Schultz

20

Bright with the occasional shower said the early morning wireless forecast. But the day remained windswept and pouring with rain. Big Al Duke in a tweed fishing hat smiled as if he were the father of the bride, pressing a bouquet of orchids into Pricilla’s hand and kissing her on both cheeks. A photographer outside the registry office with his flash bulbs popping off. Al beaming, his arms about the newlyweds.

“Come on, once more, the happy couple and all of us together. What’s a few rain drops on this unforgettable day.”

Schultz shivering in his thin grey flannel ivy league suit. Rubbing his eyes after each picture as if he did not know what hit him. Bumped into as he was once or twice by Pricilla’s mother. And having for the first time learned the rest of Pricilla’s Christian names, Prunella and Prudence. And ushered by a back slapping Al into this long limousine.

“Come on kids, let’s all go for our little nosh I got ready for you at the Savoy.”

The suspension of the vast motor lowering as Pricilla’s mother got on board. Schultz at the sight of this familiar interior had his hand on his stomach and then across his lips as particles of a bacon and toast breakfast came up his throat to sourly taste in the mouth. Wedged in by a wife on one side and mother in law smothering everybody in her perfume, insisting to be on the other. Al taking up a jump seat alongside surprise of surprises. Agnes. An equally beautiful equally creamy skinned tall softly blond closest girl friend of Pricilla’s. Who flew all the way from Argentina to be at her best friend’s wedding. And who, as she gazed admiringly at Al during his tourist commentary, also made Schultz’s prick tingle into erection.

“Agnes, even is this inclemency isn’t our wonderful London still beautiful.”

The rain speckled vehicle majestically purring through Chelsea down a traffic jammed King’s Road. Passing around the fountain in Sloane Square. Speeding up through Cliveden Place. The greenery beyond Eaton Gate. Here’s where they keep freshly painting the houses every week. Got my hair cut only a hundred yards away right over there. In these streets where once I wandered free. Now a whole roll of Pricilla’s mother’s fat is pushing under my elbow like the arm rest of a chair. Jesus when will it ever be when I’m getting annoyed by nothing. Never be another night like that one. With Roxana and Greta. Screwed what must be one of the most beautiful holes in Europe. After half an hour’s trying. Managing to steal up on Roxana from behind. As Greta was otherwise engaging her from the front. That privileged fucker his Lordship. Doesn’t even know what’s hanging around just one of his fucking castles. And now. Just when I’m meeting one after another, exactly the kind of women I need supplied in my life. This happens to me. A coffin lid slammed. Catching my fingers, my prick, my neck, my balls. With two tons live weight of a mother in law sitting on top crushing it closed. Eight new grey hairs this week I pulled out of my head. Al I can do is holler and scream bloody fucking murder way down in the abyss of my guts. And Al, holy shit, can he be appropriate. Choosing flowers related to those that trap and eat god damn flies.

In a green damask walled private drawing room over looking the tops of the trees and the tugs and barges on a rain swept Thames River, the wedding repast was had. Tail coated waiters deftly in attendance. Schultz his black hair framing his ashen face, eyes glazed staring at the table cloth. Pricilla wearing her Queen of Sheba smile. Then a grimace as Schultz dug out a piece of wedding cake which toppled off the knife to fall on the floor. While Big Al, his eyes glistening, his glass of champagne raised, stood at one end of the table, and reflected in the many mirrors, made his little speech and proposed a toast.

“It is sad that Sigmund’s own parents couldn’t be here to witness this, this wonderful moment, the marriage of their one and only child. But on such short notice they were caught busy opening up yet another of their large textile factories on the East Coast. And it is my own little unhappiness on this wonderful occasion that my own dearly beloved is not here. Being as she is so charmingly just too shy. But nevertheless Agnes is here. This beautiful flower we welcome from the Argentine. And together with the new bride’s beautiful mother we wish happiness for the both of you two good young kids. To Mr. and Mrs. Schultz.”

Big Al Duke the day previously having got investor’s contracts from Sigmund Franz Schultz now let this recently married impresario examine these four slips of certified variously coloured and water marked paper. Which were produced in the gleaming marble and polished wood panelling surrounds of the men’s room of the Savoy.

“Here you are Sigmund, mit mazel and broche.”

“Holy shit, Al. I don’t need that kind of sentimental yiddish shit just now.”

“Sentimental, like hell, since when can especially you do without luck and blessing.”

“O.K. Al, O.K. You win.”

Schultz in his pale faced daze did manage to be intrigued by the three legged emblem on a cheque drawn on the Isle of Man Bank, as he folded these amounts of twenty thousand from one investor, thirteen from another, twenty five from a third and two from Big Al himself. Putting them one into the other and shoving them into his side jacket pocket.

“Jesus, Sigmund, don’t just stuff away sixty thousand pounds like it was a hat check.”

“What do you want me to do.”

“Put them safe in your wallet.”

“I lost it.”

“Hey that’s what I’m saying. You could lose them. Don’t be careless. Sometimes I think I must be crazy the way I help you out of jams.”

“Out of jams. Into jams. What the fuck are you telling everybody my mother and father are opening big factories for. When all they opened is a back street cut price lingerie store. They already think I’m made of money. When all the fuck I’m made of is overheads. And it’s ruining me.”

“Sigmund, come on. I like to make you sound good. That something is backing you up. Like who doesn’t know the theatre is treacherous. But from now on, you’re going to zing mit der dick dick. Right. At the beginning of what is to be for you lifelong happiness. Right.”

“Al. Wrong. Stop. Just for a second. And I’ll tell you something. Holy shit I feel sick. Jesus, just for a second the whole room began to spin.”

“Here. My car’s not nearby. So puke in the basin.”

“Fuck you, I’m not going to puke Al. And you know what it is that I want to tell you.”

“No what.”

“I want to tell you Al. Thanks from the bottom of my heart for some things. But Jesus christ almighty.”

No thanks

For others

From the bottom

Of my soul