A Fairy Tale of New York (6 page)

Flakes still falling from darkened skies. Snow plow clearing the cemetery roads. Mr Sourpuss in his water tight lead lined case lifted up to rest behind a great pink slab of marble. While the immigrants mumbled prayers. And as we were returning down the steps. A tap came on my arm from behind. My right hand curled into a fist. Best to cut this big Willie bugger to pieces across the midsection. I was astonished at my bravery. But it was Charlie asking me in his soft sad voice was I coming in the hearse. I said yes. Mrs Sourpuss said no. And tugged me frozen stiff back into her car. She squeezed her fingertips on my knee.

''You poor boy you. Here let me rub your hands.''

And poor old Charlie. Carries enough grief in his brown eyes to start a bank of sorrow. He was handing out the gratuities as we pulled away. Cruising along these undulating roads. With a bed and fireplace one of these mausoleums would make a good place to live. With gates locked for the night be able to go out and stroll in the evening peace. In snow shoes. Amidst the beauty. Safe from landladies. Iceskate on this frozen lake. Just avoid the hole in the center where the ducks and geese are standing around. A little stone bridge. A blue jay squawking flying up to a tree branch. There beyond a plot of small headstones and through the fence, the red fronted fire station. Looks warm and cozy inside. And down along this avenue among these older graves I worked a high school summer cutting grass. Thought I was a barber clipping green hair sprouting up from all the dead.

''Mrs Sourpuss if you stop right here I can catch the train."

''Aren't you going to stay with me.''

"Well I don't know where you're going. Mr Vine might have something I ought to be doing downtown.''

"With the stiffs."

''We don't use that word."

"We. Who's we."

"Well Mr Vine. And I too perhaps. We prefer to use the word deceased outside the studio and inside the word body.''

"And I too perhaps. The way you say that. I just love your accent. And I too perhaps. Have a shot of whiskey Cornelius, I'm just kidding you. You have just about the cutest and most innocent face I 've ever seen in my life."

"I'm not so innocent."

"Come on have a shot. There's just one left. Don't you ever relax and enjoy yourself. You're so dead serious. You've got to have some fun sometimes in life.''

"Well I've had a lot of trouble.''

"Everybody's had for pete's sake. Everybody's got trouble. Look at me. I just packed away my husband. You don't fight it. You go with it. Ok Glen pull over.''

Stopping on this bridge. Underneath go trains and flow cars and the Bronx Eiver. Mrs Sourpuss clinking the whiskey bottle on the glass rim, pouring in the last drop. Son of a bitch Glen must have drunk the rest. Beached back here through his sliding window and took a few slugs. And just gave me one more dirty look. As we wait. Parked across from the station. Out through the porthole it says New York Central. Southbound. Down there the swaying rooftop of a train approaching. Roaring towards Connecticut. Taking fathers back to their little families. Complaining about the best of everything. That money can buy. I've come back across an ocean to this blank wall of people. Afraid to look out of their eyes. Or let a spark of feeling escape from their frozen faces. Terrified a finger will point and say, you, you're guilty. Of thinking. That this whole god damn setup is full of shit.

"You've got no coat, Cornelius. You could maybe freeze to death."

''There's a waiting room."

"Gee it's a blizzard."

"The trains are running.''

"But look over there on the hill, a nice cozy looking inn. Come on. I'm dying for a chicken sandwich. You can phone Mr Vine from there. Did you have lunch.''

"No."

"Well come on. There must be a union of funeral employees. Could close Vine right up, not giving you a lunch hour."

"All right."

"Glen, let us out over there at that Rendezvous Inn. Get yourself something to eat and wait in the parking lot."

Inside the warm tinkling interior, a circular bar. One at each gate of the cemetery. The bereaved can pour out and drown their sorrows. Organ music. Sprinkling of customers. Brass rail for feet. Two windows look out on the falling snow. From a side door more patrons pile in. Bridesmaids in pink and a dark haired familiar faced girl in a white wedding dress. Head towards the dining room and dance floor in the back. Where I follow Mrs Sourpuss in her high heeled galoshes. Through the soft colored lights flashing across the darkness. Bound faced waiter leans over to take an empty glass and clean the ash tray. This late winter afternoon. My first day's labor in the new world. A blond black widow right across the tablecloth. Ordering two club chicken sandwiches, a bottle of beer, whiskey and soda. Waiter nods.

"All righty folks."

Mrs Sourpuss standing. Putting her two hands flat under her breasts and pressing the clinging cloth down across her belly. Takes a lung full of air. Puts out her chest. Raises her eyebrows. Picks up her purse. And with a fluttering of lashes smiles down at me.

