't to insist to a grapple. We hope you will forget you thought you was able to take on anybody.

  We remain not kidding,

  A. M. D. C.

  (For The Committee)

  "Very interesting. Have you answered itff

  "No."

  "Tell them Smith you're a mountain girl and not a guy at all. And hope they're gentlemen and supply chaperones. A debutante. And when you wrestle reporters might be watching. These initials be a name like Al Moygrain Diltor Cranzgot. Ask him if he wants to try some thigh trembling. Sign your letter, the knee."

  "Miss Tomson, wish you still were working for me."

  "I know, it's sad."

  "You take the horror away."

  "But now Smith. Your picture and write up in the papers. Made you kind of famous. Take the pressure off. I mean they worry a little more about giving you a pair of cement shoes to walk across the river with. Down there in the mud people would wonder where you are."

  Miss Tomson handing the letter back to Smith. Giving the paper one final flick with her long nail. You know Smith I got something to tell you but not now. Smith sneaking a look at his present shoes. And up again at her face. As she stares into her drink. Twisting it. Cubes of ice spinning around. Rocking and clinking on the tall sides of the glass. Seemed blue shadows round her large eyes. Go back to get Miss Martin. Or Bonniface. Never. Sniff the wheat drifting up through soda bubbles. This Miss Tomson. God was cruel to make just one of her.

  "Smith, this true you putting up a memorial to yourself. Isn't that kind of conceited. And expensive. What's the point. What does it matter what happens when you die."

  "It matters all the days you live, Miss Tomson."

  "Looking at you Smith like this you're a strange one."

  "What would make you happy, Miss Tomson."

  "A guy with a large soul. Not the small sneaky rats careening around these days. You got some more grey hairs Smith. Why don't you get married before you turn white. Tonight for me is curtains. I'm beginning to understand a guy like you. I could never be faithful to one guy. Even if he was steady and dependable. What is a guy anyway but just a prick and you write your name on it with a wedding. And he goes looking for more names. And no wedding. What is a guy. But just a prick.
That's the way it is, Smith."

  "Miss Tomson, I've left Miss Martin and a friend back there."

  "What's she doing up here, Smith. Sony. Maybe it's personal or something. They'll be all right. In that skunk's house. Smith, you move on a lot of levels. Can even drive a car. I'm amazed. I like you driving me too, I feel safe. You know I've never really had a chance to talk to you before."

  Miss Tomson standing, this night now, Saturday, north, rain sprinkling tree tops in the wood, a new decision on her face. Miss Tomson, your confidence makes me feel I've turned over a new safe leaf with cars.

  "Smith, will you pardon me while I go and powder off my tears."

  Smith down from his stool A litde bow. Her rear. Agony to have it near again. In my own litde lonely world. Touch one of those spheres. Have to get drunk to get brave. To descend easily to the cheap antics. Never get my hands on her. Oceans apart. She breezes right into my life and suddenly I'm standing up to my hips. In mystical shit. She can see and smell. Twisting every little word to make me sound deep, strong, preferably on the brow of the hill, yes, thank you, a little wind through the grey flecked locks, thank you, sunset please, music, some serious variations, low chords please, for Smith's earth shaking meaningful thoughts. And I just know my fly would be open.

  "Smith wake up. I'm back. You look like you're in a trance."

  "Sorry, Miss Tomson."

  "Smith, I like you. You cheer me up. Nice tie you're wearing."

  "Thanks."

  Suggesting another scotch each for the road. Before stepping out in the night shuddering with high wind. Lightning zigzagging the black heaven as they left. Miss Tomson taking Smith's arm, running together across the cinder parking lot to her car. Inside warm and dry. She said well Smith. Well Miss Tomson.

  "Gee let's just drive. Just anywhere for awhile in all this rain."

  Long black machine pulling away. Across a sidewalk and out on the concrete road. Smith at the gleaming controls. Rain musically on the roof. Flooding down on the windscreen, twin wipers flashing back and forth. She turns sideways, facing me. Her dry sweet smell, light blue.

  "Smith do you think I'll ever have a chance. Be like other women. That's what I know, I'm crippled by what I want, because I don't know what it is. Go down that aisle with a bunch of lillies in my arms with some jerk. Where do you find a real man today. I ought to hold interviews."

  Smith's hands gripped to the steering. Eyes searching out through the rain and yellow beam of headlights reaching in the blackness. Miss Tomson's bullets. Land in the heart. After a long day, with all sorts of mystery. And brain throbbing just above the ears. Miss Tomson I'm an applicant begging for an interview. I drive. See. So smoothly down this road cut out of rock. Could help you in the fight for a fair share of human thrills. In the hall of Pomfret you chose me of all the crowd. My composure nearly exploded. Wish I had just once patted Goliath. But in those Golf Street office days I needed all my fingers. My heart is not all cold and black. And if it were. We could make a good mixture and color scheme.

  Hesitate a moment before smashing the hopes of another. Sally. Tiny smudge of purple on your lids. Never say you'll die. Such an expensive car. All this soft black leather. Black angel. You'll have wings. And up on top of my tomb. You'll stand as a statue. I'll put you there. A sentinel. All sad and Sally.

  Dashboard's calm clock ticking after two. Air comes in warm over the engine. Swish sound as Miss Tomson uncrosses her legs. A car approaching on this strange winding road. Which straightens now round this turn through the sheets of rain. And cracking thunder. Fox and toads and woodchucks cowering everywhere. Always find time to think of little animals. Even while guiding all this horsepower.

  "Smith aren't you a little on the wrong side of the road."

  "I rather think not."

  "I think you are. There's a car coming."

  "He seems to have more than his share."

  "But you're on the wrong side Smith."

  "Nonsense this vehicle approaching obviously contains a road hog."

