To get
In her
Without
A wedding.
17
IN front of a tall marble building. Gigantic bronze doors. Smith entering this emporium of finance with his paper bag. Late noonday sun beaming from high barred windows and warming Smith's dark shoulders as he wrote on a little piece of paper. Standing in a line of fidgeting depositors. A breast distinctly shoving him in the back. The mammoth nipple Bonnif ace mentioned.
Smith's turn. Pushing across his little piece of paper. To a Mister Cheer it said on a little sign, whose face blossomed and nearly flew with friendship. Wide bow tie for a propeller. Who thought for one amazed second it was a stickup.
"One moment, Sir."
"I can't spare it."
"O."
"In rather a hurry."
"Well you see, I'll have to clarify the situation Mr. Smith. I mean is it for the payoff."
"I beg your pardon. Do I have to sue you and this bank for aspersion."
"But a cheque this size for cash, well I'm supposed to clarify."
"How dare you."
"I could lose my job. This is an awful lot of money."
"You suggesting that I am attempting to commit fraud."
"No sir."
"Then instantly fulfil the sum of that cheque, in brand new notes."
"Mr. Smith I know you must be nervous over being sued. I mean supposing there was some miscalculation in your account, sir."
"Are you suggesting errors, that the balance forward is a wrong number. And what do you mean by sued and payoff/* "You're putting words into my mouth. Only want to verify the clarification of balance for your convenience."
"My convenience is that you answer this cheque in cash instantly or I shall take steps to deal with your first aspersions. Cast irresponsibly on my character."
"I'll do just as you say. I'm new at this branch. I mean anyone can lose control and attack."
Mr. Cheer like employees everywhere is uttering irrelevancies. Perspiration on his brow now dripping on the banknotes. Fingers peeling up their edges, knuckles banging the marble, making one little neat pile next to another.
"You want to count this yourself, Mr. Smith."
"I measure by eye. Put one more on that pile you'll be right."
"Better count this again."
Smith pressed from behind by the mammoth aggressive breasts. Life is too fast to bother to turn and say madam please don't splash those on me. Close this account down with a shattering clang. Nervous being sued. Of course I'm nervous being sued. My mind is hair raising.
"Mr. Smith, youVe got some eye, you're right, a note short."
"Just slide diem in this bag. Must rush."
Making sure glass was not in front of his forward motion, George Smith left the bank and turned down the elegant street recently planted with baby trees. Suddenly finding his position blocked by a fat lady, he lowered his head and ran. At the corner hailing a taxi. Giving the driver a designation to go round and round the park. Between my feet a bag of money. For some it grows on trees. Glad I've got such a big forest.
George Smith sat back on the leather, heartily sorry for various sins. One's life now mercantile might suddenly become marine. My sad unfinished tomb. With winter on the way. Still hoisting up the great blocks of marble. They lock together like a puzzle.
Yellow taxi carrying George Smith on its humming rires through the park. By bridle paths under bridges. Four young men in lipstick on top of a rock smiling. Little kids rolling a watermelon down a hill. Rowboats and water birds on the sunny lake. Lurking bodies in the bushes. Showing only a sign of a hand, a face and sometimes a more naughty thing. Each elegant back I see strolling, I think of Her Majesty. And it's just another empty face. While my hip bones ache with fear.
"Mister I'm getting nervous driving around this park. You got to give me a destination. I got to go somewhere. Too much responsibility going nowhere."
"I'll give you an address."
"Thanks a lot."
Smith taking a little black book. Peel back the pages, torn, worn and dirty. Decipher a scribble near this great letter T. For Tomson. She reared up in the dark. Shouted, you don't even know where I live. I took the address down. And since. Have been too terrified to go. Pull up my socks now. Steam south and west.
"Driver go to this address."
"On the paper."
"Yes."
"Glad to."
Down a hill under shady trees. Up to traffic lights and across the avenue. Past entrances that lead to the rapid transit. Something is wrong. I twitch and fear. Would like to have a friend. Just now and have none. At best, Bonniface is a crazy companion. The rest of my life I would stay with Miss Tomson. Near all her chill blue beauty. Threading our way through the throng of opportunists. And hand in hand take one gigantic leap together and wake up in the next world. Wearing red underwear.
"Driver stop."
At a street corner. Smith reaching through the window for an afternoon newspaper. Slipping out a coin.
"O.K. Driver, on, please."
Folding open the paper. A glance across the front page. At the bottom a picture and a headline.
ENGINEER SUES TOMB BUILDING FINANCIER OVER SOCK IN SUBWAY.
A summons was issued today against Mr. George Smith formerly of 33 Golf Street and removed to Dynamo House, Owl Street where he was traced. The victim Mr. H. Halitoid of Fartbrook claims he was the innocent recipient of a right hook to the jaw in the rapid transit while his attention was distracted with other passengers watching a rat gambol down the tracks. As he and other spectators on the Battery platform (uptown side) waited for the rodent to be electrocuted, Mr. Halitoid alleged a fist encased in a knuckle duster thundered out of space and (according to his doctors) landed on his lower mandible scattering biscuspids everywhere.
Interviewed at his bedside this morning, