Schultz

25

Ding a ling a ling. Jesus what’s that. Ringing. I fell asleep again. Dreaming I was walking bare arsed across the desert in the setting sun towards the Grand Canyon. Dragging tattered clothes behind me. Mumbling to myself that the only thing left to do was die and forget. Then suddenly I’m running. When who should come chasing two miles behind me. His stiff prick out two miles six inches long. Nudging me in the ass. Fucking Herbie. Sylvia’s twat was the canyon ahead. No escaping nightmares. Break my arm reaching for this telephone.

“Hello.”

“So that’s where you are.”

“Where am I. Who’s this.”

“This is Al. So now you’re at the Dorchester.”

“Holy Jesus Al, I’ve had a night.”

“You’re telling me you had a night. Other people had one too.”

“Al what time is it.”

“Don’t ask me the time. My god you’re a skunk.”

“Al I had to check into this place at five a.m. with a shoe and sock missing off one foot. Shirt torn.”

“So what’s new about that. Last time I heard you were there wearing the vertical half of a morning suit and jamming up the doors of the hotel with the other half.”

“Holy christ Al. Be a friend for a second. What time is it. I got to be in Court this morning and I lost my watch and I can’t turn my neck to look at the clock on the wall because I was nearly strangled last night.”

“Tell me if it is correct that you’re married already.”

“Yes Al it’s correct. Unfortunately.”

“So I’m asking you just one question. I want to know why do you do it. Why.”

“Why do I do what, Al.”

“Try to fuck every woman you come across.”

“The production’s at stake. And you ask that.”

“Yes, why. I want to know why.”

“Al. When I tell you, you’re not going to believe me.”

“You just tell me that’s all.”

“I’m looking for true love, Al.”

Schultz holding the telephone to his ear with his shoulder. Reaching for a glass of water. Ferrying it up from the bedside table. Silence and breathing the other end of the line. Jesus Al mustn’t have been ready for that one. So convinced is he that there are no finer feelings in me.

“Hello, Al. You still there.”

“I’m still here.”

“Well Al, that’s why I have to fuck all these women.”

“Jesus, you would even demean love, wouldn’t you.”

“Shit Al, I mean it. I’m looking for a girl I can love.”

“You don’t know what love is. You know what rape is. That’s what you know. Like you did last night. Is that how you look for love.”

“Al. Rape. Who did I rape now. Who.”

“You raped Agnes. Then attempted rape on Pricilla’s mother.”

“Raped Agnes. Holy shit. Fuck a duck. Now look what you made me do. Spill my fucking water all over me in bed.”

“Good.”

“Al I already got to go to Court. In a borrowed pair of shoes and socks from the hotel. Don’t abuse me this time of the day. I’ve got to be at action stations over the show. Have you seen the reviews. Can you imagine what my life’s been like I haven’t even seen them yet.”

“Yeah I saw. They stink.”

“Holy shit. All of them.”

“Every one but two. One written by an imbecile. And the other by a guy thought he was writing about some other show.”

“Al, I’ll ring you back. I got to take an awful crap.”

“You crap. That’s all you’re good for. Don’t bother to call me back. Because this is just to say on behalf of your investors to close the show immediately and cut losses.”

“The investors can go fuck themselves Al. I’ll close when I decide to close.”

“That’s exactly the constant kind of irresponsible stupid behaviour I’ve come to expect from you.”

“O come on, Al. Do you always have to be like the way you always are. It’s only a little more money we could lose.”

“It’s not your money you’re losing.”

“Al don’t be a geriatric grandmother. What are you going to do leave me friendless now.”

“You son of a bitch. Pricilla’s mother is under intensive psychiatric care as a result of you. You pulled her wig off. Traumatized her.”

“Please don’t make me feel sick Al. Please. Not before I even have breakfast with the waiter knocking at the door this second. Come in. How was I to know she had a wig jumping out of the dark at me in my own fucking house which is now like a circus where I live that I have to move into a hotel.”

“You tried to rape her too. Your own mother in law and right in front of your wife.”

“Al. Are you crazy. Touch that hell hag ogre. I couldn’t under pain of death put my prick in that. I’d rather put it in a mincer. You just don’t understand.”

“I understand. After you pulled her wig off you charged at her with your upraised prick. Which plus your balls should be put into a mincer.”

“Waiter just push the table between the beds. That fine. Thank’s a lot. O.K. Al. Please. Listen a second. I didn’t charge anybody. I admit I had a giant hard on. I don’t know all there is to know about physiology. But I think it was petrified fear that gave the erection.”

“A female bee flying by would give you an erection.”

