A Singular Man

19

GEORGE Smith taking his personal temperature which was chilly. The thin silver line showing just below the red mark for normal. Last night with Her Majesty. And this cool morning, hungover, mouth dry, head throbbing. A dream. Big fat woman in a green raincoat, really enormous, started beating me with her walking stick. Of all the blasted cheek I said, desist. Miss Tomson stood smiling by on a marble step between pillars and on her blue sweatered chest hung two little golden balls, one below the other, just as it should be and Smith she said, these are yours, I did some alchemy.

Sound of the opening door. A shuffle. Miss Martin wearing low heels. Said men with power were real men. Up against a lot of corporate bodies what was the use of struggling. We're plankton.

"Good morning, Miss Martin is that you."

"Yes."

Smith turning on his naked shoulder. Slippery surface of the horsehair sofa, now tucked up tightly to the partition. I fear out of caution for Miss Martin's rifle where a bead could be drawn if still asleep when she came. Also need that added bit of privacy which makes one's lot easier. Plus the convenience of the shelf near the wash basin for the regimen of these mornings. One dark tiny pill of the day's vitamins on one big white plate. Two oranges, oatmeal, cocoa and bottle of cod liver oil that Miss Martin buys out of the petty cash. Matilda has exhausted me in Merry Mansions.

"Miss Martin, what time."

"I'm late. They stopped the train and were loading on lumber in the middle of the bridge. For about an hour."

"I just asked for the time."

"Twelve thirty."

"Thank you. Don't come in. I'm indelicate. Utterly frazzled. After being vaguely champion. I think. Last night. O God."

Nightmare. Somewhere between dreams. Bonniface appeared. Completely regaled in deep sea diving equipment. All the shiny knobs and valves on the waterproof helmet. We met on the sea bed. Bonniface smiling inside the little round window, lugging the great heavy square shoes on his feet. Mr. Mystery on a lead. We were having a serious underwater chat. I woke up when the sharks came.

"Mr. Smith, there were three men here yesterday. Who wanted to talk to you. They wouldn't say what about. I told them I didn't know where you were."

"Is there a bag out there, Miss Martin. A paper one with staples in it. Would you look please."

"I can't see anything."

"Are you sure."

"Yes."

"Look under everything. Is it hanging on the hook. Or the hat tree."

"It isn't here."

"O God."

"What's the matter."

"Find that bag."

"Don't shout at me."

"I'm sorry Miss Martin. Find the bag."

"I have found something."

"Where. Let me have it."

"I'm pregnant."

"No drolleries this morning please. That bag."

"Three months."

Smith spectacular. Throwing coats from the sofa. Knocking over the bathing screen. Miss Martin at the door, eyes blinking at the papers and garments flying.

"Come on Miss Martin, we must find this paper bag."

Miss Martin silently at the door. Smith on hands and knees looking under sofa and desk, two soiled soles of feet sticking out. Opening the window to peer down the airshaft. Pulling open drawers, scrabbling through files. To turn around wearily and face Miss Martin behind the tiny dark hole of her rifle.

"Miss Martin what are you doing with that gun."

"Listen to me."

"I'm listening. Put the gun down."

"No."

"Miss Martin. I hope you're aware of what you're doing."

"I am, you're not going to turn rat on me."

"I beg your pardon."

"No you're not."

"Miss Martin get a grip. For God's sake."

"My finger's on this trigger, that's all I need."

"Do you realise you could shoot me."

"Yes."

"All right. Put it down then."

"You think it's a joke."

"I don't think anything's a joke. Just want to find my paper bag."

"You didn't even hear what I said. I said I was pregnant. Over three months."

"This is no time to be hysterical. My eyeballs are rusted in the sockets. I feel terrible, what a hangover. And I can't find my paper bag."

"I'm not hysterical."

"Just point the gun a little away."

"What am I going to do. If my mother finds out."

"Please, put the gun down. Guns have a way of going off. I know you're an experienced shot. But my army revolver once went off in my holster and split open the toe of my riding boot."

"Shut up."

"O."

"You've ignored me all these weeks."

"Miss Martin, I've seen you every day. We've talked. Chatted. Short of presuming upon you."

"You presumed in the log cabin."

"I rescued you from a venomous insect."

