A Fairy Tale of New York (10 page)

Mrs Sourpuss lowering to her knees and stretching forward face down on the floor. White gown aflow on the round golden hued oriental carpet. Slowly twisting her head to look upwards. At Christian. Through her parting locks of blond hair.

''Walk on me. I mean it. Go ahead.''

Cornelius staring down at the prostrate form. A priestess ready to be consecrated. To cook, scrub, screw and adore. The prick that rises now above. While she'll get cuffs across the jaw. Be good practice balancing on her cheeks. For the long tightrope walk ahead. Across my modest income.

"Hey jesus christ. Your shoes hurt. You 're heavy.''

Christian stepping down from the ice skating strengthened arse of Mrs Sourpuss. Had a foot on each solid globe. As her hands come behind her to grab me by the ankles.

"I didn't mean kill me. I just meant walk all over me. Lightly. One foot at a time. Maybe with your shoes off. And your coat."

Christian taking off his shoes. Once a dead man's. Still walking in life. And in that cold wintry mausoleum, as multimillionaire Sourpuss was lifted into his niche I thought I heard her say, there goes that old grey fart. She tugged my arm and shivered. How sad she couldn't be sad. Make her even gladder now she's got all his money. And a pair of feet to walk on her.

"That's better. That's nice too. Master. Sweet boy. Now every time I open my big mouth I'm your slave. I really mean it. I'll show you. I really will.''

Sounds drift up from the street. Honking horns. Squeals of tires. Sirens wailing along the avenues. Drone of an airplane. Can hardly hear a cello or anyone tip toeing up behind me. As I follow Mrs Sourpuss hunched over her folded hands. Back into this alabaster clarity. To the sofa. Ease me down on a pillow. She kneels at my feet. Pulls off each sock. My heels cupped in her palms.

"Whew your feet. Sorry. No your feet are terrific. Just beautiful. Long thin and delicate like your hands. Just sponge on a little champagne. Make them taste better. I'm going to eat you."

Mrs Sourpuss wrapped her lips softly around each smallest toe. The bigger ones tickle. Sucking them gently. Now licking up round my ankles. Her hands reaching to undo my belt. Close my eyes on the glare of her sparkling diamonds. Zipping down my fly. Pulling off my trousers. The crotch of this underwear intact. Sporty coloured in fact. With candy stripes. She might be able to taste. As she lowers them down. I get out of my jacket. She says, no master. Let me. Me slave. Me giveum you muchum comforts. You no move. Me squaw. And me going eat you, yum yum. You come for me at slave market. Me black too. Maybe even Polish. A lousy rotten slave. Me do what big strong wonderful chief wantum. Me eatum.

Cello throbbing. I bought a piece of fabric remnant, chocolate with yellow and red chevrons. Looked like an Indian decoration for a wigwam and hung it on the wall. Above the whorls of dust in every cranny round my floor. And near midnight listening to the radio. As a symphony faded. A soft voice murmured something about the cares and sorrows that infest the day, shall fold their tents like the Arabs and silently steal away. And perhaps their shadows go as death goes. Gathering wives loved. Gentle hearts stopped beating by bitter ones. I had a spouse. To build a life with. In the same bed through debts and worried nights. Shoulder to shoulder. Till hers battered, caved in. Left standing alone. Outside that ship's doctor's cabin. Great vessel throbbing its whistle in a mid ocean fog. The white hardness of your bony breast where I knocked. Hoping you'd let me in. To shout my blue skyed promises inside you. Come to my country I said. To the cranberries and pumpkins and fourth of July parades. Come even to the barren shores where I used to run a mile on the hard sandy soil. Across a wasteland near a little creek. Incarcerated in the navy. I was an amphibian. Off to the beaches. Sailing at break of day. To get the shit blown out of you by some armour piercing shell instead of a luscious mouth. Silver in Mrs Sourpuss's hair. Licks my knees and along my thighs. And sucks. Like a cook on our ship. A Virginian gentleman who hunted to the hounds and charcoal broiled our stolen slabs of steak. Who baked fluffy golden delicious biscuits and in the evening handed around his photographic scrapbook of undraped bodies connected to other nude bodies in an avalanche of orifice ways. The whole crew got an appetising hard on. Which cook would eat without salt one after another on his knees in the galley. According to rank. While furious bets were laid. On how many cocks the cook could gorge. Including those gulped in a second helping. The boatswain's mate counting, said the final record was twenty three or flatteringly two and a quarter fathoms of phallas. It was a happy ship. Nicely perched on the waves. Until the score keeping monstrous pricked boatswain's mate with two years of sea duty, a purple heart, one bronze and one silver star, ruptured a blood vessel in the cook's throat. And poor cook unable to take more pricks in the mouth tried to put his own down into the arse hole of some unappreciative bible toting machinist's mate who lay in the bunk below. Cook navigating through a silk embroidered aperture in his canvas hammock. The whole crew begging the machinist preacher to let the cook have his simple lubricated delight. Keep the good food coming. And the ship's drive shaft churning. While cook's throat was healing. Like Mrs Sourpuss's hand. Touches gently squeezing. Tip toe on the harp strings strung across my brain. The music it makes wakes up a balmy sunny day. At sea. Boatswain whistles blowing and anchors aweigh. My naval rank so low. I promoted myself. To admiral. With bright teeth and seafaring skin stretched tight by the salt and sun. My rigging taut like tiny little lines creeping out from Mrs Sourpuss's eyes. Sucking she sucks. On my each ovoid jewel. Her mouth now stretched round. Lips sealed tight halfway down my pole. To see me looking as she looks up. Out of twin friendly greeny blue eyed pools. Dip a finger in. And taste. Molasses sweet. Soft as song. That the Annapolis Glee Club used to sing. Bringing tears to my eyes. They must still be humming somewhere. In their white and blue. And maybe all blown. By visiting debutant mouths. Each as they were. Princesses perched on pedestals. Whose mothers would convulse with sobs. That their daughters would do such a thing. For a midshipman. Who chants.

When you find

A friend

Who is good and true

Fuck him Before

He fucks

You

11

Four pink capped bottles of champagne. Poured down with toast, lemon and caviar. While between bouts Fanny Sourpuss crawled bare arsed on the white long haired rug to her Park Avenue windows to watch with her big binoculars the bare arsed show the murderess and her boy friend were giving across the street. Through their half pulled down shade.

Christian gesticulating undraped on the coffee table. To the tempo of a French organ clock hooting the time with tuneful pipes from its gilt and gold cabinet topped by two horned goats ridden by cherubs. Tell god with prick shaking grief to be good and merciful to my own romantic Bronx. Bless all who live and die there. North across fourteen bridges and three tunnels. Under the flat tarred roofs. In the buildings zig zag with iron staired fire escapes. Stacked on the hills, brick hives of grey and brown. Packed with ginneys, micks, kikes and coons.

So friendly in bed with another human. Until Fanny with stiff nipples ashake on her breasts woke sweating and gasping. Said she had a nightmare that she was losing her hair. Turned on the light. Holding her arm up across her brow. Dark stubbles in her arm pit. And rolling over. A large mole in the middle of her back. She spoke out into the side of the pillow. Said she had five abortions. During three years she lived on the road. Taking planes when she couldn't take trains. Up and down the east coast like a yo yo. Winning at gin rummy in the club cars and for prices sky high fucking a whole gamut of guys. Every stinker she loved threw her around like an empty box of breakfast cereal. Till one day in the middle of her misery taking a cold shower she wised up. And stood on the steps of the fanciest hotel in Palm Beach. The sea breeze blowing her white thin skirt against her freshly tanned legs, hair floating back over her shoulders. And a rich old son of a bitch came cruising up the curving entrance drive in his brand new saffron yellow open car. The moment he saw her he crashed into the back of a big black limozine. Smashing his cigar all over his face. She smiled at him. And that was Mister Sourpuss.

