A Fairy Tale of New York

by J. P. Donleavy

  Mrs Sourpuss getting up. Changing the record on her player. Which says spelled out in elegant letters, Stromberg Carlson. Mandolins throbbing. She puts up her arms, wiggling her hips across the floor. Staring at Christian with his mouth in the middle of his latest sandwich. As she put out her left hand she pulled in her right and the left came out like a snake again. Hard to know what to do with a mouthful. Go on chewing. In tune with the music.

  "Tell me something Cornelius. I don't know that much about you. You're not by any chance married.''

  "No."

  "Little late anyway to be calling your wife. Who wants to wait on the end of a phone. Live your own life. That's what it's all about. You look for ways to kill an afternoon. Ice skating in Rockefeller Center when every time you look up you know half the people looking down are detectives. Checking on the dolls. Pirouetting on the ice. Cornelius you want to dance.''

  Christian chewing through a nice garliky bit of salami. The skin of which is wrapped strangling around a couple of my molars. Each window shade with its little knitted ring hanging on a string to put a finger in and pull down. Far away from the west side of town. Across a park by now a mountainous wintry waste of snow. Over here they have money. Plows out of some secret vault down deep somewhere in the bowels of these giant structures. So they can live in the soft of the big. In the ripe of their flesh. If they let you sit down in their glamour you never want to leave. Shy till you get there like starting a new term at school. Autumn. A little boy come with the smell of fresh squeaking books, sniffing the sweetness breaking between the pages. All the empty lines. You'll fill with a newly sharpened pencil. Last year's books thrown away. Another chance. And maybe they won't leave me back again for being dumb.

  "Ouch. Whoops. Cornelius. It's all right but I've got an ingrown toe nail on that foot. You can step on the other one if you want."

  "Sorry I 'm not so good at dancing.''

  "You're doing fine."

  Feel her green hips moving, the bones turning in there. Flesh and cartilage alive under my hand. In this orange inferno. Disappeared out of the world. Where no one knew I was anyway. Warmly tucked up in here. Arms around me. Her breath smelling of apples. Her throat of perfume. Long lashes make her eyes look bigger. All those guys on the telephone. Might be heading over here on their sleighs, balls jingling. Barge in and find me. Up to my neck in bologna, down to my arse in. olives. And popping fly buttons. Off my flag pole.

  ''Cornelius you 've got a little bit of everything.''

  ''I beg your pardon.''

  "You know, make some nice girl a nice husband. You have such etiquette. I took an elocution course. But I think I sound better the way I am which is the way I get whatever I do, especially if I have a few drinks. Do I scare you.''

  "No."

  "Come on, don't tell me all mourners are like me. Dancing after her husband's funeral.''

  ''Well it's not the usual behavior of the bereaved.''

  "I always knew I was different from the first time I could remember. My parents' neighbors on the street. All they ever thought was what hot shit they were. They were them and I was me. And me. I really knew I was hot shit. I just figured I belonged up there and everybody should know it. But ouch. That's a corn. Hey why don't you say something. You say yes, you say no, you say I'm sorry. But you don't really say anything. Hey you didn't by any chance, I mean I don't want to sound gruesome, but did you embalm Harry. Maybe you shouldn't tell me."

  "I 'm a front of house man.''

  "That sounds like you sell tickets to a movie or something.''

  "I didn't embalm your husband.''

  "O well I guess it's, you know, you feel somebody's hands did something, and you think what the hell those hands did that and maybe, well I'm ticklish and there are other things you don't want hands to do if they've done something else. Let's have a drink. I mean let's have a party. I want to see some action. For christ 's sake let's wreck this joint.''

  Mrs Sourpuss picking up an oval piece of glass etched with a swan. Throwing it across the room hitting the wall above the record player and crashing down on the record.

  "Come on Cornelius, don't just stand there. For Christ's sake can't you see me trying to wreck the joint. Let's wreck it.''

  "Mrs Sourpuss, these things are valuable."

  "Sure I sold my ass for them. You're damn right they're valuable. Don't you think my ass is valuable. It's the most valuable god damn ass in New York. My ass is worth millions.