"It wasn't. I looked it up in a book. You disappeared with that Miss Tomson. Glad her old dog was shot."

"Just let me put on my trousers, please."

"No. Stay right where you are."

"I don't mind being shot but not without trousers."

"You lousy sneak. You're thinking of beating it. I can tell. Who's going to pay all the doctors' bills."

"Control yourself Miss Martin."

"You bastard."

"I don't mind what you say but don't say it with the gun."

"I've had nightmares nearly every night."

"Is it me. The father."

"It's going to be a satisfaction to see you drop in your tracks."

"I mean, maybe it's me, all right. Why haven't you told me sooner."

"Because I only saw die doctor yesterday that's why. You fucker."

"That's unnecessary."

"So's your damn burial vault. And the bullet proof car youVe ordered."

"Well. All right. I mean is it any wonder."

"It's you."

"O.K. All right. It's me."

"Yes. You."

Smith putting one hand on the edge of his desk. Have a little support when the first bullet lands. I can take a few low caliber bullets in non vital spots. Terrible to sense she can hit a bee at fifty yards. One has premonitions. Which always come true too soon. Just a few more days and there would have been the armoured vehicle. Thing is keep talking. Leave any time between words and that's where the bullets fit in.

"Miss Martin. I know you're distressed."

"Shut up."

"I can't."

"Shut up."

"Please you've got to let me keep talking. You might shoot."

"That's right. Get your hand off that desk."

"Couldn't you just hand me over my cod liver oil."

"No."

"Can I have the morning newspaper."

"I can tell you what's in the morning newspaper. There was another man beaten and knocked into the tracks and an innocent bystander was arrested but the real one got away. That's what's in the paper."

"Don't look at me."

"You did it once and you probably did it again. Only now you've learned to run. And here read this filth which came yesterday."

Miss Martin flinging a white card. Landing against Smith's ankle. Perhaps now is the time to jump her. Through all the war's strategy, map reading, signals to the front, this is the first time I've been held at gun point. Suppose it's better than being lonely. I wish folks' Christmas greetings would come from the heart. Take my time reading this invitation.Al Moygrain Diltor CranzgotAT HOME12:01 A.M., 7 Eel StreetExplosive Gala GangbangTo be followed by the mixed racial withserum available for allergies.R.S.V.P. Sports apparel please

"Just a strongly flavoured invitation Miss Martin."

"You disappear every afternoon/'

"Miss Martin, please. I don't ask you where you go."

"Because I'm stuck alone in this gloomy dump and you don't care."

"I do care, very much. I don't want to see you unhappy."

"You see me underpaid, so how could you care if I'm happy."

"I'll review your salary. Anytime. Make a memo right now, if you put down the gun. The way I'm dressed, to fall mortally wounded. The papers would be full of it."

"I'm the one who should worry. You'll be dead."

"O dear."

"This gun is pointing at the biggest chamber of your heart."

"What sort of a raise do you want. Pension. Anything. Mention it."

"Just keep talking."

"I'd like to."

"Make it good."

"You mustn't get the idea I'm made of money, Miss Martin."

"You're buying an armoured car."

"As I've said, considering the present situation. It's reasonable enough. Now please. There are just the two of us here. Put the gun down. We'll go out of this wretched room, cross over to the bun and coffee shop. Sit over a nut ring, or doughnuts, whichever you prefer."

"O boy. I'll bet."

"It's true. I'm moving office again. Is that what you're thinking. That I was beating it."

"I'm going to have a baby."

"If it's me—"

"I'm going to shoot you. Right now."

"Jesus don't."

"I knew you'd rat."

"Hold it."

"You're a rat."

"Behind you Miss Martin. Is an apparition. I can see it. Hold fire. Just let me enjoy this vision before you shoot. Full of all the colors of the rainbow. And a mist, a light gentle rain. Like tiny tears that maybe an insect might cry. Just another ten seconds. Then shoot. After this, I want to go. Pray for me. I haven't got much religion but I believe. I'll just get down on my knees here for a moment."

"Why don't you die like a man."

"I will but please just look the other way. I would like this few seconds to be private. Don't want you to remember me as if I were begging. Please, don't watch me praying like this. As a final wish. Burn all the files. Sue my estate so you won't be without. Be blood for a blood test. Any reasonable judge will award enough for you and the little one. Now turn away. Cough before you shoot, I need an advance signal before I meet my maker. He lives on a hill for miles around with buttercups sprinkled in the green. According to a recent remark in this apparition."

George Smith slowly bowing his unkempt head. Pink tails of his shirt lightly touching the greyish sycamore floor. Which I only notice now is from my second favourite tree. Not even time to put on a tie. It's going to be wild in Renown. Simply wild. Bonniface and Mr. Mystery will be there, one leading the other. A dog always looks good at a funeral. Wagging his tail, sorry to see me go. As I'm lowered into the crypt. I've got to lunge for her. At least get the charge reduced to manslaughter. He tried to kill me when I told him I was pregnant, your honor. So amusing I should still want everything to look good, even in court. I'm proud Miss Martin should want to shoot me like this. Shows she cares. I would turn rat. I have excuses. Can't go into them now, but always good things to have. What did I do with my bag of dough. Brace my toes, just find a little purchase for them. The Game Club at least has kept me in trim. I won't look bad laid out on the slab. Music now would help. Going over the top into the big circus on the other side. Shake hands in heaven. With the biggest wheeler dealer of them all. In Miss Martin's belly the tiniest heart is ticking. Later little legs will kick. George Junior. Miss Martin if only you could have looked upon it as a present. Which you give back to me. Instead of this firearms. Ready now. To hop into eternity flexing at least two joints. As I dive the bullet will into the back of my head. Goodbye, world, not all that nice knowing but you taught me a few lessons I won't forget in the next.

Smith sprang. Low level. Uncoiling from the crouch. Shirt tails flying. Sharp, brief, crack of the gun. Miss Martin falling backwards. Gun smoking, pointing at the ceiling. George Smith alive. And well on top.

"O.K. Miss Martin. It's all right. Just lie still. Just let's get rid of this gun."

Smith pinning her arms gently to the boards. Taking a deep sigh. Miss Martin's eyes closed. Little bubbles of tears rolling down her temple sides. Amazing how well she looks. So pink. And blossoming. White all these weeks. Attempted murder brought all her color back. weeks. Attempted murder brought all her color "I haven't hurt you, have I Miss Martin."

Little hard blue artery the side of her neck. Only thing that moves. Dear Miss Martin. If the bullet hit me I might be popped into a plain pine coffin. Unclaimed. Lifted on a barge. With hundreds of others. A number and body photographed on a slab. Don't want to go down that way dead. Like an amputated arm or leg. On an island in the river estuaries. With muskrats big as dogs.

"Hello there, Miss Martin."

Her head turning. Breathing up dust. All your rectitude. Milky breasts. Label on your coat that keeps you snug to carry the little life home each evening on the train ride across the flat lands and water. Then down your street. Look out across the beach. Liners burning brightly on the dark horizon. Headed out of turmoil. A cold way on a deep sea to an old world.

"Please. Let me help you up on the sofa."

On the horsehair Miss Martin lay quietly shivering. Smith emptying the bullets. Rolling them one by one out the air shaft window. Two of them firing at the bottom. Windows opening. They'll look up. Stick my head out and look upwards too.

Smith sticking legs into trousers. Wiping feet bottoms on Miss Martin's coat on the floor. Pulling on socks and shoes. Collecting up the edged and pointed instruments. All letter openers and nail files hereafter locked in the drawer.

Crossing to Miss Martin. Head down close to hers. Buy her a bottle of inexpensive perfume. Kiss her on the cheek. Incredible but I want more than anything to take off her clothes. Fill her up with love. Just ease it in. Like the deed already done. We could have walked cold and hungry into a little automat somewhere, bought coffee buns and goodies.

Smith gently closing his door. Picking up Miss Martin's telephone. Finger in the dial. A wail from the back room. Door opening. Miss Martin full of distress and cascading tears.

"Please Mr. Smith don't call the police. O dear God I swear I'll do anything if you don't call them. Don't have me arrested."

Smith phone in hand. Miss Martin, her hunched quivering shoulders in the doorway. High on the wall behind her a shattered glass and hole in Smith's prep school diploma. Standing in her stockinged feet. Looking down on her wet twisted handkerchief stretched between her hands.

"I'm sorry, Miss Martin."