"Excuse me Cornelius while I powder my nose."

On the table a black leather book. The gilt edged pages closed with a tiny gold heart shaped lock. Next to it, folded newspaper pages. Mrs Sourpuss carried them in from the car. Take a peek in this faint light at the newsprint. A headline. Wild Dogs Attack Man In Bronx. And another. Doc Plunges To Death. And at the top of the obituary column.

Harry Z. Sourpuss, 67, a Bulgarian immigrant whose sewing patents revolutionized the garment manufacturing industry here, died of an apparent heart attack on Thursday. He was a penniless itinerant knife sharpener before establishing a national merchandizing empire which made him a millionaire. He constructed the Sourpuss building, a skyscraper midtown whose roof is a replica of the Nevski Cathedral in Sofia. Mr Sourpuss was also a noted fund raiser and contributor to many Bulgarian causes. Funeral services will be held at the Vine Funeral Parlor Monday at 11 a.m. And the remains removed to Greenlawn. He is survived by his widow, the former Fanny Jackson, and two brothers, Sheldon and Izaak.

Christian opening up another folded newspaper page. The Wall Street Journal. A headline across three columns. Founder of Sourpuss Corporation Sued By Wife In Boardroom Battle. Holy christ, fold this back up again. Everybody's got trouble. Even the rich. With her lips so soft and motherly. How could she sue. With those wise congenial eyes. Hair swept back from her broad face and under her powder a freckled skin. She must carry a black rage that comes out with tiger's claws. Until she gets what she wants. And smiles again.

Waiter setting down sandwiches and drinks. Christian slipping him the five dollar bill from his gratuity. Enough to buy some underwear. Five new pairs of socks. The crotch of my drawers rotted out. Hole in the toe and heel of my present hosiery. Shuffled around the funeral parlor this morning so my trouser cuff did not reveal that little tiny rising sun of flesh. That tells the world of further hidden tatters.

''Get out of here, and leave me alone. I 'm with someone.''

Christian looking up. A giant with blond hair peeking out from a blue and gold skull cap. A big grey overcoat with melting snow on the shoulders. Standing behind Mrs Sourpuss who only reaches his shoulder.

"Who are you with. Him. Who are you buster.''

"I 'm with Mrs Sourpuss.''

"Well what do you say I sock you one then. Because I don't like you being with her.''

Christian standing slowly, pushing his chair back. Lifting his arms out from his sides. Amazing how fast the heart begins to pound. And the shoulders hunch. To give an immediate if not lasting appearance of an ape in the shadows. Willie who can hold an ass aloft in the palm. Wears the same fashionable sneer as Glen. A smile now coming across his lips. The weak give the strong a marvelous appetite. To beat the living shit out of them.

"Buster you some kind of jujitsu artist or something going to throw me around the place."

"No. But if you don't leave this lady alone. I'm going to break you in two."

"Heh heh heh. Well you just step forward now there and let's just see you break me in two."

"Please Cornelius let me call the manager. O god no."

Christian stepping out round the table. Walking up to Willie. Whose smile got bigger as Christian's hands reached out for his overcoat lapels. Willie putting out his own big mitts. Cornelius suddenly grabbing Willie's fingers and with a swift twist spinning them upside down and bending them back up under his wrists as he rose on his toes with a gasp of agony.

"Now you big lout are you going to leave this lady alone.''

"Why you little, hey watch it you 're breaking my fingers.''

"Shut up."

"Boy if I get loose of you I'll kill you."

"I said shut up. One more word out of you you gorp and I'll snap your wrists like dandelions. Get down on your knees.''

"I can't, it's going to bust my fingers.''

"Get down, down."

"I'm going, I'm going, for Christ's sake you're breaking them, you 've broke them.''

"Now put your head back. Bight back.''

"What are you going to do to me, for Christ's sakes what did I do to you."

"You entered my presence without permission. "

"What are you a jujitsu artist or something.''

"I'm just brave and strong. Next time I'll snap your neck, tie your ankles around it in a bow and give you to the sanitation department as a present.''

"Ok you've got me."

"When I let you go put your hands together and pray. If you get up, I 'll break you in two.''

Christian releasing Willie's fingers. His hands falling limp at the wrists and trembling. Willie staring down. Then up at Christian glaring back from his wide footed ape style stance. A crowd of onlookers packed in the door. Someone said my fee is ten dollars, is a doctor needed. Glen peeking in over a shoulder and taking a cigar out of his mouth. Manager pushing through.

''Hey what's going on here. Break it up.''

Christian moving a silent Mrs Sourpuss away by the elbow. Back between a squeeze of wedding guests. Into the circular bar by the hat check where the waiter took Fanny's coat. Out the side entrance past a cigarette vending machine. Fanny clonked in a coin to buy a pack. In the freezing fresh air I took a ferocious hidden pee on a defenceless piece of shrubbery. And crossed the snowy parking lot. Fanny tugging me into her folds of fur. Glen trotting behind.

''Was that Willie Mrs Sourpuss, was that Willie.''

"Yes it was Willie."

"Boy I never thought I'd see the day. You want to come this way, Mr Christian. The snow's been trampled. I'll get that door open for you."

Mrs Sourpuss bending down headfirst into the grey portholed limozine. I had the unholy desire to shove my hand right up through whatever folds of flimsy fancy cloth there might be adorning under her mink. And there arrived take a tasty handful of her vibrant arse. With Glen holding open the door. I step in. Past his audible words, yes sir Mr Christian, yes sir. And that's when you think.

Happiness

Is

A big cat

With a mouse

On a square mile

Of linoleum

7

Standing on the deep maroon pile of Fanny Sourpuss's carpet. Where she lives twelve floors up, the phone constantly ringing, on the east side of town. I hold a tall glass of scotch poured over dancing ice cubes and splashed with bubbling soda. This sprawling apartment of marble tables and icons. Looks down on the grey wind swept slate roof of an embassy, its flag flying in snow and darkness.

Friendly Glen shovelling sticks of chewing gum between his jaws, drove us downtown under the elevated train. Along the cobbled trolley tracked avenue called White Plains. Past drifts piling high against darkened store fronts and up steps and over porches. Cars stalled and buried lining empty white wasteland streets. The big limozine skidded and slid crossing a trestle bridge into Manhattan. Lights of barges on the river and edges of ice along the shore. Mrs Sourpuss's hand came searching for mine under the furry rug. And as we pulled up outside a frozen marquee halfway down the canyon of Park Avenue she said you must come in for a hot drink. A grey uniformed Irish doorman in knee boots led us across the black and white tiled lobby to the elevator.

"By the powerful strengths of himself on high, weren't you lucky to get back safe from your husband's funeral."

"Yes. This is my nephew Mr Peabody."

A pigeon crouches sheltering, fluttering its wings in the snow on the window sill. Just to feel the warm softness here. Stare out at the blizzard. And other yellow lighted windows. The city stopped. I could not desert the bereaved. Lost as we were in the blizzard. Believe me Mr Vine, it was somewhere in the god forsaken Bronx, east of Eastchester. West of Hart's Island. Where prisoners bury the amputated arms and legs and the unclaimed dead. And Clarance I sincerely thought of all the money you were losing.

"How about some cold cuts Cornelius. I got some potato salad. Don't be shy. Make yourself at home.''

Christian sitting at the black grand piano. Playing a sad melody. Up and down the smoothest of ivory keys. Staring at a white fluffy ceramic dog. Fanny sweeping in and out in a long green dress with legs. Heard her raised voice speaking to someone and then a door slammed. She came back carrying a platter. Placed it on the coffee table in front of a sofa. Stacks of rye bread, white little tub full of cubes of butter. Bowls of olives, swiss and pimento cheese, potato chips and plates of liverwurst, bologna and salami.

''Come on. Dig in Cornelius. What are you waiting for."

She stands eyes lurking under longer lashes. Notches tighten a chain of silver buckles around her waist. Golden slippers and a black satin bow tying her hair behind her head. She knelt. Stared up at me. Blazing away with her blond skilled beauty. As I bit a bologna and swiss cheese sandwich. Cemented together with mustard. Chewed down with a cascade of olives.

"You hungry boy. You don't mind if I just sit here and watch you."

"No."

"Have you always been fearless.''

"Yes."

"How did you get that way."

"I don't know."

"I don't think I've ever met anyone like you before. Just watching you play the piano. So beautifully. So effortlessly. You've got something more than just nerve. I can't understand what you're doing in the funeral business. With your kind of class there are hundreds of better slots for you. Let me ask my lawyer."

"Mrs Sourpuss."

"So formal"

"I am when I talk about my business. Being an undertaker is performing a guardianship. Both for those living and dead. Bringing one closer to people. It's dignified. Might even say it achieves the quality of art. Death also brings a renewing pause in the life of others."

''I'll go along with that."

"It also allows me to meet someone like you. And Mrs Sourpuss believe me when I say, I know the real tears of death and they don't go down the cheeks.''

