A Singular Man

7

ON a day when winter was ending. On a promontory near a dead end of street pushing out into the river by the fish market. Dark sheds. Barges bumping derelict. I walked out here on the first day I moved office and have come lunch times ever since. To watch the ferries, the pigeons scared into the air by hoots. And to conjure up a future for my past.

The new office is two interconnecting rooms where I sit in die back one watching out on the endless white tiled wall of a warehouse. Brought Miss Martin with me. Had a going away party too. Sportsmen from The Game Club. A buffet. With beer, wine and tidbits. It was disastrous. Matilda trooped in to Thirty Three Golf Street drunk with several celestial friends and danced with my topper and hardly anything else. Dispersing the less hardy guests.

I got letters. Delivered by post, by hand, by elephant by God. I objected to some of the innuendo.

i Electricity Street

We are firm in our wish

that the year is immaterial.

George Smith

Room 604,

Dynamo House

Owl Street

Dear Sir,

Do not pretend not to know who we are.

Yours faithfully,

JJJ. & The Associates

P.S. We assume you were attending a funeral.

And to answer these this month of March I sat chilly and wagging my feet on a capstan on a wharf the end of Owl Street. Feeling easier out under the open sky.

Room 604

Dynamo House

Owl Street

i Electricity Street

Dear Sir,

I require details to establish identification. How many eyes have you all got.

Yours sincerely,

G. Smith

P.S. Also be glad if your next letter were accompanied by a brief medical history.

On Wednesday, some days later a note was slipped under the front office door.

i Electricity Street

Our former comments in

this heading will suffice.

Room 604

Dear Sir,

We can do without your crass attempt at jocularity. We inform you that our appointees have been instructed to institute moves. In the light of the seriousness of the situation and in case you are under any illusion we inform you that we are in the possession of two eyes each.

Yours faithfully,

JJ.J. & The Associates (Global)

P.S. There is no need to go into our medical history.

Grey Thursday afternoon to spell out a reply to J.J.J. from room 604, Dynamo House.

Turdsday

JJ.J. & Associates (Global)

i Electricity Street

Dear Sir,

Watch out.

Yours sincerely,

G. Smith (Local)

P.S. I am also blessed with two headlamps, which I should be glad to focus on your medical history.

And on this day. At her plywood desk with a slender vase of chrysanthemums, Miss Martin's shoulders slumped forward and she burst into tears over her typewriter. George Smith went to her. Her hair brown and full round her head. Placing a hand across her back, the little acorns of her spine.

"Mr. Smith, I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Miss Martin. Don't worry. Yon cry."

"Mr. Smith, I don't want to ever let you down. Bnt I'm scared."

"Is it the office here."

"I suppose I'm just getting used to the long anonymous halls and staircases. It's not like Golf Street. I shouldn't cry like this. But Mr. Smith I feel the whole world is horrible and mean. And the letters."

"Miss Martin, don't you fret That's not your worry. Here try my hanky."

"Thanks."

"Give a good blow. That's it."

"I'll wash and iron it."

"Nonsense, you keep it now."

"I read in the paper that poor boy was shot to death. Just because he recognised someone on the subway train."

"Miss Martin, you musn't take things so seriously. Now wipe these away. Feel better."

"Such a nice smell your hanky."

''Lemon."

"I like it. I feel better now and Mr. Smith this letter just came registered special delivery."

Mount Ararat

March iyth

My Dear George,

I write to you alas for some material aid. At the moment I am completely banjaxed. I am trying desperately to escape from this God forsaken place to make a fresh start in the new world. I hope you will be able to assist me in this. We hear that you are now very successful and a happy family man and I am glad. Can you wire as much money as you can reasonably afford to departing Passenger" Volta Steamship Lines — to their office here or there will get me, and mark it "hold for collection." You will never know how much you will have saved my life. And may God protect you as He has not yours truly*

See you soon,

BONNIFACE

Smith folding the letter carefully, putting it back in its envelope. Miss Martin with liquid wide whites around her eyes. In this room where one is waiting for something awful to happen. Cedric, the awful Bonniface, Clementine. College classmate. Amateur historian of his own recent history. No fear Miss Martin. A friend. It's my turn for tears.