"O no no. Let me go. Please let me go. I'll have my baby. I won't bother you. I swear."

"I'm sorry. Miss Martin."

"O Mr. Smith, please forget everything I said. I'll be a good girl. I'll die in prison. My baby. I'm just a working girl. Please. Please. I'll put on my shoes now. Where are they. There. And I'll go out the door and you'll never see me again."

She has nice little feet. All parts of her put together won't flash in beauty. But each is shaped with grace. So sweet cruelty. Love every one of her sad crying words. Fighting for the baby I gave her. Hello spider.

"All right, Miss Martin. Go back to the couch. I still must make a phone call but it's not to the police. Shut the door."

Soon one is driven to take the blood blot test. It reads a red hand ready to grab at the coat collar. Remember some whispers from Her Majesty. Why don't you get out while you're ahead. But suddenly I'm not ahead. She said Cedric Clementine had invited her to the airport. Where he treated her like a queen. Rushing back and forth in his dark suit, keeping Mr. Mystery in a little tent with water, gruel and a sign do not disturb. Ah, a voice, clear and heartless.

"Excelsior, may I help you."

"Yes. Suite eighteen B. Please."

"Thank you sir."

"Hello."

"Your Majesty, did I leave the bag of toadstools at your digs last night."

"This is not Her Majesty."

"Is this suite eighteen B."

"Her Majesty's secretary speaking. Who is this please."

"Get Her Majesty."

"Who may I say is speaking."

"You may say I am speaking."

"What name shall I give."

"I just don't feel like saying my name this morning. Please, do you mind. Her Majesty. Please."

"I'm sorry, but I must have a name."

"Are you trying to make life unbelievably painful. What's your name."

"I don't see how that matters."

"Is it Hilda."

"No."

"Olga."

"I'm afraid I shall have to hang up on you."

"I'll kill you."

"I beg your pardon."

"I'm sorry. I have a terrible hangover. But I just cannot bear to have to say my name this morning. I've just been through a rather distressing fifteen minutes here. Not that this could possibly matter to you, however there's something rather important that I must ask Her Majesty."

"About a bag of toadstools."

"Yes. Collector's items. Botanical rarities."

"I see."

"I may have left them there. You do have a kindly voice. Now if you would just ask Her Majesty about these foolish fungi for me."

"Very well."

"Wait. I know it's rather reversing the situation somewhat but I would like to know your name."

"Lettia."

"Strange. I knew it ended in a."

"Ha ha."

"Ha ha. Lettia."

If only I hadn't made such an entrance that night. I might use Her Majesty's as a retreat to hide. Vague memories. In suite eighteen B. Vouchsafe decorum devoid. Was a Bonniface motto. I feel close to life again. After nearly being out of it. And in the round darkness of last night. I remember getting up to wee wee. A decanter of brandy gripped in the fist. Walking out through an open door to a roof garden. Wisteria. A little wooden door, balcony with vines shrubberies and trees. Must have disgraced myself. A sundial and paved red brick chevrons. Remember sitting on a cold stone bench staring at them, thinking I once had a suit, put together just like the floor. Please. I did not pee off the balcony eighteen floors down into the street. Laughing as the wind turned it to spray. Feeling I was doing a favour for window boxes everywhere.

"George Smith."

"Your Majesty."

"I have several rather unfortunate things to convey to you, my dear boy. Which cannot be said on a telephone."

"Your Majesty, I was terribly drunk last night."

"Obviously."

"Still am. But is my bag of toadstools there."

"Don't you remember."

"Remember what."

"Dear boy. What a pickle."

"O God."

"Just take a peek in the papers. Even now die police are trying to control the traffic and crowds."

"This is a nightmare. I thought I dreamt it."

"No dream dear boy. I would say one thing, however, at your age you ought to have more sense. If it's your idea of fun, I find it in extremely bad taste to say the least. I will of course see you. Provided, one, you're sober and two, you ask to be shown to the water closet in future. Goodbye."

George Smith stood over Miss Martin. Touched her on the hair. And lifting up some old newspapers, covered her. She sleeps. There may not be rain today but one feels the need of an umbrella. And lip mask.

The hall empty outside 604. A shadow moving across the glass of The Institution Of Higher Graduation. Must be a candidate. First sign of life I've ever seen in that establishment. Ironic when my neighbors on this floor begin to prosper I languish.

