A Fairy Tale of New York

  This shadowy road we roll along. These bland breezy unsuffering voices. New little white boxes built between the bigger older houses. And that one there. With the great grey porch. Italian girl in my class. She was big. Of heart and bust. Said didn't I feel lousy being an orphan. And if I came to her house when her parents were out she would give me jello and ice cream. Never went because I never could be sure who liked me. Made so many mistakes. Walking into snarls. And instead went alone along the streets. With my Bronx Home News. Ringing bells, knocking on doors. To say pay me please. And the heads with after lunch eyes came out too beaten to refuse. In my little book I marked them paid and with some quiet charm of mine I tried to make them feel it was not the end of the world. But some heartless called me liar and lingerer. Napping under trees, banging on doors and a whistler in halls. I whispered something about freedom and they shouted don't come back no more and slammed the door. I walked away young tears melting with despair. They'd all be sorry when they found me Christmas Eve shoeless and starved, dead in the snow. And one dawn on Sunday in black winter. I wrote across the newspaper's front page. How does it feel to cheat a child. Monday creeping through the streets. The raging faces watching from windows everywhere. And a man on a porch shaking a fist which he said would break my head. And fearful and forceful I told him to drop dead. And ran.

  Charlotte Graves reaching to touch Christian's rat gloved hand. And smile. As the swaying car glides up round these curving roads. And turns in a drive. Beyond the clipped shrubs and lawns, a house with gables over its tall mullioned windows. Spruce trees blue and sprinkled yellow with light. An entrance like a castle. Slamming car doors. Loud hellos inside. Follow Charlotte on her slender legs. Over the soft carpet. Till someone stops her on the arm. And I go down these steps into this large sunken room. A great stone fireplace. And a tall dark haired chap in a yellow button downed collared shirt.

  "Hi don't think I know you.''

  "Cornelius Christian.''

  "I'm Stan Mott, good to see you. That's my mother with the gold hair, that's my father with the grey. Help yourself."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "To a beer or whatever you want to drink. By the way I think you 're pretty funny."

  "Thank you."

  Christian backing up to a space of clear wall. Next to the marble mantelpiece of the fireplace. A picture of a ship with bulging sails on a blue green raging sea. Up steps through an arch, a massive dining room. Table covered with silver urns.

  Charlotte had the biggest tits of any girl friend I ever had. Waited through three dates at the movies and three pineapple sodas before I reached and felt them. Then felt like a dirty rat.

  Stan's grey headed father in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to the elbow. Toasting a bun on a long fork at the fire. Tweezes up a steaming frankfurter out of a simmering bowl.

  "Here, you want some mustard on it.''

  "Yes please. Thank you.''

  "Who are you, son."

  "Haven't got that old yet but my name's Cornelius Christian"

  "That so. Well I'm old enough to be Stan's pa. Pretty good crack you made there. Always like to keep up with Stan's friends, never get the chance. Like to see the young people more often. Get to thinking old fashioned if you don't meet the young people. Hey there you are Charlotte."

  "Hi Mr Mott."

  "Don't Mr Mott me. Just telling this young man here I don't get a chance to keep up with you kids. Well you're looking prettier everyday. Just like your mother. Nearly married this girl's mother. She was the most beautiful girl in her time. Turned me down she did.''

  Gathering swelling. Music pounding. More glad faces entering. The overflow of promise. Girls demurely waiting with the lock and key of love. Calling out their familiar notions. Byes flashing for fashion. Ankles astride in their goatskin shoes. And much other footwear. As Mr Mott enthralls his little audience of two.

  "When you start forgetting when you last saw a pretty face then you 're getting old.''

  "You just try to make me feel good Mr Mott. Cornelius here is an old friend. He's just come back from living in Europe."

  "That so. Don't get to Europe much these days. But those European women. They sure are something. Gosh Paris. London. Those women. I don't know what they've got. But boy they got it. You know what I'm talking about Cornelius.''