“Hey will you listen Al. I’m telling you I was as surprised as anybody when I saw it myself believe me. It was some kind of involuntary medical aberration.”

“It was your crazed sexual appetite. Which needs compulsory medical treatment. Meanwhile you should be committed to a zoo.”

“Al goodbye. I love you. But I just don’t have time this moment to submit to your usual avalanche of criticism. I’ll talk to you later.”

Schultz shaved, showered and dressed. Waiting in the cloistered peace of the hall landing and looking out this window down on to a little roof garden below planted with blossomed flowers between the white wings of this soul soothing hotel. The elevator door opening. A slender perfumed lady inside with an alligator bag. Beige tweed suit. Blond soft hair. Jesus she could be a grandmother. But I’d go to bed with her at the drop of her big ochre felt hat. If only I had a few more hours’ sleep and didn’t nearly get killed, maimed and driven out of my own fucking house last night. Christ the show. O my god. Just opened. Meanwhile a lifetime of horror has happened since. Got to keep the show going. Fuck all the dumbbell critics. Paper the house every night to capacity. Supply transport and give free tickets to mental institutions all over Balham, Tooting and Streatham if necessary. This lady looks like the sort who’d still say yes to a thrill in her life.

“Excuse me madam. But do you like attending the theatre.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Would you like to see a wonderful show I recommend. Kiss it. Don’t hold it. It’s too hot. Free with my compliments.”

“How dare you.”

“Holy christ madam, don’t get excited, it’s really the name of the show, ask the concierge in the lobby. I’m sorry please. Here’s the ground floor.”

The morning sunny and cool. Schultz jumping into a taxi with a smiling salute from the doorman. Down Park Lane and left along Piccadilly. O my god. Thank god for the discretion they got at that hotel. I go in and out looking like I come from a holocaust. And they keep showering me with courteous attention. I’m going to need it. Standing up in Court. With drunks and thieves. Haven’t even returned the morning suit that got ripped to pieces off my back.

Schultz pacing the floor in the smoky noisy Court corridor. Amid the solicitors, clients and culprits. As what fucking choice do I have. But to listen to the advice of these detectives.

“Sir you can get it all over with now. By pleading guilty. And avoid a big Court case later.”

Schultz in the dock. The distinguished judge, the son of a famous actor staring down over his spectacles. Frowning slightly as the evidence was read. Clearing his throat in some disbelief. Then with a deep breath looking leniently upon Schultz. As Mrs. Prune stood giving her heated evidence.

“But were you there madam.”

“He struck my daughter. I came here to Court by ambulance from under psychiatric care.”

“But were you present madam when your daughter was struck.”

“I was there when that bastard pulled my wig off.”

The judge pushing up his spectacles looking at the charge sheet. Lifting his chin to look out across the courtroom as the behemoth got up as if she were heading to Ascot.

“But that’s not what Mr. Schultz is charged with. Please stand down madam if you weren’t a witness to the charge. Now Mr. Schultz. I’m quite sure a man in your position momentarily lost control. So I’m not going to have you bound over to keep the peace. Fined ten pounds.”

Schultz nearly saluting from the dock. This pleasantly commanding figure calling for the next case. As Schultz ducking away, now ran rushing out into Bow Street and diving into a taxi. My god all this happening right across the road from the Royal Opera House where tonight they’re performing the ballet.

“Taxi. Stop. I’ll only be a second.”

Schultz emerging from the Opera House with tickets. Popped back in the taxi catching his breath. Till he charged in the door and along the shadowy hall of this familiar office of Sperm Productions. The door opened into the smoky chairman’s office. Rebecca cuting out reviews from a stack of newspapers. Binky with a cigar held out in one hand and pressing down with the other a whole page spread of newsprint. A massive picture of Magillacurdy and the Debutant.

“Ah my dear Schultz, you have arrived.”

“Yeah I have arrived. I want to see these reviews. Where’s his Lordship.”

“His Royal Grace Schultz is in his knickerbockers as you Americans risquély call them, and is I believe with the little wife going for a tramp up in his heather.”

“Holy shit. He should be here.”

“Ah. But we have chatted. At length. By telephone. And decided on the proper course. Be seated, Schultz. While we map out the funeral route. Pop right down there then on our trustworthy chaise longue.”

“I’m standing. And what the fuck do you mean funeral.”

“Pray tell, these, Schultz, the orations. Here for all to see. And this. Especially this. Perhaps the most devastating review ever written about any show in the history of London theatre. Headlined across three columns. Take a look yourself.”

MISS IT, DON’T SEE IT, IT’S TOO AWFUL

Last night saw what this reviewer must regard as the greatest load of rubbish ever disported on a London stage. In attending the opening of a show entitled “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” one was of course forewarned. But the en suing pyrotechnics consisting of lyrics grossly insulting to the intelligence, music so vulgar and brash crashing upon the ears, plus garish costuming and sets, the latter which trembled or ripped at a breath, made for an evening of headache inspiring proportions.

The chorus were frequently off key singing, as they were out of step dancing and who, en masse, seem to have been rounded up from some housewifely amateur group from Sidcup or Surbiton. However, they did at least, by their appalling display, help distract from other terrible matters. Only that a member of the audience became stuck in her seat which gave one the release of laughter at the intervals made the evening tolerable. It was little wonder that one noticed a player’s name changed and the director’s name blacked out in the program.

However there was one exception, embodied in the two star players, who handled such horror with grace, dignity and poise. Genius is a word one uses sparingly but it would have to be applied in the case of Mr. Magillacurdy whose powerful yet sweet voice charmed and at times profoundly awed and moved his listeners. The rendering of his final aria was a tour de force. And indeed this hardened reviewer admits to a tear in the eye and a lump in the throat. He and his spectacularly beautiful co star, whose shimmering, exquisite balletic limbs and dulcet voice equally captivated the audience, did by their performances redeem what would have been an otherwise theatrically totally ruinous event.

To those of you who are still reading this, unless you feel you want to witness a little stage history being made by the debut of two young splendidly promising stars, my advice is a repeat of my sentiments heading this column. Miss It. Don’t See It, It’s Too Awful.

“Well Schultz. The other reviews are no better. No clearer case has there ever been for one to throw in the towel. Wipe our hands clean of the embarrassing matter. His Royal Grace on the phone, agrees.”

Schultz with a left hand holding up the newspaper suddenly sending his fist whistling through the air and crashing through the review like a pane of glass.

“My goodness Schultz whatever did you do that for to a perfectly good newspaper.”

“Because never never is that show going to close. Over my dead body.”

“I do believe his Royal Grace can find room for you in one of his cemeteries Schultz. Even in those most strange shoes. A grace and favour grave so to speak. And as a respected director of this firm, Sperm Productions will gladly accord you a most dignified funeral and foot the bill.”

Schultz pacing the floor shaking a clenched fist up and down. Rebecca leaving the room with a folder full of clippings instructed to check on the stars to see if there were any suicides. Schultz suddenly tripping on the carpet. An instant smile on Binky’s face. Schultz turning and leaning forward over the chairman’s desk.

“I don’t give a shit what the reviewers say. I’m going to beat the fuckers. That show has got balls.”

“Dear me Schultz you are in a tizzy.”

“That’s right.”

“Well in spite of such testicular hope Schultz, the box office phones have been practically dead all morning. There is simply no advance booking. The reviews are unanimous that the show is atrocious. That little newspaper you’ve just put your fist through is read by about five million people.”

“I don’t care how many read it. They can wipe their asses with it, piss in it, but that show stays on.”

“And Schultz we understand from Mr. Gayboy, to whom I must confess I sold half my share of the show, that you could have sold the whole production to one of Broadway’s biggest producers last night where it would be ensured to find a suitably gauche audience.”

“That’s right.”

“And you didn’t.”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t even entertain the thought.”

“No I didn’t Binky.”

“Ah because you thought it would be so nice to keep your sterling reputation intact as a producer of resounding flops in which you have consistently guaranteed that the entire investment is always lost.”

“Fuck you Binky. You thought even before it opened it was going to be a flop. Selling half your share. Well I’m not selling anything and I’m not closing this show.”

Rebecca quietly stepping in. Solemn faced whispering to Schultz that Magillacurdy was not at Claridge’s all last night. And handing over the afternoon editions of the evening newspapers. Two more panning reviews. A headline next to one of them.

SOCK HER DON’T KISS HER

SHE’S YOUR WIFE

Sigmund Franz Schultz the impresario, and producer of “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” was fined ten pounds this morning at Bow Street Magistrates Court for causing actual bodily harm to his wife whom he punched following last night’s performance at the Regent Theatre.

“O dear Schultz, here we go again. Same old headline. Sperm Productions, that innocent company dragged yet again into another Schultz intempestivity. With Gayboy already in a state. Raging that the show is giving the theatre such a bad name that it could ruin business for years to come. And dear me this little news item will promptly blow his hemorrhoids clean out of his backside. Forgive me Rebecca.”

“Bullshit. That’s a fucking headline everybody’s going to read. Mentioning the show, the theatre. I know in my bones this fucking thing is going to work. Shit, months, months of my life are not going to be buried suddenly by a fucking bunch of nincompoops who don’t know their ass from their elbows. You heard the laughing and cheering.”

“Yes I did Schultz. Under the booing and jeering. But most distinctly of all I recognised your clapping. Or were you applauding your rather large incarcerated mother in law.”

“Binky that audience for real were being genuinely entertained. Three quarters of them loved it.”

“Ah Schultz permit me, to leaven your heartfelt words with those of sobriety. I have not yet had his Royal Grace check with his laser beam financial eye all the figures but having myself peeked under items marked hotels, lodgings, transport and especially items miscellaneous, I would say you have the overcall already spent. And my dear young man does it not occur to you that you may live to, fight another day. That this is just another little flop that people will quite quickly forget in three or four years. But to persist in the present agony is only merely prolonging the future ignominy.”

Schultz taking up the torn newspaper from the floor. Hold up the perforated review. Piecing it together.

“Rebecca, you read what that fucking critic said. Well let me quote to both of you. Genius. Shimmering grace. Spectacularly beautiful. Captivated the audience. Stage history being made. Those fucking words are going to be emblazoned all over this town. And give me a cigar Binky.”

“Schultz have you no ethics. You can’t possibly print what you’ve just blatantly quoted entirely out of context.”

“Can’t I, just watch me. These fucking critics have such egos trying to bust out of their half assed guts that when that son of a sour bitch sees his name plastered all over he won’t even murmur a sigh of protest. Rebecca.”

“Yes Mr. Schultz.”

“Take this down. A tour de force. Vulgar, brash, garish, grossly insulting, and stage history is being made. Genius is a word one uses sparingly but it would have to be applied in the case of Mr. Magillacurdy and his stunning co star whose shimmering, exquisite balletic beauty captivated the audience. See it, don’t miss it, it’s too wonderful. Got that Rebecca.”

“Yes Mr. Schultz.”

“O.K. Rebecca put it into respectable grammatical order and slam all that into the classified ads. Use caps on the see it, don’t miss it, it’s too wonderful. And I want big spreads in the Sunday papers using the same thing under the picture of the two stars. And Rebecca on that phone get me this Knightsbridge number.”

“Ah my dear Schultz sometimes I do really detect a flavour of the naval man in you, albeit one, who has cast his moral principles overboard.”

“That’s right. Just excuse me a second. Hello. Hey. Hi. It’s me. Sigmund Schultz. Yeah Sigmund Franz Schultz. Come to the ballet tonight. You got to. Why not. That’s no reason. This is life and death O.K. I’ll pick you up at seven. See you.”

“Schultz I couldn’t help overhearing. The ballet.”

“That’s right. Taking a box at Covent Garden. Just for one evening to catch my breath. To put some grace and beauty back into my life.”

“Schultz. I’m impressed with you. Yes. Very much so. You are truly remarkable. You’re not with your tail anywhere near between your legs. I think perhaps I may even decide to lose my shirt with yours.”

“You mean half your shirt.”

“Ah yes, half. But old Gayboy will only be too relieved to sell back his share. Dear me in a business which is nothing but risk, I don’t know why I’m so cautious sometimes. You know many foolish and misguided things happen in the name of friendship. And when one has assumed the responsible position of Chairman as I have, there are times when one must take decisions on an empirical rather than emotional basis. It was from a very skinflint ancestor that I’ve inherited what may be thought by some to be an unflattering tendency to, how does one put it, to hedge one’s bets.”

“You’re a shrewd hard cunning son of a bitch Binky.”

“Thank you Shultz, thank you. But at least you’ve found in me, at this moment, a trusted ally.”

“Christ that’s the last thing I need now is people I can trust. Because from now on, nobody, including you is to be trusted.”

“Ah that’s a bit of a blow to one’s team spirit Schultz. Is not even his Royal Grace to be trusted.”

“Well I might trust him. I must confess he owns so fucking much of this world that all he has to do is look out for crooks.”

Schultz brushing down his clothes. Straightening his borrowed tie. The phone ringing. Binky picking it up. Putting his hand over the speaker.

“Now Schultz, this is an historic moment. The first phone call of the afternoon. Sperm Productions here. And how rude but nice of you to say so, Mr. Magillacurdy. Your embattled producer is right here and I shall put you on to him. Schultz.”

Schultz, both hands raised outstretched in a flying leap across the floor grabbing the phone.

“Hello.”

“It’s Magillacurdy me boyo.”

“Christ Magillacurdy where are you. I’ve just been having heart attacks. They said you weren’t in last night at Claridge’s. Where were you.”

“I’m at Claridge’s now me boyo.”

“Where were you all last night.”

