A Singular Man

by J. P. Donleavy

  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.

  15

  GEORGE Smith in a rented pair of blue tinted eyeglasses, crossing by the fish market and moving down Owl Street past the wide steps of the Treasury Building towards Dynamo House. The middle of the month of August. Reaching out across the weeks to sink clutching fingers into this harmless Wednesday.

  Starting at seven o'clock this morning to walk from Merry Mansions. To watch the city awake. Sanitation trucks sprinkling the street. Along the river, breakfast being served in the vast grey hospital. Nights now at their lonely worst. Matilda, an angel fluttering over redemption meetings, home late. While I stand lurking in the train stations, bus terminals. Fly firmly zipped up. Hoping to see some unbelievable golden sign of Miss Tomson's head.

  Down in the early morning streets messengers trotting in and out of doors. This instant I feel good. Ships moving out to sea on the high tides. Barges carrying western trains headed north across the narrow waters. Bridges and highways humming with tires. Smell of coffee across this downtown.

  Smith stopping, looking up. Obstructing him in his forward motion, a face coming out of prepsterhood. Quickly steering a detour into the gutter. Nearly getting cut down with machines, and leaping back from the honking horns. Too late, too weak and vulnerable to turn and run this crazy time in my personal history. A smooth jawed figure. Grey natty topcoat, cream shirt and fat striped tie. And eyes that turned on their glow.

  "I know you, hey aren't you George Smith. Not so fast like you were at the building site, that time."

  "Beep."

  "Ha you're George Smith all right."

  "Beep."

  "What do you mean, beep for an old friend. We were prepsters together."

  "Beep."

  "Ha ha George. It is you. Greetings. No kidding. Well how are you. I read that nifty write up in the papers. I mean you're a somebody. I mean I'm not doing badly. I'm doing all right. Got myself a little old partnership. But I mean how are you, all right."

  "Beep beep."

  "Now wait a minute. George ha ha. I know this is a funny situation."

  "Beep."

  "But a joke's a joke. O.K."

  "Beep beep."

  "Now hold it. Let's not make a meeting like this in the middle of Owl Street with all the congestion, holding things up. I mean you're located here. What do you say."

  "Beep."

  "Gee George is there something wrong. Are they crowding you. This has kind of gone on too long to be comic. I can take a hint, if that's it. What are you saying this beep to me for. If you don't want to recognise me say so."

  "Beep beep."

  "What is it. Is this a method, something happened and you use this method. I mean they said in the papers you were building a mausoleum, that costs, I know. I mean are you nervous."

  "Beep."

  "It's a method."

  "Beep."

  "I see that's one beep. O now I remember. The rude noise you made to the reporters. O I'm catching on, a voice lapse. It's one beep, maybe, for yes."

  "Beep."

  "And two for no."

  "Beep."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't know anything about this George. Is it permanent."

  "Beep."

  "Gee that's tough, on your wife and kids. I heard you got married. Only guessing you got kids. To Shirl. What a girl. She'd never even give me a tumble. Remember the tea dances. Those white linen suits Shirl used to wear. She was beautiful."

  "Beep."

  "But I just didn't know you had this problem. I guess you're under specialists."

  "Beep."

  "New method like this must tax the mind. You must want to really say something once in awhile. Like an opinion."

  "Beep beep."

  "Is that right. If there's anything you need. I know you have money. But if you're bothered by a problem, spiritual, you know. Why you holding your hand to your ear. You're not deaf too."

  "Beep."

  "O, gee that's tough. You lip read."

  "Beep."

  "You remember Alice. You know I married her."

  "Beep beep."

  "She only mentioned you the other day. How Shirl followed you right across the ocean. The ocean. I'm saying the ocean. My Alice, yes, mentioned you. She mentioned you. This is a really rotten world. Real rotten. It's rotten. Guy's speech and hearing cut off in his prime. I said in your prime. It's a shame. But you can still see. I said see, you can still see. To lip read. From behind the blue glasses."

  "Beep."

  "Thank God for that. Can they do something for you. I said, help you. Can they help you."

  "Beep beep."

  "It makes you sick, doesn't it. A disgrace. I said it was a disgrace."

  "Beep."

  "Believe me I'm really sorry for what's happened to you. I mean that sincerely. I said, I'm sorry. Sincerely."

  "Beep beep beep."

  "That's three. I got it. For thanks."

  "Beep."

  "Only George, I'm sort of in a hurry. Like to hang on, talk over old times. Sure would like to hear what it was like serving in a foreign army. Must feel good to be a colonel. I said full colonel. Must feel good to be one. Get together won't we. I mean sometime, old sport, when you're all right again. You'll be all right. Thing is not to worry. I said don't worry. Looking at my watch. Got to be dead on time, somewhere. An appointment. I wish you all of God's luck that someday you may be well again. Hope your health comes back. I mean that."

  "Beep beep beep."