  "I perfectly agree.''

  "You perfectly agree. Now isn't that nice. You've said something. Well I'm glad you do. But now Cornelius I'm going to tell you something, what good is it having an ass worth millions if I've already got millions. The whole point of having an ass worth millions is to sell it for millions. I sold mine for millions. And I've got millions. But I've still got my ass. I guess I could sell it for more millions. That's the answer. More millions. Now come on. Let's wreck this joint. I've been wanting to get these god damn icons out of here for ages. Take that. And that. Eight in the eyes I got that son of a bitch bishop. Who the hell does he think he's blessing. Come on. Poke the eyes out of this bastard too."

  "Mrs Sourpuss I would very much like to help you wreck your property. But."

  ''Well come on then.''

  "If Mr Vine heard that I went home with the bereaved and tore her apartment apart, smashing paintings, wrecking the place, well I don't think he 'd like it.''

  "If he doesn't like it, I 'll buy him out.''

  "Mr Vine's a pretty big operation.''

  "Not for me he isn't. I could buy him out just like that. Hey what are you trying to do, ruin the party. Where's all that gism you had flipping Willie to his knees.''

  "I'm tough when it's required Mrs Sourpuss but painfully shy otherwise."

  "Ok you be painfully shy now while I'm just going to break this fucking god damn French piece of imported eighteenth century gilt shit bureau or something that Harry's first pot bellied sag tit wife paid seventeen thousand dollars for with its crummy inlaid flowers. Just watch me. With this other god damn swan. Now. Carumph."

  The glass swan smashing down in the middle of the table. A book, vase and salt cellar bouncing off to the floor. Could be my life time wages. As she stands there wide eyed with joy.

  ''Well what do you know, it's strong. Try again.''

  "I think I should be going, Mrs Sourpuss.''

  ''You 're not going to leave me.''

  "I think I better start going home.''

  ''Don't leave me. Don't do that. Please.''

  "I have to be at work and with the snow I'll have to get up early."

  "I don't have anybody. Nobody. I'm just so god damn unhappy. I just never got what I wanted. Before I got too old. O jesus I'm crying. Am I crying. I guess I'm emotional. I didn't want it to get like this. Only up till a month ago I thought I was dying. And every god damn friend I had hoped like hell I was. I swear when I knew that, I swore I wouldn't god damn well die to please them. O jesus I'm crying. Don't leave me. I beg of you, Cornelius don't leave me. I'll do anything if you don't leave me."

  "I won't leave."

  "Just come here. Come on. The second you walked up to me in the funeral parlor I wanted you. Jesus you said is there anything I can do. I could have anybody. Anybody I want. Are you glad I want you."

  ''Well yes. I 'm glad you feel that way, Mrs Sourpuss.''

  "Don't you do that don't you do it. Stop. Don't you ever call me Mrs Sourpuss again. I'm Fanny Jackson. Queen of the fucking may. Don't ever ever ever call me Mrs Sourpuss again. Ever."

  "All right."

  ''Kiss me. Kiss me for christ 's sake.''

  Mrs Sourpuss standing up on her sandalled toes. Ingrown with a nail, pained with a corn. Putting arms up around the neck of Christian. Widow and widower. Entwined. Squeaking and buzz from the record player. Her lips a parting soft big peach. Go deep down. Sinking. Little fissures. All the people wait. In the silence of the snow. Till it melts. Then they'll gather up their li
ttle pieces of paper and their envelopes. And come out again. Spend their late mornings and afternoons wandering from crapper to water cooler. Across the thousands and thousands of floors. Built up from the ground where I was born. In this city where I walked my frozen way to school. Stood mild and big eyed thinking you could reach out and touch the world and they wouldn't mind. And kids shoved me out of their games. And once. Just once. A man was kind to me. When I walked on small legs with a troubled fearful soul. Dressed the first time in beauty. With my hair combed, face washed wearing a little sailor suit. Standing on a broken piece of sidewalk. This tall man towering came up to me, smiled down and patted me gently and kindly on the head. And a whole new world began. Where I've looked for that smile ever since. Mrs Sourpuss I know what you mean. The heart spills out its diamonds. They lay awhile. Till other greeds come. To take them away. When the years make you hard. And you must pull them back. Tears dry. The precious moments keep. Safe stepping stones through soul poisoned faces. All my forty nine dollars wouldn't buy me a ride on a flea making a landing on your million dollar arse. But dead it could go to Vine. He'd get a feel without charge. Bargains galore. Here. Come this way. Where arses are dead.