“Ah me boyo. It was a vow I made one awful desperate night in despair. A vow that had to be kept. I promised the poor fucker resting in peace next to me whose mausoleum I was squatting in that I’d be back sleeping next to him if ever I opened on a West End stage.”

“Jesus Terence, you could get fucking pneumonia doing that.”

“Ah now me boyo, you don’t think I’d abandon me old pal laid in rest back in Brompton Cemetery. I slept alongside of all these months chatting to just because I was a West End sensation. Now what kind of thankless indifferent behaviour would that be now.”

“Jesus just promise me Magillacurdy, you won’t do such things without warning me. And I could heat the place for you.”

“Ah a bit of hardship harms no one. But I see we’ve been slated in the press. Rumors abound the show is closing.”

“Nothing is fucking closing. And that’s from the horse’s mouth.”

“Ah glad to hear it. Just give me my cues and a soapbox and I’ll perform on stage or off stage. I’ll sing this show on top of a fragment of Nelson’s Pillar that they blew down in Dublin if necessary.”

“Jesus Magillacurdy at last.”

“What do you mean at last.”

“At last there’s someone with some fucking guts who doesn’t have to be persuaded to fight alongside me.”

“I’ll fight beside you and break any arse of any man who opposes us.”

“Just keep breaking the hearts of all the women, that’s all I ask.”

“Well said me darling boyo. Depend on me.”

“I am depending on you Terence. To save the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“Ah me boyo, be careful. Kicking the shit out of the goose that lays the golden egg is a great Irish custom. Goodbye now. And good luck.”

Schultz putting down the phone. And a hand up to his brow. Shaking his head. Shaking his shoulders. Clenching his hands and firing his fists around him shadow boxing in the smoky air.

“Ah well Schultz, the enemy is engaged. I suppose it behooves one to see in your fighting spirit a cause for optimism, however one must in caution also remain amply armed with pessimism. But there is yet another slight little matter. Over which I regret to say his Royal Grace is alarmed.”

“Holy jeeze what did I do now.”

“Schultz you wrote an anti blood sports letter to the Times newspaper.”

“Christ I clean forgot. Hey, they printed it. That’s great.”

“They did Schultz. And as it happens, his Royal Grace being a well known Master of Foxhounds. And does not think it’s great.”

“Shit it was you you son of a bitch who told me to write it for christ’s sake.”

“My dear, it was suggested in the most jokingly off handed manner to divert you amusingly for a moment.”

“I really enjoyed writing that letter. Why the fuck do people want to go killing poor foxes for. But meanwhile. I’m getting the fuck out of here. Before you start dragging me out into the philosophical depths again.”

Schultz in the hall pecking Rebecca on the cheek. Down in the street heading towards the theatre. Stopping nearby on the corner. The lobby lit and empty. Jesus business looks bad. Just a woman coming along. Good. She’s slowing. Come on, stop. Look at the posters. Shit she is. Good. Turn in you bitch. Christ. That’s it. She’s going in. A customer. Hope yet.

Schultz entering the theatre. Crossing the luxurious cozy lobby. Approaching the pleasant grey haired lady in the box office.

“Hey. Hi.”

“Good evening Mr. Schultz.”

“Hey what happened to that woman did she buy a ticket.”

“No sir. She’s the manageress of the stall bar.”

“Holy jeeze.”

“Booking sir, has increased a tiny bit since the afternoon papers have come out. But I’m afraid it’s been an awfully slow morning.”

“How about tonight.”

“We’ll be lucky if we’re a fifth full. Business could improve at the doors later. But it’s not going to be a good week sir.”

Schultz stopping into his favourite amusement emporium. Shoving sixpences in the pinball machine. Warming up and winning free games. Then racking up one record score after another. A group gathered to watch this master at work. With his delicate tilting, bumping and massé shots. Only thing left besides fucking I’m really good at.

Schultz walking back through Mayfair to the Dorchester along Curzon Street. Heading past a hairdresser’s, book shop, wine merchant. If I have a future left, I could get a flat around here. Everything one needs. Even a good selection of whores. Patrolling on this moist pavement. Jesus I got to start fucking them. So much cheaper than ruining my life screwing women that make you pay not only with all your assets but with blood.

Schultz passing some black railings. Fronting a velvet green lawn spreading towards a gleaming cream town house. A drunken gent swaying on the sidewalk ahead. Blocking Schultz with his upraised arm.

“Ah now sir, have you the right time.”

“Sorry I’ve lost my watch.”

“Ah you’ve lost the time. Lost it. Ah but I can see you can afford it. And now what a time it is for me to be wasting your time when you don’t be having the time. It’s light enough to carry if you only want to know what time it is. But believe me it’s an awful weight when it accumulates. Ah Jesus the weight of time.”

