A Fairy Tale of New York

by J. P. Donleavy

  Under a canopy of pink towel, I dialed from the living room. Champagne bottles and pillows and torn pages of the yachting magazine strewn on the floor. Everything lies in peace the night before and then jumps at you in the morning. A quarter past twelve. Spoke to Fritz. Who didn't believe I was mortally ill. Throbbing, shaking and pained in head and limbs. A doctor in attendance. A thermometer up my rear. Stethoscope on one of my balls. To see if it might explode. Said my medical adviser thought I'd be all right tomorrow. Fritz said it sounds to me as if you're all right today. I let a minute tick by of utter devastating silence. Take plenty of time to swallow the insult. Digest it under a freezing cold shower. And time now to go.

  Dressed with my ovoid jewels and spirit all shrunk up. An Ethiopian appearing gentleman took me down in the elevator said Mr Kelly had this shift off. Saw Glen sitting reading a newspaper parked out front in the grey limozine. I ducked and turned west around the corner, crossing Madison and Fifth. Down grey steps in front of the ivy covered administration building in the zoo. Along a winding path under a stone bridge. Scrawls scratched on the arch. Julie sucks. Martha takes it in the ear. And Fanny Sourpuss eats me. Said she had no niche or purpose in the world. All she had was what everybody else wants. Money.

  And sun melting the mud that Tuesday early afternoon. I took in lungfulls of air. Breathing out the alcohol. Walking so small with the distant windowed mountains all around pointing in the sky. Climb up there and be rich. Undo the shoelaces of all these grey blunt arsed guys. Sitting behind their desks on every rung of the ladder making decisions to kick me off. Faded winter weeds grow out of the crevices of these grey bulging boulder rocks. Down there under flying flags they ice skate. Up on the top of that hill they play checkers and chess. And I hear the sounds of a merry go round. The air mild. Children shout and play.

  Cornelius Christian jauntily bounced up the steps of the Game Club. A brass sign says strictly private. Walk in as if I own the place. And right away the green uniformed man asks me if I'm a member. Yes. I'm a comical Caucasian Christian. Of the human race.

  Through here I used to pass so long ago. Sauntering over the marble floors to check my coat. The kindly greeting gentlemen behind the counter. With all their hangers and hooks and little tags for bags. The green leather chairs where the Mrs Sourpusses sit. Perfumed legs crossed under furs. Waiting for their steam bathed husbands. To lay the world worshipping in front of them tonight.

  ''This way sir next elevator.''

  Man with white gloves points me past the gleaming brass doors. Lights buzzing and binging. Five please. All so welcoming and courteous. Just a growl now and again you'd hardly notice. Before me a grill, a cage, a man in there. Put my wallet and change in this brown envelope. Press down the iron handle. Pinch it together. Like Fanny's pair of thighs. Pinch. When I'm between. And they're apart.

  Along the shadowy rows of named and numoered lockers. Attendant says here this is a nice one. Close to the main aisle. In his deep voice he sells me sneakers, jock strap, shorts and shirts. Shot with a purple arrow, the emblem of the club. Undress between these dark green lockers. As I did all those years ago. Looking out the window over the tree tops. The cars snaking on the curving drives through the park. And night when lights sprinkled across the whole grey vista. To put the heavens down below. With the stabbings and stompings. You watch from windows safe and warm.

  The sounds of sport. Down a long corridor. Clashing fencing blades. Feet pounding as they run. Knees crackling as they bend. Go in through this door. On the walls are pictures of fighters with muscles, others with smiles but all standing ready to punch. Athletes come in. Where others fear to tread. Due to fists. And a blond haired man sits at a desk. Bent over the afternoon newspaper. Slowly turns to look up. Frown on the face. Puts the newspaper down. And hollers.

  "Well what do you know. Now if it isn't Cornelius Christian. Where you 've been all these years.''

  "Over in Europe."

  "No kidding. Well what do you know about that. Well it's good to see you champ. Hey you look good. Well what do you know. Europe. Have they wised up yet over there."

  "I think so."

  "That's good. They keep unloading these backward people on us. Well what a surprise. Must be three or four years."

  "Seven."

