A Fairy Tale of New York (25 page)

26

September sun tanners in the park. Gang of marauding kids swinging chains and carrying pipes stuffed with gun powder and nails. They like to pop them off at the older pedestrians. And Fanny said I want you to stop work. You go out each day and how the hell do I know where you are if I can't call you at that stupid Think Boom.

Kept handing around my notes at the office. Nice little answers to some big questions. Especially when Mr Quell asked how long is this silent business of yours going to go on.

DOC SAYS COULD EASILY BE CURED IN SIX MONTHS.

Quell said meantime I could learn to make coffee for the rest of the Think Boom. And serve his cup extra hot. Which I did sweetened with a chocolate purgative. Guaranteed to cause copious evacuation from the most concrete of bowels.

Fanny when we woke in the morning after my cheese cake and milk evening with Marigold, socked me because she said I had lipstick under my eye. I explained it was the Pakistani elevator operator who wore the color as part of his religion. Got it on me when I stretched him out in agony in the grapevine. Some people will accept nothing but a lie when you're struggling to tell the gospel truth.

And one morning the police came. To say that the Pakistani gentleman had his nose broken and his jaw in four places. Willie came in drunk at dawn and beat the hell out of him. Wrecked the lobby and smashed the front door. Not a sound reached us up in bed. Except the other residents shouting they were getting a committee together to throw her out. And my thoughts thumping in my brain. To get out. Get out.

Took Fanny one night for dinner. To a fancy place with a canopy on the street. Followed now by her detective in another car. She wore a black sequined dress. And turned every head in the dining room. Had rich red wine and porterhouse under the ancient looking ceiling put up last month. The waiter splattered mayonnaise on me. And did other demeaning things. I was amazed how calm I was. Till Fanny said to him, why don't you just fuck off sonny boy and get me the headwaiter. And for the rest of the night he stood staring, wiping forks in a corner. When I know the bastard wanted to go beg the chef to let him spit in our custard. And wipe his feet in our steak.

Each Friday with my cashed paycheck I counted out another ten dollars for my ticket back across the sea. Took some pills for the relief of occasional simple nervous tension. And vomited. Finally saw a composed face on the subway train. And looked down at the lady's luggage. To get an address from where she came or where she was going. And it said Devon, England. And I nearly sobbed.

The guys in the Think Room talking about dolls and dates, all sporting shoes with the broad toe while mine were still medium and narrow. A particular smooth smarty ass from Spuyten Duyvil and Yale said what's a matter Christian, you trying to be out of step. And I scribbled my little note on a yellow Mott memo pad.

YES AND SHUT UP BEFORE I BREAK YOUR PARROT HEAD.

Kept cleaning out my desk. Mr Quell came stood over me and said just before he had to rush back again to the crapper.

"You do all those little things, don't you Christian, that will get you absolutely nowhere."

And one cheery moment one late afternoon looking for mail, caught a glimpse of Fat Cheeks turning the corner of my block. Miss seeing him all the time I 'm away. He was getting competition on the east side of the park. A bald bearded man, dancing with a sign in front of the Fifth Avenue steps down to the zoo.

I AM THE WORLD'S LEADING EXPERT ON THE NURSING MADONNA

When I saw Fat Cheeks again. I was strolling down Columbus Avenue. Wasting more of the Mott Empire's time. By sizing up the crazy architecture of this town. And lo and behold there he was in front of a mattress store, with a sign of big pink letters on white.

DON'T BE A MEANIE ANY MORE

Sneaked looks at Fanny as she lay awake all through the night. Asked her what she was thinking. Said she was thinking about once when she worked in a dry cleaners. Stacks of the filthiest clothes shoved at you all day over a counter. The dirtiest dirtiest job in the world. Jesus it was dirty. My hands were black. At dawn she'd pass off to sleep. Never lets me out of her sight. And when my prick wouldn't go up. She made her two hard little white fists and shook them at the sides of her head.

''You don't love me, you don't love me.''

Tried to get out of the bed. Slipping from under the sheet. As we both slept way past noon. One wondered what the fuck was wrong with the women of this country. Reached to comfort her with a friendly little pat on her tit.

"Get your god damn hands off me if you're spending the god damn day out in Brooklyn.''