Miss Martin coming each morning to room 604, Dynamo House at nine. She put on a little burner for coffee. She rode two hours on the train. Said it went over bridges and bridges and the salt water was covered all along the shore in ice. She told me how the workmen put boards on the train and it stopped at the middle of the bridge way out over the water and they climbed out in the wind, boards on their shoulders. And her house. Her little tiny bedroom. Wind whistled round it all the night. Heat came up in the morning with pipes creaking. And when very sad she would go down the street in the early morning along the row of empty boarding houses, grey and shuttered up and look out across the flat sea. To watch a sun red and cold coming up. Her ears would sting. Then get on the train, sit on the slippery seats, see the people get in. Same ones sometimes. Until it would get like sardines. Then climbing up out with a crowd, crossing the park by the ferry terminus and through the shadowy streets to the little world of room 604. And the grand dad clock would chime. And nine canes in the cane rack.

Now Miss Martin sits all forlorn. Her voice tired. The vein trembling across her wrist. Shaves the hair off her legs. Grey wool dress with short sleeves. She is twenty six years old. From there step down into years of waiting. For marriage. Light hair on her light skin. Her face up close, new born, all fuzz and peachy. Her lids and lashes lay down over her eyes as she thinks. Want sometimes to gather her up in my arms. Say, little girl you're safe while I hold you. And instead I ask her let's go out. Take a walk in the park.

George Smith leading Miss Martin across the lobby of Dynamo House. Past the great glass covering all the little names of firms right through the alphabet. And at S. There is George Smith, room number 604. Fourth Floor. And down the wide steps. Across the busy street. Passing the little cemetery by the church. Needle spire like a toothpick. Might have had a little plot in there had I been in time a hundred years ago.

Into the park by the barge office. Drizzling rain. Sky dark and heavy. Ferries squeezing along the greased pilings and clanging against the little metal bridge of shore. Cars start engines and off they come. Others go taking the people home to the lights across the water. And a monstrous ship passing down the river. Little circle of people on the fan tail. Two figures pointing and waving at the park. Hear the vessel's engines. Feel them on the soles of the feet, shaking the ground. Passengers1 streamers fall away and land on the water. Gay tidings in the mist.

"Miss Martin, a majestic sight."

"I'd love to go on a ship."

"Yes."

"Mr. Smith, it's letting off steam."

"Hooting bye bye. Takes you away from a lot of things."

"Mr. Smith, you say that so sadly."

"Come, Miss Martin and we'll get something to eat."

Two figures crossing the windy park. Miss Martin taking Smith's arm over the street. And inside where wieners were being turned on a hot skillet behind the steamed glass. Always wanted to have the constitution to eat these fearlessly, perhaps with a glass of orange. I know it will warm up Miss JMartin. Her ears, just showing out of her hair, tinged with red.

Mr. Smith and Miss Martin taking a table in this eatery. A cross section of humanity. One belching secretly over his decoy coffee. Two secretaries with side plates of buns they peruse. A waitress with black hair and large searchlights. Going round the restaurant straightening her hair, training her huge beams on the goggle eyed. The other waitress slipping out among the customers with a broom flashing among the legs. To scare up dust for hay fever and sprinkle debris on the cups of coffee. The chef roasting, slipping coins into an oversized trouser cuff.

And as George Smith stood at the counter to get his cups of coffee and plates of wieners in a roll, there was a hissing sound. Growing louder and louder in the coffee machine. Chromium steaming tank. Now starting to scream. Customers looking up. Counter boy deftly moving away as the sides of the tank were bulging. The quietest customer of all, huddled over a decoy cup of coffee was up like a flash and out the door. Two secretaries screamed and held their ears. Miss Martin ducked over. George Smith cowering. The chef trembling behind a display of doughnuts. As Smith could see the decoy coffee drinker now safely on the other side of the street, with his hands up round his eyes like binoculars to witness the thunderclap.

All tense. Waiting. Crouched. Come in here to renew. To give Miss Martin fuel for her tummy. And find a little team of barefaced shirkers. Bent upon feathering thek own nests at the expense of the absent proprietor. If you don't shut your eyes to some things, the cheating and chiseling that goes on would drive you out of your wits. Now we're to be blasted to kingdom come. And I've not made a will.

The unmerry group frozen at positions of hopeful safety. Beep. A tiny pop from the coffee machine, a whistle and wheeze. A final whimpering into silence* The all clear. Customers slowly stand again. Smile. Old friends now. The decoy coffee drinker returning from across the street. He takes a look through the glass in at the now silent cylinder. Pushes open the door. Nods to these embattled wiener patrons. Sits down on a stool and emits a nervous laugh. Ha ha. Girl with mountains gives the peaks a twitch. Whoosh. An avalanche. Endangering anyone making the way up the slopes.

Miss Martin finishing her wiener licks her lips. Wipes away a little crumb of meat. Her nose red round the nostrils. And shiny just at its tip with a flat spot like streamlining. Tiny ship sails round her mind. Stopping at ports where perhaps I am some naughty foreigner. And just four days ago I was passing outside a great department store. Suddenly stopped. Recognised a face on all the manikins in the battery of windows. Wearing spring evening gowns, swim suits and negligees. Miss Tomson. Figure and face. Same slight puzzled look around the eyes, same blue, same blond and careless flinging out of limbs. Find her standing there. All night in plaster looked at by the empty street. And Miss Martin here is not a Miss Tomson nor a Shirl. And were one to enter a kiss in her ear. Make her thrash legs in the air, cause mayhem. Pant as Shirl did on the carpet, the neighbors hearing her out in thek gardens, while tending cabbage. Or thek own ears. Of corn.

George Smith and Miss Martin walked back towards Owl Street. Passing in front of the great grey darkness of the custom house. The little round park of green in the middle of the road. Miss Martin feeling better for her wieners and coffee. Smith silent and protective. No boyfriend to take her out at night. Said she curled up with a magazine while her mother cooked the supper.

Turning the corner of Owl Street, Smith stopped and bought a bag of roasted peanuts. Threw one high in the air, caught it neatly in the mouth. Miss Martin chuckling, wide eyed, stopping in the noisy thick traffic of the street. Sad the world made such a din. One whole afternoon sitting in Dynamo House, hot water bottles hanging over each ear. Go to the mausoleum while still alive and live in it. Withstanding the regulations that say you must be dead. A pity. Be quiet there, on the marble, satin pillow under head. And through the tall iron fence round the cemetery, Shirl would point, level the finger, hire attorneys, fat necked to recite off laws and say I can't do what I'm doing.

"Miss Martin, I like your eyes."

Smith viewing the way ahead. Then stealing a glance at Miss Martin who was all eyes cast down. Whispering in Smith's heart were little words, nearer my God to thee, and please, never force me to wear shoes of grasshopper skin. For leaping high out of all the terrible traps set everywhere these days.

The lights on in the blocks of windows. Tune of afternoon sadness. Sky all threatening and dark. Wind picking up the torn newspaper in the gutter. Outside these merchant banks, houses of exchange. Sugar, cotton and fish. And approaching the wide steps of Dynamo House set back from the street and overshadowed by two tall buildings on either side. Miss Martin and George Smith slowly climbed the steps.

Half way up. Great blobs of rain fall Rumble of thunder. Lightning streaking blue on the buildings. Miss Martin stopped and caught George Smith by the arm. Two figures stepping from behind a pillar in front of Dynamo House. Smith raising an arm across his face. Blinding camera flash bulbs. Smith and Miss Martin running into the entrance. Across the lobby and to the stairs. Pounding feet behind them. And more flashes of cameras. And shouts.

"That's him."

Smith had Miss Martin's hand. Speeding up one two three flights. Making one abrupt detour on the fourth. Where Smith pulled open a door just off the landing.

"Into this mop closet, Miss Martin, fast."

"God."

"That's it."

"Will we fit, Mr. Smith."

"Got to."

"But they'll find us."

"No they won't. I've got the key. Lock us in."

"God."

"Miss Martin I'm not making you too uncomfortable. My foot's in this pail. Quiet now. I hear them."

Feet outside the mop closet. Two of them stopping to tug on the door. Locked. Moving onward. Silence. Heavy breathing. Had they put an ear to the key hole.

"Am I stifling you Miss Martin. I'm terribly sorry about this."

"I'm all right, Mr. Smith."

"Just get my foot out of this pail. Hold it. I hear feet again. They're coming back this way."

"Mr. Smith why do they want our picture."

"Hush now."

Smith raising hand to signal silence. In the near blackness. So close to Miss Martin. Closest I've ever been. Her breath smells sweetly. And hear her heart pounding. Nearly taste her. And feel her too. Twin precious things pressing against my arm. A tugging at the door knob of this mop cupboard once more. Strange, so many times I passed this closet, and said there's a little harbour in a storm.

Feet moving off again. Sounds like four pairs. Or five. Some of the rags in here are odiferous. Touched Miss Martin's lips with my finger. Face to face in the black. Feet on the landing. Voices. Confused. The pounding they make down the steps is too loud to be trusted. No hoof hoodwinks me. Somehow all I could see of them as they jumped out were their ears. And they had noses too. Of newshounds.

"Are they going Mr. Smith."

"May be a ruse. Are you all right. Like to move your arm over. Wretched pail. My foot's deeper in it than ever. Never get it off. And be caught for sure."

"I'll push back further."

"No don't Miss Martin. If I can just get my foot loose. Be all right. Then we can get out of here."

"I don't mind."

"Soon we'll need air."

"I still don't mind."

Smith's ears twitching. At that last remark. A tingle and glow rears up at the bifurcation of the legs. With the little room in here, hardly any space for expansion. It will stand up and she'll ask what it is. Many mops, Miss Martin and handles too. My hand feels her hair. What's this. Not again.

"Miss Martin. Tears. I feel tears."

'Tes."

"Why."

"I don't know."

"Are you scared in here with me."

"No."

"Were you frightened by those men."

"No."

"Is it something I've done or said."

"No."

"Why do you cry."

"I just don't know, Mr. Smith. I have to."

Smith reaching a knuckle under the eye. Picking up a tear. Feel her lips. Opening. Taking in George Smith's finger between her teeth. Whole knuckle of the hand. Biting and nibbling. And her voice all choked. With fingers in her mouth. And whispering.

"Mr. Smith I dreamt about you last night."

"You did."

"Yes. You were standing on a hill. And I was at the bottom of the street. And they were trying to capture you. And they held you. And at the bottom of the hill old women held me and I started to cry."

"Why."

"I can't tell you."

"Tell me."

"A great white river flowed down the hill from you. Right by me on the street. And I wanted to drink and the old women wouldn't let me. And held me. And I was crying. And just cried. And the white stream flowed by."

Outside the thunder clapping. Must be monumental drops of rain. Even in Miss Martin's dreams, it would appear they try to get me for something. She sleeps in her little room and has books she likes. Her shade pulled down and it flaps and thumps when the wind blows. And the wind was nearly always blowing. The air thickens in this closet. No wind. Nor my God, lay waste one. Till love begins, when you can listen with a smile. Backfiring after wieners is no laughing matter.