"I had his fly and wallet open in no time. And his lawyers divorcing his first wife. That twisted minded bitch had her talons sunk right into his assets and boy did she start to claw. Tried to get me arrested. Poured sugar in my gasoline tank. Painted hooker in big red letters across the back of my white sports car. Smeared dog shit all over my apartment. I bit the lobe right off her left ear and socked her one when she was pulling my hair in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. That cunt wouldn't let go. She's still suing me. Cornelius I get just so god damn miserable sometimes. Did you know that they thought they would have to cut off my tits. I told you that didn 't I. Inside me is a mother. And I 've got such beautiful tits. Don't you think.''

Fanny sat up in bed, breasts pouring forth swollen pink tipped and white. Freckles sprinkled in between. Two little rolls of fat around her belly. Asked her if she was still a slave. She said cut it out, I 've got a headache.

My own skull next morning throbbed and my knees trembled. Waking in the darkened mirrored room. Looked out the window. Air shafts and chimney pipes rising up bolted to sunless sooty walls. Grimy panes of other windows. And way down far below a cat meowed. Went stumbling nude looking for the phone. And headed dry mouthed searching for grapefruit juice instead. To moisten my tongue so it could move again. Thought I saw Glen's profile reflected in a mirror taking a bottle from a closet. As I turned down the long hallway. Lurching through a swing door at the end. To find a fat armed dark complexioned lady sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, a magazine open and half a cinnamon bun just bitten in her mouth. She knocked over her coffee as she got up and retreated. Arm raised to ward me off as if I were a dog ready to jump and bite. Her vast breasts heaving under her blue white collared uniform, her finger pointing at my private particulars as she shouted. You don't none come any nearer, you don't you.

Under a canopy of pink towel, I dialed from the living room. Champagne bottles and pillows and torn pages of the yachting magazine strewn on the floor. Everything lies in peace the night before and then jumps at you in the morning. A quarter past twelve. Spoke to Fritz. Who didn't believe I was mortally ill. Throbbing, shaking and pained in head and limbs. A doctor in attendance. A thermometer up my rear. Stethoscope on one of my balls. To see if it might explode. Said my medical adviser thought I'd be all right tomorrow. Fritz said it sounds to me as if you're all right today. I let a minute tick by of utter devastating silence. Take plenty of time to swallow the insult. Digest it under a freezing cold shower. And time now to go.

Dressed with my ovoid jewels and spirit all shrunk up. An Ethiopian appearing gentleman took me down in the elevator said Mr Kelly had this shift off. Saw Glen sitting reading a newspaper parked out front in the grey limozine. I ducked and turned west around the corner, crossing Madison and Fifth. Down grey steps in front of the ivy covered administration building in the zoo. Along a winding path under a stone bridge. Scrawls scratched on the arch. Julie sucks. Martha takes it in the ear. And Fanny Sourpuss eats me. Said she had no niche or purpose in the world. All she had was what everybody else wants. Money.

And sun melting the mud that Tuesday early afternoon. I took in lungfulls of air. Breathing out the alcohol. Walking so small with the distant windowed mountains all around pointing in the sky. Climb up there and be rich. Undo the shoelaces of all these grey blunt arsed guys. Sitting behind their desks on every rung of the ladder making decisions to kick me off. Faded winter weeds grow out of the crevices of these grey bulging boulder rocks. Down there under flying flags they ice skate. Up on the top of that hill they play checkers and chess. And I hear the sounds of a merry go round. The air mild. Children shout and play.

Cornelius Christian jauntily bounced up the steps of the Game Club. A brass sign says strictly private. Walk in as if I own the place. And right away the green uniformed man asks me if I'm a member. Yes. I'm a comical Caucasian Christian. Of the human race.

Through here I used to pass so long ago. Sauntering over the marble floors to check my coat. The kindly greeting gentlemen behind the counter. With all their hangers and hooks and little tags for bags. The green leather chairs where the Mrs Sourpusses sit. Perfumed legs crossed under furs. Waiting for their steam bathed husbands. To lay the world worshipping in front of them tonight.