  "I think so sir."

  "Mr Mott Cornelius was married and his wife died.''

  "O I'm really sorry to hear that. I've got another bun toasted, have another hot dog. And how you spending your time these days Charlotte. Did you ski this year."

  "I'm working Mr Mott. You talk as if I were a lady of leisure. I work forty nine weeks out of the year."

  "Well I work fifty two. My doctor keeps telling me, slow down Jim, slow down, can't last like that. So I'm slowing down. Cutting those eighteen hour days. Eight down to sixteen. Got to do what the doc says. Coming up to see us at the hikes this year Charlotte."

  "I hope so Mr Mott."

  "That a girl. Bring your friend here. I try to get away for a few days up there. Last year when I began to see that little old red spot. Went away soon as I got up there but soon as I get back. Whooeee, there she is, that damn little red dot. Keeps right there, there it is just over the corner of the fireplace. Soon as I try to look at it to see what it is, it takes off right across my vision. There it goes. On the other side of the room now. Keeps moving away and I can't track it down. But by golly it comes right back and does it all over again. None of the docs seem to know what it is and I've been to every top notcher on the east coast."

  "That's pretty awful Mr Mott I mean maybe it's over work. Or something like that.''

  "Got to go on making those sparkplugs Charlotte. But that's what the docs say. Went to one of these guys tells me he's got special treatment, you lie down and hum. Puts a mask over my face. I say look you know what you're doing I hope. So I hum into the mask and colored lights play across my eyes. And bells start to ring. Thought I was in heaven. Only I knew it was earth when I got the bill. But come on you kids, don't stand there listening to an old fogey like me. Enjoy yourselves, I'm here to serve. You two are my special customers for tonight so come back for more."

  The shy profile of Charlotte Graves. Leans out of her long flowing hair. She stands a moment with hands folded and staring down. A neighborhood girl. Pure and serene. While I smoked cigarettes and spoke sinful philosophy down deep in the sewers. Walked to school, the icy wind on my legs. Saw my foster mother with her dirty blond curly locks and rolls of blond fat up on top of my foster father in their bedroom. As I was going by the open crack of their door. My breath came out of me so fast, had to cover my mouth as I stared in. So eager to look I didn't know what to look at. Said in all the dirty books I read that it was how a baby was made. They had a little son I beat the shit out of once. Because he made my little brother cry. And the foster parents had me in the kitchen. I stood while they sat. Told me I would go to jail. My uncle came from Rockaway on a Saturday afternoon. They all sat looking out on the little back garden. My uncle had big strong hands and took a folder from his shabby grey coat and wrote them a check.

  "You know Cornelius. Gosh I don't know why I'm saying it, but I sort of feel proud of you. Mr Mott told you so much about himself. Just as if you were an old friend."

  "Mr Mott in his palace of new rich vulgarity could buy and sell me."

  "Gosh Cornelius, someone might hear you, come on, why do you say a thing like that. I'm surprised at you. Take me to dance."

  Charlotte tugging Christian by the hand. Lustre on her straw golden hair. Along a hall. Of this great rambling interior. Had a boyhood friend whose house had a laundry chute. From the bathroom to the basement. Was the world's first marvel I ever knew. Down these stairs. To a long room. Polished pine floors waxed for dancing. A great juke box with its fan of rotating colors. Photographs of baseball and football players across the walls. And one of Mr Mott on a golf course under a palm tree. Couples swaying, dipping and spinning
as they dance. And stop. At a great loud crack and blue flash of electricity. The lights out. A female scream. A little nervous laughter. Silence. And voices in the dark.

  ''Something's happened to the music.''

  ''Something's happened to the house.''

  ''Christ's sake let's get out of here.''

  A glimmer of light coming down the stairs. And more as matches ignite. Mr Mott's fearless enquiry. What's happened. Chap in his saddle shoes and white fluffy sweat socks. Turns to his snub nosed girl friend with bright blond bangs.