  "Sorry I got to rush. But if you can read my lips I'm saying the cure may be in prayer George. Pray. So long."

  "Beep beep beep beep."

  "Ha ha, goodbye. Goodbye."

  Smith ducking into the inhuman stream. Entering Dynamo House. So many have wives and little ones. Like the lonely have themselves. I've just the strength to climb these stairs. Ugliness brings taunts and jeers from passersby. Elegance invites assault from strangers. Old friendships promote beeps.

  As a crap

  Can lead

  To cru
tches.

  16

  Miss Martin sitting at her desk in room 604. Looking up with apprehensive eyes. A tiny smile at the corner of her lips as Smith cleared his throat and said a forceful good morning. In the corner a canvas container stiffly against the wall. Four mornings it's rested there, and while Miss Martin was out purchasing wiener and crumb cake for lunch yesterday I sneaked to take a look and swallowed peering down a narrow bore barrel.

  Seems for no reason at all I go beep. But the presence of a lethal instrument makes one tense at any sudden sound in the front office. Miss Martin's been making rapid visits to the water closet feeling sick. Once staying there two hours. Perhaps say a little word before she starts to read her newspaper.

  "Miss Martin, the rifle."

  "Yes."

  "I note it has a hair trigger."

  "Yes."

  "I know we're a little informal here nowadays."

  "You left the files in the woods Mr. Smith. Not me. Don't start blaming me."

  "Nothing to do with the files. I like to be easy. Informal."

  "If you don't want me around anymore, Mr. Smith say so. Don't think I like all this tension too."

  "I'm talking about that gun there."

  "What about it."

  "That's what I want to know. Miss Martin."

  "Well what do you want to know. Mr. Smith."

  "Don't be abrupt Miss Martin."

  "Look I'm not going to shoot you with the rifle if that's what you're scared of."

  "I'm not scared."

  "Well what are you asking then."

  "Why you have it."

  "Don't you know. I'm on a rifle team. I told you. Guess you didn't hear me with all the beer cans banging back there."

  Long hard moments. Miss Martin who was putting on fat belligerently, staring into Smith's reasonably honest globes. What harm a few beers. In the office. When one is commander in chief. Big cheese in this two personal outfit. Once ruled a regiment, Miss Martin. Howitzers shelling those positions I figured out in my little wooden shack well behind the lines. A flash focus of the enemy in a field glass. And whamo. But in peace time I take a beer or two while I stare down the clause of a contract and the rebellious beam from my secretary's eye. Morning is no moment for a showdown. Wait till the day wears on. Dim the sparkle in her cheeks. Now apple red. Make a lot of money, gladly lose a lot of friends. Once poor and popular. Now rich and reptile.

  "Any letters."

  "One registered I signed for. Two threats. And one bill."

  "What's the bill."

  "Mr. Brandy, funeral director, embalmer-"

  "What is it."

  "Don't shout. I'm just telling you. What it says here, for the afternoon and evening hire and misuse and additional damages of one hearse."

  "O.K. enough, what's the registered one."

  Miss Martin with her little efficient opener. Pulling out the paper. From here I can see a black letter head. Miss Martin silently reading.

  "What is it, Miss Martin."

  "I think you better read this yourself Mr. Smith. Mailman said they've been trying to deliver this for days in Golf Street."

  Smith with a thumping heart. Holding the stiff unrelenting paper in such small delicate hands.

  Sun Shine & Son

  Bicuspid House

  Paradise Square

  Of This Instrumental.

  Mr. George Smith

  3 3 Golf Street

  And new of Room 604

  Dynamo House

  Dear Sir,

  On a Wednesday of the ipth ultimo, at 3.34 P.M. (approx.) o'clock at Battery Station of the Rapid Transit system of this city you made an unprovoked and savage attack upon our client, Mr. Harry Halitoid which resulted in a knockment into the tracks of the said system where there was a sustainment of considerable head and body injury.

  Therefore and in view of the heretofore we furthermore establish that our client who is positioned as a master Boiler Watcher at a prominent hospital where many wealthy people have been treated has been unable to preside at work for two weeks, during which the hospital steam has been making unfamiliar pounding noises in the pipes upsetting the inmates and our client himself has been under the care of doctors and night nurses, one of whom is a specialist in soft foods. The upper incisors as well as one canine and one bicuspid are missing from our client's jaw, obliging him to eat slops. Although two teeth were recovered which were knocked from said mandible our client has suffered much mental cruelty and disspirit when he has attempted to smile while having to tour important personages around the boilers.

  By way of damages we are asking a sum to offset the physical and mental distress endured by our client as well as making good the suit of clothes which suffered spoilment in the tracks, plus a further stipulated monthly payment as our client is now forced to go through the rest of his life with an unfriendly outlook.

  Failing to reach a satisfactory agreement with you regarding restitution and arrangements we advise you that we have been instructed by our client, who has desisted to press charges, to take immediate steps.