  "This is my car. You're on the wrong side of the road."

  "Please Miss Tomson I'm present commander of this tank. Stubborn rascal. If he thinks for one second I'm going to swerve to avoid his oncoming rush he has one vast foolish figment of his imagination to endure."

  "No. George."

  "Get into your own lane you wretch."

  "O no."

  Squeal of tires. Crumpling of steel fabric. Abrupt meeting of bumpers fenders and headlamps. Lights go out and on again. To illuminate this complicated outing. And eight cylinder concussion.

  Small curly headed man ejecting himself onto the road. Falls. Slowly picking himself up, wiping the wet from his person. Raising an outstretched finger pointing as he advances in the glaring head lights and plummeting rain.

  "Jesus Christ Miss Tomson, you're quite right I'm on the wrong side of the road. Let me handle this." the wrong side of the road. Let me handle "First it's my dog. Now it's my car."

  "Just leave this to me Miss Tomson."

  George Smith drawing a card from his wallet Handing it out through an opened inch of window to the curly headed man momentarily stopping his cascade of words bordering on vituperation. The man reading in the cloudburst.

  DEAF MUTE — WATCH MY SIGNS.

  "Come on mister. Hey lady, who's going to pay for die damage to my car. You were right on the wrong side of the road."

  Smith handing out another card. Man holding it up in his wavering headlights.

  LADY IS MUTE BUT CAN HEAR.

  "Jesus Christ lady. Make him a sign language will you. Who's going to pay for the damage. What's this country coming to, guy's out on the road, can't talk, can't hear. O.K. I know it's a crying shame to be without voice and that kind of affliction but who's paying for the damage."

  HAVE YOU EVER FOOLED AROUND IN THE HORSE LATITUDES.

  "Hey lady, read this while I'm getting soaked, see what he's said to me. I'm going to get the cops. Let's see your license."

  I WILL THRASH YOU FROM COAST TO COAST

  "You don't scare me buddy. Where's your license. Yeah, that's it, how can you have one if you're afflicted. Signal him that lady. Who's going to pay for the damage. I don't want any more of these messages. Who's going to pay. Just let me get your number."

  Smith emitting a long low squeal, body in animal motion, canines showing, hands flashing up stretched in claws. Curly headed man jumping back from the car. Smith switched into gear. Dousing lights. Press down on the pedal. Miss Tomson's car leaping forward. A cry behind them. Roaring off in the dark down the rainy road. In the mirror the rear red glow of lights of the crash victim.

  "Smith what are you doing."

  "We must flee."

  "You bastard if he's got my number I'm in prison for life. Police will be looking for us. He'll come after us."

  "If he tries to turn around in that road he'll be in the mud for months."

  "Front of the car must be ruined. I'm scared."

  "Gende dents, absolutely have them put right for you. I am sorry about this. We'll take this turning. Looks a friendly, empty road. I don't want to alarm you further Miss Tomson but I think we might best get both the car and ourselves in out of the rain."

  Miss Tomson sitting eyes cast down. Hands folded quietly in her lap. Poor sorrowful girl. On a stormy night like this. Back in those days when she sat at her desk in Golf Street. Taking odd items of paper out of her drawers, which she slowly tore up. Then sat thinking hard. Until she would pick up her phone to call the hairdressers or Goliath at the kennels to whom she went woof woof, sweetie. With the marble replica of Miss Tomson on my tomb I will add Goliath on a leash. Have a little elevator to raise me up and down to view them once in awhile. Hello Sally, hi ya Goliath. Then get lowered to rest again. All automatic. Never need stir. Now she's next to me a few fabrics away. A good sport about the crash. Didn't even ask to drive. Touch her now and I will light up like electric. All so sweet heart. Pain in my chest of sadness. This car
feels like driving a speed boat. I will stop in open sea and have a laugh with a perfect stranger passing in another racy craft.

  "Miss Tomson, I think I'm lost."

  "God."

  "Think you better drive and I'll direct the way."

  Smith pulling to the side of the road. Near an apple tree. Stone wall and bushes and pines. Miss Tomson sliding across. Discreet Smith, opening his door, taking one momentary look at one momentary pair of knees. Lightning brightening up the sky.

  "I'll survey the damage, Miss Tomson,"

  Shielding eyes against the head lamps. Feeling the front bumpers and fenders. Patting them. Backing the front tires in an off hand professional manner as one has seen Herbert the Chauffeur do.

  "Miss Tomson, glad to say. Not bad fettle. Crack in the head lamp. Few dents. Obviously our adversaries car was of inferior quality."

  Smith climbing back into the long vehicle. Faint dog smell of Goliath. His hairs on the floor carpet. Think of somewhere to go. Behind Miss Tomson's ear. With lips. And travel a nose into her hair. Slight sprinkle of mud on her would be more beauty than ever. To see her feet without shoes, my God. She lights a cigarette. Go down with that smoke into her lungs and lie there. Buried in her blond chest. Be her baby. Infantile though that be. Her dog shot down in warm blood, her car in collision. And she sits so calm.

  "Miss Tomson before we drive off. I want to say I think you're a real sport."

  "Do you."

  "Yes. You could have blamed me. You had every right to do so. To lash out with words."

  "Smith."

  "Yes."

  "You want the truth."

  "Please."

  "I am going to lash out."

  "O."

  "I'm windy about that guy we hit. He might be looking for a small source of income for life. Like dear Sir we would like to bleed you white, taking it in easy stages, so the blood lasts, you know what I mean Smith."

  "I think so, Miss Tomson."

  "Someone gets crosseyed trying to look in your window while you're undressing and they sue you for it."

  Lips widening on Miss Tomson's jaw. A smile like the whole world is going to break down in general laughter. I die to put my mouth on hers. Touch each one of those white white teeth.