  "Gee the way Mr Mott's moving in. Takes the situation right over. Sizes it up. I mean holy cow that guy is fact finding all the time. You can tell an important person anywhere by his quick decision making."

  Mr Mott flashing his light over the juke box. Lowering to his knees he looks behind the musical monster. The light goes on again. Just as the rear end of Mr Mott sails out in the air landing in the middle of the floor. Flat on his back groaning. Chap in saddle shoes standing his ground.

  "Will you look at that. Which way is the bomb shelter. The electricity crawled right up the wall as if it was alive. I saw it"

  Figures around Mr Mott. The back of whose hand slowly reaches to rub his forehead. A stampede of kids fighting to get out up the stairs. Screams and punches. And more pounding on the doors of the elevator.

  "It's getting unhealthy down here.' '

  "Don't panic."

  "Don't panic he says up there. Come down here and say that why don't you."

  The lights back on. Stan by his father prostrate on the floor. As the figures return and slowly percolate again around the floor. Folk crowding round Mr Mott. Stan holding out an arm.

  "Everybody back, everybody back, he's all right. Gee Dad, what happened."

  "I'm all right, help me up. Get me some brandy. The good brandy out of the safe. What the hell's the matter with that damn juke box. Get it out of here before it kills someone. All right folks, I'm all right. Just a close shave. Just one of those occasions when your emergency capability gets tested. I think I passed."

  "You bet you did Mr Mott."

  "Whole life flashes before you. Times you were fishing and swimming and having a kibitz with the gang. You kids should know about these things.''

  "Mr Mott I guess it must have been something like up at the front. Shell blast."

  "You said it Terry boy. That's why when it comes your kid's turn to get into the holocaust, that might come again any time, you want to know this type of experience. I have a tape recording of the sounds of war. Want you kids to hear sometime. If I had more time I'd listen to it a lot. If you kids will excuse me. I'm all right. But I'm going to get up to bed. Something must be wrong, I can't see my red spot anywhere.''

  Mr Mott helped to the sliding door in the wall. Turning waving goodnight. Door slides open. With a buzz click and a clack. Mr Mott gone. Upwards. In his elevator.

  Terry boy rubbing his hands. Stan opening a can of beer.

  "Come on everybody don't let Dad's little accident stop the fun."

  "He's a pretty brave guy Stan. The way he took that."

  "Yeah Terry I guess so."

  "Had his wits about him all the time. The way he put everybody at their ease."

  "Yeah the way they were rushing away up the stairs.''

  "Well Stan there could have been real panic down here.''

  "Well Stan there could have "Well there wasn't."

  "I'll give you that Stan, I'll give you that. But you got to admit it was your dad's cool head. Wish I had a dad like that."

  "Yeah Terry, yeah, I know.''

  "Well anyway Stan it was an impressive sizing up of the situation at hand.''

  "Size this up."

  Stan swivelling round, his eyes searching the faces of the room.

  "Who said that."

  It was

  Me

  You bunch

  Of

  Babes

  17

  At dawn's early light. Corner of Fifth and Fifty Seventh Street. Cornelius Christian seated on the twin brass outlets of a fire hydrant sticking from this stone wall where it says Manufacturing Trust Building. A solitary stroller a block away. Sanitation department truck, grey lumphing insect vehicle squirting water and spinning a big brush along the gutter. The traffic lights change. Green yellow and red. And a breeze blows my dreams abandoned down the street.

  Charlotte said I was drunk and disrespectful. To people who were only trying to be nice. Made remarks that I was an undertaker. Embalming their dads. Tired broken work horses silenced after screaming wild in their nightmares. Begetting the little sons who grew up as gods. As honest and brave as dad was crooked and coward.

  Charlotte had tears in her eyes. As I left her on her steps.

  "O Cornelius you don't mean the things you say. The country is not like that at all.''