''This way sir next elevator.''

Man with white gloves points me past the gleaming brass doors. Lights buzzing and binging. Five please. All so welcoming and courteous. Just a growl now and again you'd hardly notice. Before me a grill, a cage, a man in there. Put my wallet and change in this brown envelope. Press down the iron handle. Pinch it together. Like Fanny's pair of thighs. Pinch. When I'm between. And they're apart.

Along the shadowy rows of named and numoered lockers. Attendant says here this is a nice one. Close to the main aisle. In his deep voice he sells me sneakers, jock strap, shorts and shirts. Shot with a purple arrow, the emblem of the club. Undress between these dark green lockers. As I did all those years ago. Looking out the window over the tree tops. The cars snaking on the curving drives through the park. And night when lights sprinkled across the whole grey vista. To put the heavens down below. With the stabbings and stompings. You watch from windows safe and warm.

The sounds of sport. Down a long corridor. Clashing fencing blades. Feet pounding as they run. Knees crackling as they bend. Go in through this door. On the walls are pictures of fighters with muscles, others with smiles but all standing ready to punch. Athletes come in. Where others fear to tread. Due to fists. And a blond haired man sits at a desk. Bent over the afternoon newspaper. Slowly turns to look up. Frown on the face. Puts the newspaper down. And hollers.

"Well what do you know. Now if it isn't Cornelius Christian. Where you 've been all these years.''

"Over in Europe."

"No kidding. Well what do you know about that. Well it's good to see you champ. Hey you look good. Well what do you know. Europe. Have they wised up yet over there."

"I think so."

"That's good. They keep unloading these backward people on us. Well what a surprise. Must be three or four years."

"Seven."

"Well what do you know about that. Seven years. We still got the admiral around. And all the sea captains. The judges. The mayors. The actors. The industrialists. I'm still trying to sell them my antiques. Bunch of cheapskates. Won't buy my Sheraton and Chippendale. They don't understand them big words. The best genuine furniture ever made in my back room in the Bronx. But Cornelius champ, you look real good. Don't hurt to keep in shape. With the crime in this town. It's crazy. Even a decent criminal isn't safe. They're murdering right in the subway now. Lucky if you get home alive at night. In the day time too. Say what are you doing Cornelius, you got a job.''

"Yes."

"What at."

''Guess you 'd call me a host.''

"A host. You handing out free beer. Send me an invitation."

"Certainly."

"Cornelius champ you know it's nice to see you.''

In this green floored room. As an admiral and a judge step in. Punching bags thundering. Bells and sirens of fire engines passing by down the street. My heart warmed. By the first man glad to see me. With his twinkling blue eyes. His happy round pot belly. Takes away the loneliness. Plants hope. Eight where I was on my knees fervently praying. Dear world hear my tiny voice. Just let me say bleep. Before you tell me to shut up.

''Hey Admiral, now you remember Cornelius Christian.''

"No."

"What. You don't remember Cornelius Christian. The Bronx Bomber, middleweight champ. With the best left hook and right cross in the business.''

''No. I don't. But he needs a shave.''

''What do you mean shave.''

"What's he growing a beard for.''

"Hey Admiral he's not doing nothing. We're shaving every day."

"I don't care, beard stubbles like that are an insult to women."

"What have you got to say to that Cornelius, beards are an insult to women. Maybe the judge here should put out a warrant for your arrest. But maybe they like hair in Europe. And American women don't like hair. What have you got to say to that Cornelius."

''American women are a commodity.''

"What. Wait a minute, cut out them big words Cornelius. You mean buy and sell them. Like cattle. To make a profit."

"Yes."

"Well what do you know. I better go home and count my daughters."