George Smith put out a hand Just in under Miss Martin's open coat Felt a little tide of flesh nipping up over her underdraws. It was spare. Personal part of her. Give it a little pat. Women are desperate for love. And when they give theirs, they get short shrift. Wash my socks. Get me juice.

"It may be safe now to go Miss Martin. Before we suffocate."

Smith turning the key slowly. Opening the door to the light. And somewhat fragrant air. Blinking. Peering both ways in the hall. A forward movement and crash. Smith flat on face both feet in pails.

"Are you hurt."

"Pull those God damn things off me, Miss Martin. Please. Woke the dead"

"You poor sweet."

Miss Martin pulling off the pails. Smith to his knees. Hobbling on these a yard or two. Just trying them out in case one loses the rest. Just make it one flight down on tip toe. Someone wants to discredit me. Get my picture. Plaster it. And say there's that skunk.

Empty hall outside room 604. Save coming round the corner. A cleaning woman with a waxing machine. Madam thanks for your closet. Smith opening, closing 604 tighdy and locking the door. Miss Martin standing defenceless in her coat. Here, allow me Miss Martin. To divest you of this. Hang it up. Sad girl. Just light your lamp over your desk. See the nice glow. Quite an afternoon. Of near explosions. Riots. Peanut catching in the mouth. And a mobbing by reporters. Finally Miss Martin you said you poor sweet.

Smith in his back room. Fiddling in his papers. Stacked this way and that. Out the window. The globs of rain. Popping down the narrow air shaft grey and fat against the white tiles.

"Mr. Smith, this came while we were out. It's a nice pink envelope."

Smith picking it up. Opening it bravely. Perhaps a request to donate my body to medical science. Great shortage. Ask you to incorporate it in your will, which will be read when the time is nigh, and at their expense and within a reasonable distance, they will come and fetch you. Donate a part if you cannot donate the whole. Help train tomorrow's scientists.

The Management

Merry Mansions

Eagle Street

Saturday

Dear Mr. Smith,

A preliminary report has now come to hand concerning the crack sent right up your wall into Mr. &Mrs. Goldminer's apartment.

Although our engineers are baffled to know how this was done especially having regard for the quality of the structure, they are satisfied it was the result of a violent slamming of your door. As you are aware this door was made to your own specifications of a surgical steel. Our engineers are of the opinion that such a door, having regard for its great weight should open and close by mechanical means if further damage to the building is to be avoided.

We, of course, await respectfully your reply in this matter and any suggestions you may care to put forth.

Regarding the plummeting plaster on sleeping inhabitants of the next building caused by members of your youth rally, we hope to have further news soon.

I, personally, of course, accord you my friendly greetings.

Yours most sincerely,

S. Stone

P.S. Pink stationery is an indulgence of mine which I feel is a happier color than white.

S.S.

P.P.S. We note your change of address.

S.S.

George Smith raising the paper to the light. Good watermark and cotton content. Miss Martin stands by the cream door jamb, one hand held in another. And when I say take a letter she will go back to her pool of light, poised before her machine rapping those little lettered keys. Gloomy, raining, so chilly and cold. Her wool dress clings so. Trim and sad. Pink stationery. Pink buds on Miss Martin. To remember these little items when the whole grey vista is so vast.

"Miss Martin, take a letter, please. Dear Mr. Stone. Thank you for your letter concerning the crack in Merry Mansions and the news that I shall be hearing soon of the plummeting plaster. New paragraph. I am presently engaged in deep research concerning the m&rket price of human judgment as applied to profit making in my new egg breaking plant. As soon as conclusions have been reached about such cracking I will deal with the one in Merry. New paragraph. I would only mention that I do hope the incident of the plummeting plaster can be settled amicably. I sense that the repentent and aggrieved members of the rally who were responsible would like me to extend to you and the victims of the plaster their most sincere apologies, and regret they have brought the rally and other members into disrepute. Yours sincerely. Got that Miss Martin."