  "Well what do you know about that. Seven years. We still got the admiral around. And all the sea captains. The judges. The mayors. The actors. The industrialists. I'm still trying to sell them my antiques. Bunch of cheapskates. Won't buy my Sheraton and Chippendale. They don't understand them big words. The best genuine furniture ever made in my back room in the Bronx. But Cornelius champ, you look real good. Don't hurt to keep in shape. With the crime in this town. It's crazy. Even a decent criminal isn't safe. They're murdering right in the subway now. Lucky if you get home alive at night. In the day time too. Say what are you doing Cornelius, you got a job.''

  "Yes."

  "What at."

  ''Guess you 'd call me a host.''

  "A host. You handing out free beer. Send me an invitation."

  "Certainly."

  "Cornelius champ you know it's nice to see you.''

  In this green floored room. As an admiral and a judge step in. Punching bags thundering. Bells and sirens of fire engines passing by down the street. My heart warmed. By the first man glad to see me. With his twinkling blue eyes. His happy round pot belly. Takes away the loneliness. Plants hope. Eight where I was on my knees fervently praying. Dear world hear my tiny voice. Just let me say bleep. Before you tell me to shut up.

  ''Hey Admiral, now you remember Cornelius Christian.''

  "No."

  "What. You don't remember Cornelius Christian. The Bronx Bomber, middleweight champ. With the best left hook and right cross in the business.''

  ''No. I don't. But he needs a shave.''

  ''What do you mean shave.''

  "What's he growing a beard for.''

  "Hey Admiral he's not doing nothing. We're shaving every day."

  "I don't care, beard stubbles like that are an insult to women."

  "What have you got to say to that Cornelius, beards are an insult to women. Maybe the judge here should put out a warrant for your arrest. But maybe they like hair in Europe. And American women don't like hair. What have you got to say to that Cornelius."

  ''American women are a commodity.''

  "What. Wait a minute, cut out them big words Cornelius. You mean buy and sell them. Like cattle. To make a profit."

  "Yes."

  "Well what do you know. I better go home and count my daughters."

  O 'Rourke standing his hands on his hips. A plaid cloth bathrobe hanging down past his knees. A towel unwrapping from around his throat. He gets into the ring with the Admiral. As I tip toe out. And the punches slam to midsections and sail past noses. The sweet smell of sweat and fluffy warm towels. The best of underwear. No dirt under any fingernail in this building. Kept a fart bottled up all last night. So Fanny wouldn't get the stink. And she blasted me with one instead. Must think I'm a giraffe. Who savor the pee of one another. Her limbs still cling. Feel them round me as I go down these grey stairs. She said women always hated her. And she hates women. And shook her head at the window. Putting down the binoculars saying I can't focus my eyes. Just as the scene was getting hot across the street. She asked me what's happening now. And I told her a long string of dirty lies.

  Through these black swing doors. Smell of more towels and rubbing alcohol. Little alleys of panelled booths to dress in. Each with their own little shoe horn. Big face of the weighing machine. Where I stand and the pointer stops at one hundred and sixty four. Glass of blue water filled with combs. Jar of petroleum jelly. Basins and mirrors. Walls and floors of tiles. Water splashing in the big blue green expanse of swimming pool. Naked men and others wrapped in towels. Fanny said she saw her first pair of balls on her father and even though he was so sweet they disgusted her. And then she said but I like your balls. They glisten when I squeeze them tight.
And Cornelius why don't you give me a surprise. Something precious. That makes me feel loved. Think of something. Something really wonderful. That I can look forward to. Because jesus christ they're trying to get me, and Cornelius I have nobody I can trust. You don't want me for my money, do you. You know what I mean. You know what I'm saying. I need to have somebody with me. It's like you only walk where there's a crowd. Because people alone are meat for sharks.

  Christian wrapped in a towel. Entering this vast arched room with its green twinkling bathing pool. Look behind over a shoulder up at the time. Just past three o'clock. Gentlemen recline wrapped in sheets under the palm fronds. Reading, talking, smoking and asleep. Names paged over the public address. Manicured hands reach to pick up phones. To date dames and do deals all over the city. To bluff and call bluffs. To step on toes. And to play the role which stars in a profit.