  I leaned to kiss her. Lips touching lightly. And I ran off roaring. The nation needs a king. Vaulted a fence and trotted casually through a mile of undergrowth and shrubbery. Stopped a car on the cobble stoned avenue which cut through the woods. Said I fell from a plane. Parachute caught in a tree. And I fell into a thicket. Guy kept wobbling the steering wheel he was so excited with my story. Said I could sell it to the movies. If I deepened the plot a little. He'd like to be the agent. Till I told him I abhorred greed and crass opportunism. And he said he wasn't heading at that moment in my direction.

  Climbed up the steps of the elevator train. Looming over the tavern just closing where I got Fanny her whiskey. Met another drunk lurching out of the last car. Mumbled and pointed. Said, going right up over there now. Asked him where was there and when was now. He grumbled that there was over there and now was right now. And sure enough. All the white head stones and mausoleums rear on the landscape where my Helen lies buried. He's the only wanderer at large tonight who knows what he's doing. And back at the party Terry boy told me that Stan was going to have to get married. Because a girl said to him as he was on top of her. Go on you can come off in me. She got pregnant. And got a lawyer. While Stan's pa went berserk. And sent the girl to Paris for an abortion and a tour of all the fashion houses. She came back three months later better dressed, bigger in the stomach and got two lawyers. And now she wanted to go to Venice. And all I ever wanted out of life as a little boy was for someone to take me to the rodeo.

  Sit here worn and tattered. Across from the big display windows of diamonds and necklaces. Where at comfortable times of the morning the likes of Fanny ambles out from her bath bubbles. Patted with powders, dabbed with perfumes and waltzing past the slit eyed detectives inside the door to buy an emerald before lunch. The only other passenger on the downtown train asked if I needed medical treatment. Mental I said. And as he made for the door I soothed him. Said I was fine, just finished a cross country midnight celebrity race. For charity. My chauffeur broke his leg running behind me with my glucose. In the swaying train I wrote a shaky autograph. He stared at it, said I never heard of you mister but 111 cherish this anyway.

  Christian with a lock of hair in his hand. Tugging it down over the left eye. This lone man now approaching. Stops, looks. He must see it written all over me. That I want someone to take me to the rodeo. Walks a step. Stops and looks back again.

  "Why you god damn bum, you."

  Christian looks up. You'd think with not another soul on Fifth Avenue that this passing cunt would feel some brotherly love. For the sadness of me. A job hunting ex embalmer. Staring friendless across this asphalt carpeted canyon. Watching three sparrows flutter on the edge of that litter basket. But no. He twists his nose in a sneer and curls lips in a snarl. One's just too tired to start teaching this nation a lesson. In outdoor early morning manners.

  "What are you a god damn homosexual. Bums like you making a blot on this good district. I saw you sitting there for two blocks"

  Chap getting braver as he moves farther away. Say something choice out of my insane cauldron of anger and he'll damn sure run. Be too much effort to catch. A
lways like to bark big. Gives folk a sporting chance to get out of the way of my carnivorous bite. Hang my head down in guilt. Increase his courage. Get the innocent fucker to sidle up for another abusive onslaught. And I 'll give him some togetherness he 'll never forget.

  Christian pressing his brow upon his crossed wrists. Man stops again, looks back and turns. Slowly approaching the beaten looking Christian. Stands now only ten feet away. Come closer you grossly unpleasant vulgarian. So I can seize you in one blissful pounce. Give a little groan. An aroma of dereliction. He steps nearer to savour.

  "God damn disgrace, sitting next to an expensive building like that, dressed like that, you god damn bum.''

  Christian springing. Two footed, two handed. Grabbing this social umpire of Fifth Avenue. Who gasps as good old sinewy Cornelius whips his arm up behind his back, bending him forward face downwards at the sidewalk. Always like to use the leverage grips. Gives the victim an opportunity to see some sense. Before you break his ass.

  ''What are you going to mug me. Don't kill me.''

  "You unpardonable wretch. How dare you accost me while I'm taking the air and a much needed reverie on this handsome boulevard."