"Christ almighty. Sitting here like this. With an undertaker. Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against your business. But it really takes the cake. My phone is off the hook. Because every guy I ever knew is ringing me. Want to rush right over. So I can put my head on their shoulders. And there I am. Harry threw his seven. And I 'm with the man who buries him."

"I merely assisted. And I hope I 'm not imposing."

"Who's imposing. You protected me. A big guy like Willie, that'll humiliate him for the rest of his life. All he had. Just being able to stand up and say I'll kill ya. With his bare hands."

Mrs Sourpuss stabbing an olive. Licking it with the tip of her tongue. Then wrapping her lips around the green and sucking it into her mouth. To chew and wash it down with whiskey and soda. She sits ov3r on her side propped by a hand, The fat oval diamond on her finger glinting blue and flashing white. Raises her foot and kicks the sole of mine with her slipper. Lamp light fanning up on the wall. The gilt framed gold red and blue of icons. Holding up crosses. Heads of saints. Photographs and drawings of the Nevski Cathedral. And my crotch is rotted out of my underwear.

"This is a very pleasant apartment.''

"Harry owns an interest in the building. Which according to my lawyer is my interest now. I knocked down a lot of walls his first wife had up. Her taste was for the birds. What lousy taste she had. I got in these two queers. They danced around flinging up the fabrics. Put in those blue and white tiles around the fireplace. I think it looks kind of cute. Those green glass balls hanging there used to hold up real fishing nets. They call it seaport elegant. They said fabric was going on walls these days. These days. Who knows what days. A month later they were telling me spring was coming and nobody who was somebody would want to get caught with the winter walls. So I went along with them. Knocked all the plaster off down to the brick. That lasted the summer. Till it was the New England drift wood look in the autumn. I finally said take every god damn thing off the walls, plaster them and paint them orange.''

"It's very nice."

"Help yourself to some more whiskey, Cornelius.''

"Thank you. Will you.''

"Yes. Fill her up. I guess I could say I have what most girls want. Anyway I always knew I was made for fancy living. I sure didn't want my mother's life. Ironing in the cellar. Upstairs putting our best table cloth over the table for Sunday dinner. Bored me crazy. Since the age of five I was always trying to escape. I was married and divorced at sixteen. Married again at seventeen. Holding out in a little hole in the wall while Willie was getting his nose broken trying to make a living playing football. We never went out. He wouldn't let me make friends or anybody see me. Then at exactly three boring o'clock one afternoon. I was sitting reading a magazine. I remember everything on that table. A box of fig newtons. A glass of milk. I read if you eat beets you pee pink. This was the biggest thing I had to look forward to. So I had two beets I was trying to peel. And a box of cookies I had just ate. Then I turned this page. There were these bunch of rubes with a god damn motor boat on a tropical island that one guy owned. With his own golf course and seaplane. And these babes drinking mint juleps on the beach. I said fuck this shit I'm getting out of here and going there. In one big god damn hurry. I did. And here I am all my grey hairs later and boy do I like it. At least I'm going to from now on. Soon as I get over all these damn worries. You just don't know when you're safe. Like today. The detectives leave. Willie shows up. They cost a hundred dollars a day. But it's cheap compared to Harry keeping a dozen sluts in about a dozen very expensive hotel suites in about eight states. Eight this minute they're all checking out. I called each one personally. With the happy news. That it was the last stop on the gravy train. All get off. Because now I'm the only one getting on. And boy. Let me tell you. But for Christ's sake what am I telling you. What would a mere infant like you know. But I guess you do know. The way you're just sitting there listening. Wish I was an orphan like you."

Mrs Sourpuss getting up. Changing the record on her player. Which says spelled out in elegant letters, Stromberg Carlson. Mandolins throbbing. She puts up her arms, wiggling her hips across the floor. Staring at Christian with his mouth in the middle of his latest sandwich. As she put out her left hand she pulled in her right and the left came out like a snake again. Hard to know what to do with a mouthful. Go on chewing. In tune with the music.

"Tell me something Cornelius. I don't know that much about you. You're not by any chance married.''

"No."

"Little late anyway to be calling your wife. Who wants to wait on the end of a phone. Live your own life. That's what it's all about. You look for ways to kill an afternoon. Ice skating in Rockefeller Center when every time you look up you know half the people looking down are detectives. Checking on the dolls. Pirouetting on the ice. Cornelius you want to dance.''