  A little black dial on the wall reads one hundred and forty degrees. Push the brass and glass door open. Enter a cavern filled with steam. Like the Isle of Man. When lights light along the coast. And desolate fog horns tremble across the mist. Sit on a wooden bench now and hear voices in the vapours. Yeah the weight was down ten pounds, and I go to Florida and come back and I'm up seventeen, what can you do, I got to eat, you'd think they'd discover something and take the nourishment out of food so you didn 't have to starve.

  Christian making a pillow of a towel, to lie back down in the hot mist. Stare up from this bench at the white ceiling. Warmth and peace. The muscles soften. The beads of sweat bubble. Steam goes down into the lungs. Arrived in this city. Carrying as I was explosive hope. All turned to grief. Then the grey hard walls of struggle rise. And all your sorrows get shooed away. Stacked up like skyscrapers in the heart. And anyone can come. And they do. To push them toppling and shattering. Debris strewn all over your soul. And the pushers get their teeth capped, noses shortened and ears shaped. To look good. So they can walk smiling past your doorman into your life. Saw a sign don't miss an opportunity to work in the midtown area. Another slander of Brooklyn and my Bronx. Whose citizens crawl up out of the subway trains. Sell shirts, shoes and soap to the endless daily supply of big shots. Sporting bulging college rings on their fingers and who look like they zoom to Scarsdale and Connecticut smashing back cocktails in club cars rocking on the rails. And out to Hicksville beyond Queens. And in here tan club members pick out their seats on the benches. Holding paper cups of ice water and paper cups of beer. More steam comes hissing out. Got to get up on my feet and howl victory. Standing on a mountainous bushel of dollars. All I need for my niche and purpose in life. Having as I already do such a storehouse of marvelous other qualities. Perhaps only lacking Fanny's star twinkling ass hole. The little wrinkles like rays of heavenly lights. To be watched as the world goes dark. When fear comes. And mothers run away with their children. As they do. When they see the friendly apes screwing. In any monkey house of any zoo. Eed pricks up. Heading into the bright red bottoms. Another voice through the steam saying he would like to acquire some artificial aging, since success had come to him so young.

  Christian after a shower and a swim taking a reclining seat. Swaddled in towels and sheets at the edge of the pool. Swimmers cruising back and forth. Flipping like fish at the turns. Boiling up the water. Guys stop to tap other guys on the knee and talk. Hey John how are you. Good to see you. How you doing. And everyone is doing fine. Just fine. And a voice sounds next to me.

  "Excuse me, but are you busy."

  "No."

  "You don't mind if I talk to you. 0 don't worry, you can turn me off anytime. I'm a buyer for a department store. What's your name. I mean you don't mind me talking to you. Do you. You can turn me off anytime. I can tell you're very athletic. Do you mind if I ask your name. I don't mean any harm.''

  "I think perhaps I'd rather just remain private if you don't mind."

  "O I don't mind. But there's no harm in just knowing a person's name. Just a first name. I mean why don't you just tell me. You can turn me off anytime.''

  "Could I possibly turn you off now."

  "O sure. I don't mind. Some people think they're better than others. The way you speak for instance. And if they think that that's their affair. I mean you could tell me what you do.''

  "I'm a mortician. I cut incisions, remold faces and pump embalming juice into people.''

  "Well it was nice seeing you. And having this little talk. You sure never can tell where you're going to meet folk not in your own walk of life."

  Gentleman rising and leaving. A figure reclining on the next steamer chair, head wrapped in towels, a little hole for the nose to breathe. A hand it seems I've seen before lifting the white folds of cotton slowly away. And hear a voice sooner than I see the face. A sound I've got to know quite well. For its fair minded generous understanding qualities. Upon which I call now with all my heart.

  "You know Cornelius. You've got me beat. What the hell are you doing here."

  ''Mr Vine I can explain everything.''

  Even why

  The moon

  Sometimes

  Changes shape

  The way

  It does

  12

  All that week that followed. Of temperatures and breezes mild. Every single morning down my side street standing just before the steps up to another brownstone stood my fat cheeked institutional friend from the bus and ferry. Smiling up at my window as I took in my container of milk. And opening his coat. He uncovered a large red white and blue sign.