“Here, here’s a couple of tickets to the theatre tonight.”

“Ah well now imagine, manna falls into me hand when least you’d expect. Would you have a price of a drink for the interval.”

“Sure. Here.”

“You’re a gentleman, a gentleman.”

“Promise to clap your head off at the final curtain. Cheer. Do anything that sounds like you enjoyed it.”

“Ah I’ll do that. Be glad to. They’ll be bravos. Now pray tell me who have I the privilege of talking to. Are you yourself by any chance a man of the theatre.”

“You might say that.”

“Well I’m a man of erudition. But latterly of the streets. And a bridge player of championship standards. Down a little bit on me luck at the moment. But I was a great man for attending the theatre in me day.”

“Come see me at this address tomorrow. I might have a job for you.”

“Ah I’m not a great man for working. But if you have something to challenge the intellect I’m your man.”

Schultz opening the door into the quiet peace of his suite. Turn on a lamp. Ring room service for tea. Get a wake up call in three hours. Throw myself on this bed. Toes of my borrowed shoes pointing to the ceiling. Jesus I could go down a flight and along the hall and slam a quick fuck into Sylvia. Before they get their walking papers out of this place. No. Stop. Don’t. Be smart for once for christ’s sake. Besides. After all these marvellous foreign women, an American girl’s voice sounds like noise. I got to review my whole life. Where the fuck I took the wrong turning. Only I’m too exhausted. Can hardly stay awake. I’m fucked. I’m finished. And broke. The show’s a shambles. Nothing will resurrect that fucking thing. With every shit who can string two words together, slamming it. The Sunday reviews will crucify us. Binky. Jesus, the son of a bitch knows there’s no money left. And I’ll never be on a yacht on the Riviera. Dispossessed of a whole fucking house. My private personal papers strewn all over. There they were. The behemoth and a fucking wife. Throwing me out of my own home. Out of which. Shit. I tell you. I needed no encouragement to go. Imagine at dawn. Me on my own doorstep. Them shouting to get out. Jesus these fucking women. Think it’s so god damn easy to make money. Go step out there yourself you bitch. Go ahead. Where the financial guns are blazing and you make some money. Otherwise, instead of bitching sitting back there in the comfort of free room and board, shut your fucking ass. Shut it you cunt. Holy Jesus. I’m shouting. I’m delirious after all these nonstop horrendous days. Don’t know which are worse. The day horrors or the night horrors. But nothing, nothing could be worse than back working for my father. Or Uncle Werb. O Jesus. It’s only diamonds or erotic ladies’ lingerie left. I don’t think Binky and I are good for each other. Too many of the same kind of showbizz disasters have befallen us. We both shove the same crutches at each other for support. I need them and he doesn’t. My last hope. My only hope. Is his Lordship. Got to get him somehow to open up his coffers and save the show. He’s got to have some fucking humanity left I’m sure. He’s really an understanding guy. When I asked him, Jesus your Lordship why don’t you stop using your titles altogether if it causes you so much anguish. Ah Schultz, that would deprive people of their so clearly enjoyed pleasure of addressing me for what I am. Holy shit. I’ve got to stop fucking women. Before they kill me. When you’re just looking for a nighttime of thrill they’re looking for a lifetime of bliss. Only Rebecca is still absolutely loyal. The other secretaries skulking about. Shifty eyed. Cleaning their fingernails. Sneaking out of the office to fuck off every chance they get. Holy jeeze. This is the time. Of utter utter treachery. Everywhere. If I live through this I’m going to make a pilgrimage to Prague. Discover the beginning of my origins. At least see that before the end. In the beautiful mother of cities. Growing up I was happy. Never knew then what the horrors meant. Except trying to practice my violin after school with frozen fingers. These could be my last fucking hours. Born in Woonsocket. Sigmund Franz Isadore Schultz. A special a instead of the i in Isadore. For is adorable Schultz. Following four flops, he died in London. Fuck him, don’t help him, he’s too dead. At least during my life I had a beautiful name. I’m going to be a father. A kid born with no daddy to look after it. The behemoth could be raising my own flesh and blood. That monster fucking woman trying to tell me how to behave in my own fucking private house, in my own fucking private moments conducting my own fucking private body with my own fucking private desires. I couldn’t stand it. I got to win. Jesus I’ve already lost. Bills cascading from every direction especially this hotel. Even owe Binky rent on the coffin space I got my desk in, squeezed into an office for a midget. In the most polite and friendly kind of way, I know the flint hearted fucker will kick me out. But Jesus there were times of joy I had up there sometimes. Whenever those two fuckers weren’t plotting something against me. Just sitting around and bullshitting for hours. In those moments I really could have relaxed in utter happiness if I only knew I had already made millions. Or else was totally flat on my arse in failure. Once the trade reviews get out, it will ruin and smash my career. Those commercial minded cunts will revile the show. Boy have they got the jargon to do it. They love seeing you go down the drain for a fortune. My previous flops were too small to notice. They vanished like a saint’s fart. Now I have to bomb with a bang heard all over showbizz. Uncle Werb says, Sigmund, diamonds don’t evaporate. A fucking production sure does, the second the closing notice gets posted. Uncle Werb used to come up from Brooklyn to Rhode Island to build me snowmen in the snow. Put a yarmulke on the snowman’s head. Jesus I’m already crying tears for the unborn. I could have a son or a daughter. How can I support them. When my parents had me. They sold fire damaged ladies’ underwear from an outdoor stall in a market. Holy shit, how near the bottom can you start. Ten years it took of saving to get them just one lingerie store. We moved from the worst apartment house to the best apartment