  Yours truly (very)

  Sun Shine & Son.

  Smith leaning against the doorjamb. Brood over all die many folk who have skidded on the snake oil. Strange how when passing by the sign across the hall of The Institution Of Higher Graduation, one wanted to crash through the door and land inside begging on one's knees for a scroll.

  Smith disappearing into the back room. Returning four minutes later with a paper. Putting it before Miss Martin.

  Ward 17

  Blockhouse II

  Island of the

  Criminal Lunatic

  Day-light Saving Time

  Sun Shine & Son

  Bicuspid House

  Paradise Square.

  Dear Sirs,

  I am indifferent to the ultimo. But while here at the institution I have made many good friends, some of whom are often discharged as cured. Upon requiring further communication from me, one of these absolutely cured formerly violent lunatic criminals will deliver my further reprisals by hand.

  Yours sincerely,

  I. Belt (Warder)

  Dictated by George Smith and

  signed in his absence.

  P.S. While dictating, a roving committee of armed warders on a show of hands have elected to discharge me as cured, further reoccurring lapses to be dealt with at an out clinic.

  P.P.S. Respectfully hoping you are not a cavity in the tooth where you live.

  Miss Martin standing. Trembling with Smith's letter in her hand. Her mouth opening, then closing.

  'What's the matter, Miss Martin."

  One hand reaching across her brow, Miss Martin slowly back stepped to the shiny horse hair sofa. Sitting bent forward on the edge, hand now dropping across her eyes. Smith in waistcoat, sleeves rolled up. Lifting the left foot on top of the right. Ruin a good shine. Feel stark naked with my battle ribbons and medals pinned to my skin.

  Everything is the matter/1

  "Is it the letter."

  Miss Martin shaking her head. Hair swinging out from her ears. Which I felt and kissed and whispered round. These last weeks such a strain. As she comes late to work. In the back room I lurk desperately to find something for her to do. She's changed since the night of Pomfret Manor. Looking so matronly sitting there on the horsehair.

  "Can I get you a pill, Miss Martin, Goodness."

  Smith rushing forward as Miss Martin gently keeled over on her side and lay breathing heavily, slightly snorting through the nose. Some terrible instinct comes and you want to jump right on top of her. That in her sorrow and sadness one might take her from behind. Her breasts have got so big. Milk ice cold from a cow. Go through the rest of my life now by mute card or beep. Miss Tomson, who could walk across the town in two tall strides. Tonight I'll go haunting terminals, and lobbies for you. One swat on one jaw on a station platform. And a hook goes fishing in my assets.

  Miss Martin's eyes closed. Her breathing heavy. Smith
lifting her legs and tucking them in on the sofa. Turning back to his room and standing in front of a round mirror. Lathered on a cloud of shaving cream. Unfold this long razor, and lay it against the flesh. Trip down all these mighty little hairs. High up out of the air shaft planes fly over, buzzing and rattling the window panes.

  A dog's bark out in the corridor of Dynamo House. Smith stiffening in the back room of 604. Wiping face with the pink towel, pulling down pink shirt and buttoning cuffs. Throwing arms into jacket and straightening tie. Past Miss Martin still snoring on the couch. Peeking out the door and down the hall. Edging slowly back in again. Out there a man and a brown crippled dog. Who lays down every few feet to rest, panting. And the man leaning over to pat its head kindly while he looked at the numbers of the doors. The aristocratic back, carriage, hair and dishevelled clothes. Bonniface. Sporting brown attire. Just slip by now and down the opposite stairs. Leave Miss Martin to his mercy. You wretch, Smith. Remember. Clementine, burier of Miss Tomson's dog. In the pet cemetery not far from The Goose Goes Inn. Bonniface reserves nobility while the rest of us have none.

  Smith escaping down the side stairs. Across the lobby of Dynamo House and out the wagging doors into a sunny friendly street. Treasury clock bell tolls noon. Raise a hand to shout for a taxi. And another hand comes down to rest gently on a shoulder. And turn to face a warm sad smile.

  "Smith. Ah Smith. What about some beer and onions. You think I vault the statues of public peace, safety and justice and land in that little area they call amnesty. You think that. This is my faithful friend here. He is a dog. He is old and tired now, walks only few steps at a time. Then he must lie down and rest till the energy comes back. But I am his friend too, I wait, we both go forward together. Make each other's life worth while. He nice dog. He called Mr. Mystery. Nice name. Ah George you go so grey. You worry too much."

  "How do you do, Bonniface."

  "Come George. Flag this taxi here. Come. Pick up Mr. Mystery. Mr. Mystery, do not growl at George, he had to be mean to make money. But meanness, niceness, it's all the same. Often nice to be mean and mean to be nice. My God George I'm going absolutely demented in this town. I do not know what you do but many rumours fly about you. Mr. Jiffy said you were cunning, astute. You escaped with the most beautiful woman. Abandoned your comely secretary. Left me in the ice house."