Opening the umbrella down the hall. Passing the mop closet. Miss Martin will make a good mother. In that pail behind that door began our first feeble indelicacy. Hounded by gazeteers. Shut Her Majesty out of my heart all together if that's the way she wants it to be. Very best people use basins, parapets, balconies and alas, Bonnif ace says, when there is no bone china, there is only the open honest window left. Ask to be shown to the water closet, what crass presumption.

On the first floor landing a messenger running blindly up and nearly into George Smith gave a squeal of fear at this somnambulant slowly stepping down. Few little accessories and one easily spreads the fear of God. Presently possessed in abundance. After all the solid months I sat entrenched in Golf Street. Each morning prancing purposely out of Merry Mansions. Man of decision. Delegating authority. Striding in all weathers along the river. Nearly running when Miss Tomson worked for me. The sweaters she wore. Blue vision of blondness. The pearls. If Miss Tomson has a little one too. Be a whole bunch of babies born together. Later in some side street by the river, could all play in a garden. Start their own band.

At the kiosk Smith buying an afternoon newspaper. Tucking it under the arm. Umbrella miraculously parting the crowd ahead. Walking east, threading through the noon day rush. Further north to disappear in an entrance marked, Suppliers Of Ecclesiastical Pyrotechnic Fireworks. And emerging, a large box under his arm, umbrella blossoming black in the mid day sun. Ambling south along the river past the Watch Museum, where so often one means to visit but never finds time. And a chauffeured car flashing by nearly running Smith down, containing a face one knew but could not place. Life is spooky.

Facing the river piers, a little coffee house in which Smith sat with a cool glass of lime juice and a confection of chopped walnut flavoured with goat's milk butter and drenched in honey. Spreading out the newspaper on the little table. Looking up and down the columns. A headline.

IT RAINS DOUGH AT DAWN

While most of the city slept an eerie scene of groping bent scurrying people started what later led to a full scale riot extending from Breevort to Constola Streets along Golden Avenue which fully lived up to its name just before dawn this morning.

Witnesses to the early spectacle said that out of nowhere money began floating down in the semi-darkness and accompanied by a fresh wind, was blowing in all directions over the Avenue. At first, the bills, which were of a high denomination, were happily being collected by only a few pedestrians.

It was claimed trouble first began with the arrival of the Department of Sanitation's cleaning vehicle whose three occupants jumped to the roadway and declared that the money was technically litter, which as servants of the city they were empowered to collect. Fighting quickly broke out.

As word rapidly spread the crowd grew. Office cleaners, watchmen and night shift workers were joined by stevedores and porters from the nearby fish and produce markets. By eight o'clock, motorists were abandoning their cars in side-streets, blocking traffic and hampering police and ambulances hurrying to the district. Captain Tigerson whose mounted patrol men threaded their way in, said he hadn't seen such inhumanity between persons in his twenty seven years on the force and that the street could have been a beachhead.

One man retreating to a doorway to slip money into his shoes was pounced upon before he could lace them up. To be seen a few minutes later in his bare feet being helped to an ambulance bleeding from wounds in the head. He was treated on the spot for abrasions, four sprained toes and mild shock.

An elderly gentleman stood weeping against a cigar store window, with eyeglasses shattered, nose bleeding and coat ripped, still clutching a torn bill in his hand. He said, "Look at me, I'm a grandfather, and look what they do."

More severe injuries were sustained by a young man who received two stab wounds in the chest from a woman's umbrella. He was removed, as were the many other victims, to the Mercy Hospital two blocks away where the nuns described his condition as critical.

One of the lighter moments was related by an unidentified witness whose glass eye fell or was torn out in the hostilities. As he later searched the gutter for his hand made optic, a woman approached and handed it back to him none the worse, saying it had found its way down her cleavage in the shindy.

For nearly three more hours the bitter bedlam raged up and down Golden Avenue before mounted police finally quelled and dispersed the mob. At its peak there were estimated to be between four and five thousand people involved. Two fire companies stood by throughout ready to use fire hoses if necessary.