house on the block. Uncle Werb kept saying why don’t you go to the suburbs out of the slum. Make a social milestone in the family’s history. By that time Uncle Werb had a big suite in the St. George Hotel in Brooklyn. Holy cow, how did such a sweet nice guy like him make all that money. Jesus, simple, he stayed a bachelor. Retained the peace of mind to overcome disasters. As I keep reminding myself, expect the worst and that’s what you’ll get, only it will be much worse. I’m shaking. A cold sweat. Hold tight on the sides of the bed. This is an emotional emergency. And let me tell you. At today’s prices emotional satisfaction is not available to mankind. It’s a lure to keep you looking for it. Happiness is not money. The biggest asshole remark of the century. Holy jeeze how content I would be to wallow in a big bank account. Al. O god Al. You geriatric motherfucker. Taught me so many of the ropes. You helped. Did favours. And momma meeo. Why did you then have to finally suffocate me. The day you sent Pricilla over, everything in my life was like eating bagels, bananas and coconuts in the sun. Since that moment. How could I put on a decent production with all the pressures. Flesh bone and blood, that’s all women are, and Jesus what they can fucking well do to you. Now Al it’s you who is in love. Victimized. But come to think of it Louella was the only serene pleasant thing I saw all of opening night. Louella. Christ what a beautiful name. Maybe what I would like is one of those gorgeous intelligent half bitches who really understands sweat, men and money. Who loves to hear all the nuances of the kill. Wipes your brow after every business transaction and pats your hand as you reach over to feel her thigh. Who tells you that the fucker deserved what you did to him in that deal. Instead here I am landed with the complete bitch. Who after she’s corroded my guts away will grow old after I’m buried, hanging jewels on herself to compensate for every line and sag she’s got. As a kid I was known as Guts Dutch Schultz. I slapped girls all over the place. When I was a little child in my high chair eating a bowl of spinach, Uncle Werb said to my father, Milton I’m telling you he would make a good diamond merchant because he will grow up into a genius. My suspicious father who thought for a long time I was pretty stupid, looks at him. Says nearly hysterically, hey Werb how can you tell. Ah, of course Milton, I can tell. It’s you who doesn’t bother to look. See. If the bowl is more than an inch away from his fingertips, instead of reaching, he throws a screaming fit at the inconvenience. Let me tell you Milton. Such impatience over a detail makes a brilliant diamond merchant. My father told me the story every time Uncle Werb wanted me down learning merchandising gems on Forty Seventh Street. Why did I ever come to England. Jesus I know why. As a tiny tot still crapping in a potty, I heard London’s Big Ben ring nine o’clock one night on the American radio at the abdication of an English King. It sounded profound like nothing had ever sounded to me before. Imagine. That same fucking bell now is measuring off the time in the longest and maybe last chapter of my life. And Uncle Werb before he hit the big time, lived in deepest Brooklyn. Would you believe it, in an area called Kensington just off Coney Island Avenue. With streets named Westminster, Rugby, Buckingham and Marlborough. When Uncle Werb’s whole stock in trade was just one diamond wrapped in tissue paper carried in the shell of a vest pocket watch, when he stood dealing in the snow and rain on the Bowery. Jesus here I am with a date now with Lady Lullabyebaby. His Lordship’s sister. As high up as you can get in the aristocracy without being annoyingly conspicuous wearing a crown. Nearly said to her on the phone. To bring her down a peg. Hi ya baby. How about a cocktail, ballet, dinner and fuck, not necessarily in that order. I must be getting old thinking such shit The way I feel right now, it won’t be long before I’m popping down pills and timing my heart with a stopwatch like Al. Jesus am I over the hill. Like two of the most stunning women I ever knew. When they were only a few years older than Roxana and Greta and ripe and beautiful in their prime. Went to see them when I hadn’t seen them in ten years. Cramped up in an attic, furniture jammed everywhere. There they were, unable to move in the proximity. One of them trying to get me to screw her for old time’s sake. The other dying. Lungs black and cancer riddled from cigarettes. My god her hair was falling out. Her back was burned from exposure to X rays. And she wasn’t going to live long enough to sue the hospital. Holy shit, back that night I could hardly take it. Threw my cigarettes down a sewer. Nearly had to drag myself through the streets and there as I looked at these two women who were once both so fucking beautiful, all three of us those years ago screwing away in the same bed howling out orgasms and now one of them in tears at death’s last trap door. The other like an American matron. All the hell I wanted to do was get the fuck fast out of there. And thought Jesus, that’s why women behave as they do. They got to make it while their beauty lasts because shit they’re going to end up on the scrap heap. And only that I’m so crucified by a fucking female at the moment, I’d nearly admit they deserve a tear of sympathy. Christ right this minute I’m in the middle of my own doom. Maybe it’s my compassion that has stymied me. Once when I was being a nuisance saying to Uncle Werb, don’t get anxious, he suddenly got angry and shouted. Anxiety is a Jewish characteristic for christ’s sake, with good fucking reason. Now it’s me who’s anxious. And I only wish I could feel more fucking Jewish. If I suffer like this now. What will it be like at four or five in the morning when the pre dawn ghosts are hooting and howling up my arse. Momma meeo. Stop. I got to stop. What the fuck is all this foolishness. Wasting valuable time trying to dig a hopeful omen out of my soul and only finding more horror. Fight you son of a bitch. Fight. Up. Off the fucking bed. Fight. Jesus look at me. My fucking tie, shirt, jacket, pants, shoes. Are all looking like two generations behind the times. I got to get in style again.