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"And just add, enamoured of your pink stationery."

"Shall I send this registered Mr. Smith."

"Yes, do, Miss Martin."

Seems so long ago now since the mop closet Only one letter since. Having slept in 604 last night, I applied a reputable deodorant for masculine freshness. Some women make you suffer a smell to love them. And you bury fingers under a pillow. Like the river water die end of the street, so sweet till you taste. Shirl was a clear mountain spring, her mouth, teeth gleaming, white heavenly doors. In the shadows of her lips. Light pink color of her tongue. Which she will lay out between lips while her lawyers draft appeals regarding this testator's unsoundness of mind. I sit here now with elbows pressed on desk, waiting for Miss Martin to type the ultimate draft of my final wishes.

Smith drawing down the white shades on the two back windows of 604. Which one was tempted to call a suite. Live honestly but briefly. Now Miss Martin, you sit so stiffly having made a rough of my pencilled final instructions. You think me strange and peculiar. And afraid to look me in the eye in case maybe my own are spinning like ball bearings. I am easy of heart. Delighted to be rich. And when called to higher service let there be this document which I peruse now between my living fingers.I, George Smith, hereby make known my last will and testicle. First off I should like to rear up and haunt all those who tried to screw me up while living. Special attention to be given those fuckpigs who have communicated with me by letter attempting thereby to get funds from my unrelenting clutches.All my chattel possessions whatsoever remaining gripped in my lunch hooks at the time of stepping into darkness, which I do not care to have herein mentioned as the eternal shid, there having been a sufficiency of same throughout my casual meander through life, are to be held to public auction. The entire sum of money proceeding from such auction is then to be converted to bank notes of small denomination and placed in a steel receptacle six feet high and one foot in diameter and so placed and so constructed as to withstand the rigors of a hoard. The receptacle shall be positioned at a spot chosen to be the most public and central with comfort stations available. A day shall be announced, described as next Turdsday, upon which day, all streets leading to the area will be cordoned off and cleared of any human or vehicular traffic. At twenty minutes to midnight the area is to be floodlit. Cameras will then be set up in several strategic positions and be protected to ensure their free and easy operation. At twelve midnight on this aforesaid Turdsday, a sound of an adult human breaking wind shall be made which shall act as a signal which sound shall be so magnified on suitable sound equipment to sound like a volcano. Referees shall be appointed and take proper measures to prevent the carrying of any lethal weapon by the surging mob. However, persons availed of sports equipment, fishing rods and the like, are to be allowed. For this purpose, croquet mallets of regulation weight shall not be considered as lethal. But citizens appearing out of the blue in skin diving equipment are to be looked upon askance. Upon the signal aforementioned the camera operators shall proceed to record the scene as the various citizens approach the cash and continue to do so until the money can be reasonably thought to be gone. At the discretion of the trustees a director may be appointed to film any further incident thought interesting following upon the disappearance of the money from the said receptacle. The film will be duly edited in a sequence that shall be thought tastiest. Without background music. Close-ups of the scene will take precedence over long shots except in such long shots catching the mood of the mob. The film will then be made available free of any charge save that of carriage, to any institution engaged in any recognised research program of any reasonable description and to all other charitable institutions, communities, clubs or organisations which can be thought of as reasonably being in the interests of any section of the community or the community as a whole, these to include gatherings for good fellowship, singsongs, chats or birth control.

A corpse which shall well and truly have been determined to be me and such determination being absolutely beyond any shadow of doubt or mistake, such corpse shall be further untouched and placed immediately in a sycamore coffin, and such coffin put in a subdued manner and fashion in the tomb erected for this purpose for which adequate provisions have already been made. My name, George Smith, shall be carved deeply in the sycamore and followed by the inscription hereinafter set forth.

The innocent

Were cowering

As the guilty

Closed in on them

Murderously.