"Forest Hills."

"It's all the same. One ass hole of the world is the same as another. Brooklyn, Canarsie, Elmhurst, a whole bunch of rubes with their little nicy nice wives patting their little baby's asses with talcum powder out in the sticks.''

"Queens has some very favoured residential districts.''

"It has shit."

"I thought you liked it the day I took you to Bockaway."

"Cornelius, I did, I did. But then god damn it. What do you want me to say when you start calling out Marigold in your sleep."

"That's a flower."

"That's a god damn girl's name too. Let Glen drive you.''

"I can go on the subway."

"How do I know that's where you 're going.''

"Because that's where I'm going. Howard How invited me."

''Why don't you quit that god damn two bit job.''

''I want to keep my dignity. And Mr How has faith in me.''

"Dignity my ass. I saw your notes and sheets of paper you write all over. Making believe you can't talk anymore.''

"I've got to. Because every day they're trying to figure out a way to fire me."

"Christ Cornelius, don't fool with me. I can make you rich. With just a signature. Give you everything you want. Don't be stupid."

"What about all those guys you 've fooled around with.''

"They were one night stands. Those guys are a dime a dozen."

"Did you pay them.''

"That's a dirty low remark. I can have any man I want. Paying me. Anything I ask. Lined up they'd go right round the equator. What the hell ever made me think I could do you a favour. You can be such a snotty kid. Throw me my cigarettes. Last night you couldn't even get it up. I know you're screwing someone else. And if I ever catch you I 'll kill you both,''

And these times on her face, she'd lick her lips, as a smile would come.

"Gee I like talking about what I would do to the cunt I catch you with. Twist her tits. Crush in the toes of her shoes. Pull her hair out in such big nice marvelous lumpfuls. Scratch her all over face like a gorilla was drying it with barbed wire. But o jesus, is the boogey man going to get me. Is he going to, Cornelius."

Fanny lay stiff and silent. In her semi tropical interior. Showed me the stack of letters Sourpuss's first wife wrote. To all her relatives, mother and father. To Bergdorf Goodman, Tiffany's and Santa Glaus.

Dear Neighbor or Store Owner,

I just feel so sorry for you that Fanny Jackson that hooker and cheap whore was raised on your street or shops in your store. Now running around with my husband whose money she is trying to get to run up more of her bills. And staying with him in hotels. You have my sympathy for that kind of neighbor or customer you got.

Just believe a friend.

I wore my Vine Funeral Parlor suit. With the cool light weight drape. In last night's paper they said that was the look that was in. And a dark green knit tie. Thrown to me by Fanny out of Mr Sourpuss's collection. With the uncustomary stiff white collar and non matching blue and green striped shirt. Sitting back in the limozine's air conditioning. Patting the brand new cow hide. With the chauffeur's window closed. And Glen grinding his usual gum. Cruising out towards Flatbush in the late cooler afternoon. Over the bridge. Down through the grimy factories. Along Queens Boulevard. The stacks and stacks of apartment houses. Boxes and boxes of little homes down all the crosshatched streets. Never went back to the delicatessen. Took blueberry pie and cold milk instead in the window of the automat on my favourite hill on Fifty Seventh Street. Met the man again who played chess in the park. Listened as I chewed my crust.

"You know sir, the big lies that go floating around this country, and the people, they know those big lies and they keep getting all added together and they hang over the whole place in a big poisonous cloud. And one day that cloud's going to get so heavy it's going to sink right down and smother everybody right all over this land.''