Schultz stripping off his clothes. Running along his little hall into the bathroom. Popping in under the shower. Fight, team, fight. Splash chill water on prick and balls. Revive them. To fuck another day. Wrap up in the big warm white bath towels heaped on the towel rail. Cotton tips to dry in the ears. Comb hair in the mirror. Lean in closer. O no. One. Two. Three. Four. Christ. Five. Jesus. Six. Fucking new grey hairs.

Schultz draped in towels as the waiter brought tea. Setting it up in the sitting room’s bow shaped window. Gaze out through the branches of the trees at the backs of Mayfair town houses. Christ, although I’m still feeling I’m still dying, at least a cup of china tea with lemon, smoked salmon and brown bread and a piece of pineapple pastry will take the edge off my appetite till I get to heaven.

“The evening papers sir, were outside your door.”

“Thanks. I’ve seen them.”

“Terrible isn’t it, this massacre in Africa.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything else sir.”

“No this is swell thanks.”

Schultz shaking a fist at the newspapers on the side table. Suddenly focusing an eye at a new emblazoned headline.

COUP IN ZUMZIMZAMGAZI

The Zumzimzamgazi army assisted by invading troops of His Royal Imperial Majesty, Field Marshal King Buggybooiamcheesetoo, overthrew the government of Zumzimzamgazi in a sudden coup last night. His Imperial Majesty vehemently denies giving any aid to the new military regime.

Schultz putting down his tea cup. Picking it up again. And putting it down. My hands trembling. Jesus the behemoth and wife at dawn this morning were threatening to go live in royal cheesy buggy-boo’s palace. Take my unborn child with them. To be raised by a fucking bunch of blacks killing each other fighting over snake infested jungles. Like hell they will. Abduct part of my flesh and blood back into primitive society. Fucking around with that big charcoal sambo joke in Africa.

But holy Jesus this. O no. The Ambassador. Holy christ. The poor fucker must have got it in the neck. I never even this morning turned to look up at his windows where he was usually watching when I’m having a disturbance of the peace on my steps. He was becoming one of the last comforts and true friends I had in my life. This is really curtain time. Holy shit. I can’t cry now. In the middle of tea. Got to make rules. Rule one. Keep going Jackson. Rule two. Don’t read newspapers no more. Rule three. Put one foot in front of the other. Four. Fuck the cost. Get on the phone and get a limousine. Five. Get outside into living life. Rule five and a half. Don’t fucking trip on carpets or get garments caught in revolving doors. And even though I was a child prodigy with my prick.

Rule six

Don’t screw

Horror and sex

Don’t mix