A Fairy Tale of New York by J. P. Donleavy Read Free Book Online Page B

newspapers."
    "I 'm sorry I don't think I have.''
    ''It was quite awful. You're not a New Yorker are you.''
    "No, not at the moment.''
    ''I didn't think so. You sound English.''
    "Thank you."
    "What on earth is a nice young man like you doing working in a place like this.''
    "Well, madam, it is as you might say, my calling.''
    ''You got called. To this.''
    "Yes. It's my vocation. I'm hoping to work myself up. Perhaps even one day having a place of my own.''
    ''What a marvelously unglamorous ambition.''
    "I want to help people. My profession gives one an opportunity to do that"
    "You sound just like Mr Vine.''
    "I 'm very flattered to hear that.''
    "Don't you get sick of this.''
    "Madam giving comfort to the bereaved, to those left behind sorrowing is a fulfillment of my own peace of mind.''
    "Hey are you kidding me. But you do have a beautiful accent. Have a cigarette."
    "No. I don't, thank you. Do allow me please."
    Christian taking Mrs Sourpuss's lighter from her one tightly black gloved hand. Down upon which the gold bracelets cascade. Her jaw line stern and strong. Skin blond and smooth. Byes a greeny light blue. Get a little closer. To her perfume. Byes more blue than green. And as I came in this morning. I was waiting for a whiff of formalin. If I'd had breakfast I might have vomited. Eight on Vine's canary carpet. This lighter heavy. Must be solid gold. There's a blaze of shit hailing at you out of the heavens. And especially from your rented bedroom ceiling. Then suddenly one's standing with an erection punching one under the chin. With a vision of a mourner's thighs. Making you deaf around the ears.
    "Tell me Mr Christian. My you do have beautiful delicate hands. Will you be coming to the cemetery.''
    "Yes I am."
    "I'd appreciate it, if possible, if you could ride with me in my car. I 'd like to have someone to talk to."
    "I'll ask Mr Vine. I'm sure it will be all right. We'd like to be of any assistance we can.''
    In the emerald night club darkness Christian's eyebrows rose. Shyly retreating. Stopping under a ceiling light of the lobby to take a good look at my hands. Yes. They are rather splendid. If I don't wait and think of something to make my engorged perpendicularity go down Clarance will think I'm trying to put it up the bereaved. And he's right. A great life. This disposal of the dead. The only thing that can stop me now is failure.
    Or
    If death
    Gets out
    Of style

6
    Madam's car was grey. With tiny little round windows in the rear sides. Like the portholes of a ship. A long antenna sticking from a snowy roof. Dark gleaming fur rug inside. Had a last look at Mr Sourpuss. Whose composure and bald pate was immense. Rouge on his chubby cheeks. Must have made a lot of money. Lips sealed. Otherwise I 'd ask him how.
    Along Fifty Seventh Street Mrs Sourpuss hummed the slow Polish polka. Turning her head to stare back at some fashion house windows. When our eyes met she smiled. The guy who was standing by the thermostat stood looking up and down the street while the other two watched me getting into the limozine. And Mrs Sourpuss's gum chewing chauffeur growled something inaudibly unpleasant as he slammed my door.
    Traffic crawling through the deepening snow. Abandoned cars little mounds of white. The sky dark with clouds. Eed funnelled ocean liner being nudged by tugs around the tip of a pier. Across the black cold water of the Hudson the undulating roller coaster of the amusement park atop the sheer stone cliffs. Went over there once after an annual June school boat ride. Was my city then. Belongs now to Vine. He just stared at me when I announced. That Mrs Sourpuss requested I accompany her. I stood waiting. Vine sat. Sheets of architectural drawings all over his desk. Held down at one corner by a small black book which in red said Social Register New York. Now he's found out I'm not listed, he might say what the hell do you mean trying to get familiar with the mourners. But he looked back down to his papers.