Out there New Calvary Cemetery. Where one went in happier days burying the dead. Stones stick up over their souls. While those alive are still shoving and pushing. And wearing that look, don't touch me or you'll get an electric shock. Last week went out and thought what the hell why don't I go a little nuts for awhile. Sidled up to various overweight ladies. Stopped them with my best accent in their predatory tracks. And with a whisper. Madam, be assured that I am not inclined to either rob or rape you, but would like merely to ask, are you by any chance surrounded by an erogenous zone. One smiled and said sure I am and a good looking young man like you can penetrate it any time. Encouraged, to the next lady I voiced a most unforgivable thing, and she promptly dropped her shopping and screamed for a cop. Whole place builds up in you. Little towers of discontent. Topple over in a rubble of broken dignities. Carry it all full of pain. Like how all these folk stand and stare as we drive by. Through their most crummy neighborhood. Goodbye Woodside. Hello Forest Hills. If only I could be a son. Just as there are daughters. Of the American Revolution. Instead of being coughed up here on the shore. From a pair of simple immigrants. Who never knew what the hell hit them. I tried to make pennies from the neighbors down on the stoop in the street as soon as I could speak. White skin of my mother seemed blue underneath when she died. As her blood was brown on the sheets when it dried. Never spanked or hit me. Always said I was a quiet little boy. And when my second foster mother caught me. Pulling my prick into her dictionary. Trying to land sperm on the dirty words. She said I'll slap you I'll slap you, you dirty little thug. Wasn't long before I was putting earthworms in her spaghetti, and had a hole in her bathroom wall, watching her take a bath. Shoved my little brother naked out into the hall. To give her a fright with his hard on. She got sweaty faced and started screaming, they're doing it deliberately to me. And boy I'll say I was. All you have to be is a little kid and you soon find out how lousy big people are. Then when you start growing up good looking in the neighborhood, the neighbors make believe their rotten dirty looks and shouts they gave you all your life, never happened. Good to start getting fantastically handsome and to watch them grow old and deserve all that they're getting. And on Independence Day, toll that big bell. When it rings, each red blooded citizen will step out of his door. Walk up to his neighbor. Howdy do, how you doing pardner. And punch him one in the kisser. In honor of all neighborhood loathings. That upon this day no undesirables are running over their lawn. Or bog trotters wiping asses with shamrocks. Or polacks goosing his dogs. Or bohunks the other side of the tracks pissing on their dishes in their sink. Just a lot a swell kids standing howling in tears as their big bellied daddies beat the shit out of each other.

"This is the address Mr Christian. Number's on that sign on the lawn."

''O k. Pull over and wait. If I 'm long I 'll tell you.''

"You bet Mr Christian, take all the time you want, there's a good ball game on the radio. Even got a book on judo, thought I'd learn some of your tricks. Couldn't be happier. Have a nice afternoon."

Christian stepping up these moss green steps. A crescent path of crazy paving across the lawn. Tall oaks and elms. Blue spruce trees on either side of the rustic door and the stone porch. Dark inside the screened windows. Must be the wop's house over there with, good lord, a policeman at the front door.

Chimes ringing as Christian presses the little white button. Cross section of varnished log, says Jean and Howard live here. Little freckled faced kid charging round the side of this gabled slate roofed cozy house. Pulling a red wagon. Beneath the great shady trees. Wop's three car garage with a big driveway under the side of his house. Hear light steps. The floor squeaks. Red dress through the dulled copper screen door. Which opens. Slender fingered hands wiping an apron. Two big bright dark eyes. In the heart of a face. On a delicate little body.

"You must be Cornelius Christian."

"Yes I am."

"Well please, you sure are welcome, do come in. Howard is just out back hammering, making a climbing ladder for the kids. I 've heard so much about you."

Umbrella stand. Two pairs of galoshes waiting for winter. On the red tiled floor. Cool and dark. Into a big blue carpeted living room. Under an archway a table set to dine. Mrs How's legs delicate shapely stems. All tanned. Hues of white either side of her achilles tendon. Small neat ass like a pair of ball bearings under her thin red dress. That makes me gulp.

"Please take a seat. I apologise for those stupid comic books all over the place. I'll tell Howard. Like some iced tea."

''Yes I Would, please ma 'am."

"You're so polite, just like Howard said, with ma'am and all. You just sit yourself down now."

Howard beaming in. Hand outstretched. Pair of kaki trousers, open necked white shirt, sleeves rolled up. And a pair of blue sneakers. Just like Fanny's who calls them yatching boots.

"Hi Cornelius I thought you were going to call me from the station for me to come down and meet you. Did you walk."

"I came in a car."

"Didn't know you could drive. Hey good, why that's great you 're talking again.''

"Yes. I can't drive. I was driven."

"Have they gone.''

"No."

''Why don't you ask your friend to come in.''

"It's a chauffeur."

"A what"

"A chauffeur."

"Come on, you're kidding me Cornelius."