O 'Rourke standing his hands on his hips. A plaid cloth bathrobe hanging down past his knees. A towel unwrapping from around his throat. He gets into the ring with the Admiral. As I tip toe out. And the punches slam to midsections and sail past noses. The sweet smell of sweat and fluffy warm towels. The best of underwear. No dirt under any fingernail in this building. Kept a fart bottled up all last night. So Fanny wouldn't get the stink. And she blasted me with one instead. Must think I'm a giraffe. Who savor the pee of one another. Her limbs still cling. Feel them round me as I go down these grey stairs. She said women always hated her. And she hates women. And shook her head at the window. Putting down the binoculars saying I can't focus my eyes. Just as the scene was getting hot across the street. She asked me what's happening now. And I told her a long string of dirty lies.

Through these black swing doors. Smell of more towels and rubbing alcohol. Little alleys of panelled booths to dress in. Each with their own little shoe horn. Big face of the weighing machine. Where I stand and the pointer stops at one hundred and sixty four. Glass of blue water filled with combs. Jar of petroleum jelly. Basins and mirrors. Walls and floors of tiles. Water splashing in the big blue green expanse of swimming pool. Naked men and others wrapped in towels. Fanny said she saw her first pair of balls on her father and even though he was so sweet they disgusted her. And then she said but I like your balls. They glisten when I squeeze them tight. And Cornelius why don't you give me a surprise. Something precious. That makes me feel loved. Think of something. Something really wonderful. That I can look forward to. Because jesus christ they're trying to get me, and Cornelius I have nobody I can trust. You don't want me for my money, do you. You know what I mean. You know what I'm saying. I need to have somebody with me. It's like you only walk where there's a crowd. Because people alone are meat for sharks.

Christian wrapped in a towel. Entering this vast arched room with its green twinkling bathing pool. Look behind over a shoulder up at the time. Just past three o'clock. Gentlemen recline wrapped in sheets under the palm fronds. Reading, talking, smoking and asleep. Names paged over the public address. Manicured hands reach to pick up phones. To date dames and do deals all over the city. To bluff and call bluffs. To step on toes. And to play the role which stars in a profit.

A little black dial on the wall reads one hundred and forty degrees. Push the brass and glass door open. Enter a cavern filled with steam. Like the Isle of Man. When lights light along the coast. And desolate fog horns tremble across the mist. Sit on a wooden bench now and hear voices in the vapours. Yeah the weight was down ten pounds, and I go to Florida and come back and I'm up seventeen, what can you do, I got to eat, you'd think they'd discover something and take the nourishment out of food so you didn 't have to starve.

Christian making a pillow of a towel, to lie back down in the hot mist. Stare up from this bench at the white ceiling. Warmth and peace. The muscles soften. The beads of sweat bubble. Steam goes down into the lungs. Arrived in this city. Carrying as I was explosive hope. All turned to grief. Then the grey hard walls of struggle rise. And all your sorrows get shooed away. Stacked up like skyscrapers in the heart. And anyone can come. And they do. To push them toppling and shattering. Debris strewn all over your soul. And the pushers get their teeth capped, noses shortened and ears shaped. To look good. So they can walk smiling past your doorman into your life. Saw a sign don't miss an opportunity to work in the midtown area. Another slander of Brooklyn and my Bronx. Whose citizens crawl up out of the subway trains. Sell shirts, shoes and soap to the endless daily supply of big shots. Sporting bulging college rings on their fingers and who look like they zoom to Scarsdale and Connecticut smashing back cocktails in club cars rocking on the rails. And out to Hicksville beyond Queens. And in here tan club members pick out their seats on the benches. Holding paper cups of ice water and paper cups of beer. More steam comes hissing out. Got to get up on my feet and howl victory. Standing on a mountainous bushel of dollars. All I need for my niche and purpose in life. Having as I already do such a storehouse of marvelous other qualities. Perhaps only lacking Fanny's star twinkling ass hole. The little wrinkles like rays of heavenly lights. To be watched as the world goes dark. When fear comes. And mothers run away with their children. As they do. When they see the friendly apes screwing. In any monkey house of any zoo. Eed pricks up. Heading into the bright red bottoms. Another voice through the steam saying he would like to acquire some artificial aging, since success had come to him so young.