Police are now conducting an investigation to trace the source of the money. Because of the large sum and fresh condition, the notes were at first thought to be forged. However, Captain Tigerson said there was no question but that the money was real and was dropped, swept or thrown from a building somewhere below Breevort Street and blown north by the wind. He also said it was a crying shame to see the human teeth marks on some victims and a sad comment on people's greed that hardly a note survived intact, and the only ones to gain were the pickpockets who swarmed to the neighborhood and had a field day. Three income tax Inspectors were also in evidence in the area but refused Inspectors comment.

"Waiter."

"Yeah, mister."

"Another lime juice and one more baclawa."

Big trucks rumbling up and down the avenue. Passing shadows of public people by the half curtained window. High up over the entrances to the piers, ship's funnels poking. Bottles of soda pop and cardboard images of frolicsome girls, mouths full of teeth ready to be refreshed. Shoulders just like Sally Tomson's. As they were in my arms, so neat and smooth under her hair. Please see me in my recent romantic antic. Generously scattering a drop of my fortune on an early morning sea breeze. Should have jumped after it. Grabber at life's banquet follows a fortune to doom. As folk fleece and fisticuff in street.

"Waiter. Check."

George Smith at the counter. Reaching and digging in his pockets. Back ones, front, the waist coat. Empty wallet. I am without funds. Just two coins the person gave me at the fountain. My God. And these are not enough. When I could have bought the whole street last night.

"Look."

"Yeah, mister."

"I'm sorry, but it seems I'm a little short."

"Yeah."

"I can pay for one baclawa, and one lime juice."

"You had two baclawas, and two lime juice."

"I can only pay for one."

"Cash. Guys been coming in here all day trying to pass torn bills."

"I understand."

"Hey, Lucifer, come out here a second."

Two swarthy persons viewing Smith with his little box tucked under the arm. A couple of whispers. Lips dry under the lip mask. Umbrella flapping at his side.

"O.K. bud. We have fifteen cans of garbage back there, need to go on street."

Lucifer lifting up the flap of the counter. Smith following with umbrella, parcel, into a back steamy interior. On chopping boards, mounds of sliced onions, carrots split in four, and potatoes ready for hot fat. Don't fight it. Go with it. Till there's a chance to go elsewhere.

Through a door into an alley. Smith apostate, darkly noble, nostrils flared to the sweet reek. Lucifer jerking thumb towards a green shed. Up the dim narrow alley the light of the street. Distantly above, a square patch of sky. Under which I work for the first time. In foot-poundals. To lift with a hand. The satisfaction deep. The rewards are small. The smell overpowering. Taste brandy in the sweat dripping down my nose.

Lucifer standing watching. George Smith staring stiffly back. Driving him into the kitchen door with aloof chill distaste. Adjusting his lip mask. Kneeling to retie tightly each shoe. To look like one is making ready to work, instead of run.

Smith wafting his hanky, taking a scent of attar of roses up the nostrils. Wheeling out a barrel of banana skins. Raising a foot up. A push. Leave a little skating rink behind.

Smith spun around the corner. Briefly looking over a shoulder at the two hefty proprietors standing shirt sleeved in the street. After a struggle up a slippery alley. Sorry gentlemen, must rush to a board meeting. With my gavel, crystal pitcher of water and newly sharpened pencils. To announce a regrettable deficit. And avoid a woeful winding up.

Smith sitting heart thumping on a bench in the wide open space of the park. A little boy with a jumping toy on a string. Mother rocking a baby carriage ten feet away. To take him by the hand. Too near the strange man. True madam.

Room to look out. Across the harbor. Grey water chopped up by ferry and barge. Over there stands a little round fort I could use. After free refreshment. Lose one's self for a moment in fancy figments and land arse first in reality. Miss Martin mounting a machine gun in Dynamo, In the cabin in the woods, nature tells you go ahead put it in. Rest it there in softness. Off it went like a cannon. Didn't mean to pull the trigger. Bonniface in the morning paper, me in the afternoon. Both of us in a noose. Miss Martin please don't tell your mother.

Here on this little bench. You left me wretched, Sally Tomson. You left me sad. Last night on Her Majesty's balcony couldn't you see me wave. In the light breeze weeping. Her Majesty sleeping. Laughed lightly letting treasury notes slip out from fingers. Down over the city, separating away in the dark. Fell so silently. Without pomp in the crazy circumstance. I thought let urine be followed by gold.

Just

For

A

Change.