  GOODNESS IS A BUTTERCUP

  Tuesday I gave him a wave. In his grey cap and grey long scarf wrapped around his neck. And he stepped backwards up a brownstone entrance. With a broad grin, opening one side of his coat. Revealing a word and then with open mouthed laughter uncovering the other side. Just as the girl I watch undress came down apprehensively out of her house. To see me saluting this friendly chaps motto.

  NEVER WHATSOEVER

  My confrontation with Mr Vine that morning was bowel moving. After telling me rapid fire at the poolside to get a shave and my ass pronto back to the funeral parlor. And to stay there till every last mourner was gone. And be back nine o'clock sharp next morning. I stood there on the carpet in front of his desk. Trying to do everything right. Even tempted to say never whatsoever. But instead nervously saluted. And he said at ease Christian. I put legs astride and folded my hands behind my back. Be bewilderingly military if not naval. And in the preliminary silence I blurted out.

  ''For god's sake Mr Vine I know I deserve to be really.''

  "Really what."

  "Well I guess really yelled at."

  "You think all I should do is yell at you.''

  "Maybe I deserve worse. I've got no excuses for yesterday. I don't know why I took off from work."

  ''Well I do. You were screwing Mrs Sourpuss all night."

  "Gee Mr Vine no I wasn't. That's an awful accusation. Especially as I was going back and forth on the Staten Island ferry till about midnight. Even had my mortician's manual with me. I was studying. I got a chill, felt lousy next morning."

  "You felt lousy. You're going to feel lousier. Because I know where you were. Because that blond broad Mrs Sourpuss has been trying to check up on me. And that means I have to check up on her. And I can tell you this. I don't like it. Do you hear me. I don't like it."

  "Ok Mr Vine, you've got me dead to rights. But I'll tell you something. I was thoroughly shocked. When she told me she was doing a thing like that. I really was shocked."

  "What the hell is the matter with you Christian. Don't you know when you're well off. Is it really asking too much for you just to come to work.''

  "No Mr Vine."

  "Why do you have to make me get angry with you. I heard what you said, to that guy in the swimming pool. That's not the kind of talk befits someone working for me. God damn it I don't know why I do it. But I'm going to give you just one. And I mean one. Last chance. If you put a foot wrong. There won't be any more little chats like this.''

 
; ''Thank you Mr Vine. Thank you. Really thank you.''

  "Don't thank me. Just get suite number one ready. I want every inch of it double checked out. The special floral arrangements. The glass enclosed displays. Lighting, rest room, everything. We've got the first reposing of a double casket New York has ever seen."

  "Really."

  "Yes. A double deceased. A Mr and Mrs Jenkins. She's Esme on the floral display and her husband is Putsie. If you had been on the ball you would have seen the picture on the whole front page of the Daily News. Big elm tree fell on their house in Astoria.

  "Gee whiz that's terrible."

  "I got a tip off. Went straight out. Right by the Consolidated Edison Gas Plant. "Where Mr Jenkins worked. Just a lucky stroke of luck and being on the ball. Her daughter liked my idea. They were a devoted couple. Lived happily in the area thirty years. Tragic the way the tree they loved growing right outside their nice little house crushed them both in bed.''

  "I can't think of nature doing anything more horrible Mr Vine. Must have squashed them something awful.''

  "Right across the lumbar and thorax. Just a little bit of facial damage. We rebuilt the pleural cavity. You could have learned something Christian. But I don't know. That kind of calamity makes you wonder. Even what you cherish most can kill you. But the majority of homicides in this town are acts of genuine justice. Ninety nine percent of the time it's what people get for being rude. That's what causes the killings Christian. Discourtesy. And maybe I ought to tell you something. Just a few days after your wife's funeral. I happened to see you. Coming out of Saks Fifth Avenue. Helping a big fat colored woman out the door with her packages. And then you held it open. And one person after another came through. Not one of them gave you even a nod of thanks. And still you stood there. Too polite to let the door slam in anyone's face. I didn't want to impose otherwise I would have gone over and shook your hand.''