  "O god Cornelius I like your mouth. You're a baby. My poor baby. I've never had one and you're the kind I've always wanted. You really are. Talk. Goon. Talk. Say Fanny."

  ''I don't know what to say."

  "Fanny, Fanny, god damn it call me Fanny, just once please."

  "Fanny."

  "Now did that hurt."

  "No."

  "Sorry about my tears, they dripped all the way down to my chin. Weren't the real tears of death. But of being horny as hell. Christ almighty I need a screw. Your boss Vine lays on everything a mourner needs. That's why you can't go. Because I'll put in a complaint. If you don't take your cock out. Right now.''

  Fanny hanging herself like a cloth on Christian's chest, her mouth open, teeth glowing and arms languishing. Stepped out of her sandals. A bell clanging. A fire engine down below in the street. She must have been a package guys paid ransoms to unwrap. Cover by cover. Filling her vault with gold.

  "Come on you big strong mortician, undertake me.''

  By

  The

  Living

  Cheeks

  8

  The morning bright blue with sky. Cold strong wind. Blowing and whistling outside the windows. Fanny's head back on a pillow, her hand stretched out upwards towards the ceiling. Her mouth open wide, snores sucked back in her throat and up her nose. Faintest darkness at the roots of her blond hair.

  Fear and chill. A slit of window blows a breeze over a radiator clanking and tingling with heat. Nose and mouth dry. Clarance will be standing on the canary carpet. Like an admiral on the bridge of his ship. "Where I swab the decks. Court martialled for being late on watch. Sneak out of here while she's still asleep. Her foot sticking out of the covers. We tore loose last night. Get to work before I 'm out of a job.

  Christian in a marble pink bathroom pulling on trousers over dangling shirt tails. Flushed my underwear drawers down Mrs Sourpuss's lavatory. They got stuck and the whole bowl filled up. Flooding all over the floor. Which is still wet. Beached in up to my shoulder to push the god damn rag down. Woke up through the night. In this room of mirrors. Once in a cold sweat. Heard the busy tone beeping on her phone under the bed. She said I'd like to keep you around lover boy. Make it worth your while. You've got such a marvelous twitching cock. Which was still in her while I fell asleep. And woke. As she lay there in my dream as a cold cadaver. A Vine assistant handing me a lubricant from the big shelf of chemicals. Said use this Mr Christian, we find it helps. And her teeth were dry and tongue was dead. Hanging out the side of her mouth. A pair of cold arms clanking round my neck. Till more noise of fire engines passed. Then she turned into Helen. And I lay clutching myself.

  Close each door quietly. Tip toe along this hall. Hear someone down at the other end. In there the orange living room. She battered around. Nip out into this lobby. Table mirror and vase of plastic flowers. Little white pearl button to push. Hear the elevator coming. "What makes one want to run away so fast. From the horror of life. Back to the business of death. Which I may catch from cold on the way.

  "Good morning to you now Mr Peabody. The city has never had the likes of such a snow storm. Did you see the fire last night. Just around the corner. Two alarms raging it was. Two people trapped seven firemen injured. You're not going out in the likes of that."

  "Yes."

  "You won't get two blocks. Without boots and an overcoat."

  "I like the fresh air."

  "You must be then an enthusiast.''