Christian chewing through a nice garliky bit of salami. The skin of which is wrapped strangling around a couple of my molars. Each window shade with its little knitted ring hanging on a string to put a finger in and pull down. Far away from the west side of town. Across a park by now a mountainous wintry waste of snow. Over here they have money. Plows out of some secret vault down deep somewhere in the bowels of these giant structures. So they can live in the soft of the big. In the ripe of their flesh. If they let you sit down in their glamour you never want to leave. Shy till you get there like starting a new term at school. Autumn. A little boy come with the smell of fresh squeaking books, sniffing the sweetness breaking between the pages. All the empty lines. You'll fill with a newly sharpened pencil. Last year's books thrown away. Another chance. And maybe they won't leave me back again for being dumb.

"Ouch. Whoops. Cornelius. It's all right but I've got an ingrown toe nail on that foot. You can step on the other one if you want."

"Sorry I 'm not so good at dancing.''

"You're doing fine."

Feel her green hips moving, the bones turning in there. Flesh and cartilage alive under my hand. In this orange inferno. Disappeared out of the world. Where no one knew I was anyway. Warmly tucked up in here. Arms around me. Her breath smelling of apples. Her throat of perfume. Long lashes make her eyes look bigger. All those guys on the telephone. Might be heading over here on their sleighs, balls jingling. Barge in and find me. Up to my neck in bologna, down to my arse in. olives. And popping fly buttons. Off my flag pole.

''Cornelius you 've got a little bit of everything.''

''I beg your pardon.''

"You know, make some nice girl a nice husband. You have such etiquette. I took an elocution course. But I think I sound better the way I am which is the way I get whatever I do, especially if I have a few drinks. Do I scare you.''

"No."

"Come on, don't tell me all mourners are like me. Dancing after her husband's funeral.''

''Well it's not the usual behavior of the bereaved.''

"I always knew I was different from the first time I could remember. My parents' neighbors on the street. All they ever thought was what hot shit they were. They were them and I was me. And me. I really knew I was hot shit. I just figured I belonged up there and everybody should know it. But ouch. That's a corn. Hey why don't you say something. You say yes, you say no, you say I'm sorry. But you don't really say anything. Hey you didn't by any chance, I mean I don't want to sound gruesome, but did you embalm Harry. Maybe you shouldn't tell me."

"I 'm a front of house man.''

"That sounds like you sell tickets to a movie or something.''

"I didn't embalm your husband.''

"O well I guess it's, you know, you feel somebody's hands did something, and you think what the hell those hands did that and maybe, well I'm ticklish and there are other things you don't want hands to do if they've done something else. Let's have a drink. I mean let's have a party. I want to see some action. For christ 's sake let's wreck this joint.''

Mrs Sourpuss picking up an oval piece of glass etched with a swan. Throwing it across the room hitting the wall above the record player and crashing down on the record.

"Come on Cornelius, don't just stand there. For Christ's sake can't you see me trying to wreck the joint. Let's wreck it.''

"Mrs Sourpuss, these things are valuable."

"Sure I sold my ass for them. You're damn right they're valuable. Don't you think my ass is valuable. It's the most valuable god damn ass in New York. My ass is worth millions.

"I perfectly agree.''

"You perfectly agree. Now isn't that nice. You've said something. Well I'm glad you do. But now Cornelius I'm going to tell you something, what good is it having an ass worth millions if I've already got millions. The whole point of having an ass worth millions is to sell it for millions. I sold mine for millions. And I've got millions. But I've still got my ass. I guess I could sell it for more millions. That's the answer. More millions. Now come on. Let's wreck this joint. I've been wanting to get these god damn icons out of here for ages. Take that. And that. Eight in the eyes I got that son of a bitch bishop. Who the hell does he think he's blessing. Come on. Poke the eyes out of this bastard too."

"Mrs Sourpuss I would very much like to help you wreck your property. But."

''Well come on then.''

"If Mr Vine heard that I went home with the bereaved and tore her apartment apart, smashing paintings, wrecking the place, well I don't think he 'd like it.''

"If he doesn't like it, I 'll buy him out.''

"Mr Vine's a pretty big operation.''

"Not for me he isn't. I could buy him out just like that. Hey what are you trying to do, ruin the party. Where's all that gism you had flipping Willie to his knees.''

"I'm tough when it's required Mrs Sourpuss but painfully shy otherwise."

"Ok you be painfully shy now while I'm just going to break this fucking god damn French piece of imported eighteenth century gilt shit bureau or something that Harry's first pot bellied sag tit wife paid seventeen thousand dollars for with its crummy inlaid flowers. Just watch me. With this other god damn swan. Now. Carumph."