  Christian leaping from track to track made along the snowy sidewalks. Eunning outright along the cleared stretches. And leaping the drifts at street corners. Heading downtown in a hurry. Past all the peeing dogs held by doormen out of rich Park Avenue entrances. Forty five minutes late. Both shoelaces undone. Hands too stiff and cold to tie them. Let Vine do the talking. Get him on the subject of his life which he loves to hear. My shoes will be sopping wet. My prick and balls frosted. And miserable countenance frozen.

  Vine standing legs astride dead center of the lobby. His favourite spot. Arms folded behind his back. One eye squinting. His lips twisting his mouth back and forth. As I come at speed through the swing front double doors, pushing both open at once.

  "Where the hell have you been. Look at the time.''

  "Mr Vine. I guess it's the blizzard. I'm just not used to them."

  "That's no reason to be running around like that. Get into my office. Before anyone sees you.''

  Vine's hair standing up straighter than usual. Miss Musk looking out her office door. Tried to give her a little wave. To get a little friendship back. But my arm is paralysed with cold. Paper cup and carton of hot coffee on Vine's desk. The rolls of architects ' drawings on the floor.

  ''Ok you weren't on the ball yesterday and you're not on the god damn ball today. What the hell do you think this is here, some kind of rodeo. Why didn't you get back yesterday."

  "The bereaved, Mr Vine, was in terror. She was frightened of her life."

  "She was fine when she left here. She was even reading a god damn magazine.''

  "Well things got worse at the cemetery.''

  "Charlie said everything went according to plan and you went off with Mrs Sourpuss.''

  "She asked me to. She was distressed.''

  "Christian when the corpse is interred and you leave the gate of the cemetery your duty to the bereaved is over. And what the hell do you mean coming in here with your shoelaces undone, no overcoat, and god damn it, now two buttons missing. I take umbrage."

  "All right Mr Vine, I don't blame you, take some umbrage."

  "You don't blame me. Take umbrage. You bet I'll take umbrage. The way you've come crashing in here this morning in that state. Could lose me a generation of customers. Why didn't you get back here last night. I told you in a blizzard the suicides get high, didn 't you know that.''

  "Yes."

  ''Well what the hell were you doing then.''

  "Please don't shout Mr Vine. I know I'm late. I know I'm a little dishevelled. I know you've got a lot of suicides on your hands. But I'm just a victim too."

  "Now cut that out. What do you take me for. Get on the ball. What do you want to do, end up pushing a hot dog stand. Plenty of room right at the end of this block if you want to be down and out in the gutter. But it breaks my heart to see someone like you go to waste. I gave you a chance here. Put you out front with a bit of responsibility. And what the hell do you do.''

  "Mr Vine, please, don't relieve me of my duties."

  "Give me one reason why not.''

  ''I saved the life of the bereaved. Prom an attacker.''

  ''Charlie never said a thing about an attacker.''

  "It happened after.''

  "What do you mean after.''

  "After the cemetery. There was a confrontation."

  ''How.
You were in her car.''

  "Well there just was, I mean I guess he could have attacked out in the snow. But he attacked inside.''

  "The car."

  "No."

  "Where."

  "A building."

  "Now cut out the bilge Christian, I want the facts and I want them now. Or I dispense with your services.''

  "O christ Mr Vine, I was in some kind of a roadhouse I guess."

  "A roadhouse."

  "Mr Vine, please, your saying the word like that makes me nervous. Well maybe it wasn't a roadhouse. The architecture was very late Georgian.''

  "In two seconds Christian I'm going to call up Mrs Sourpuss."

  "Please, that's not necessary. I'll give you every fact. When the husband jumped us.''

  "The husband, Christian, if you remember at all, was in his casket."

  ''It was her second husband, the one before this dead one.''

  "You mean the deceased.''

  "Yes, well Mrs Sourpuss was getting in a terrible state over the death."

  "Hogwash."

  "I mean it Mr Vine it really hit her in the haggis. She begged me to get her a bottle of whiskey. She had a few drinks. I assisted her going up the steps. I preserved her dignity. You can ask Charlie. There was no tripping or anything like that. But she said whatever you do don't leave me alone. Mr Vine as you know I'm new at this. I wanted to do my best. I thought I was to use my own judgement.''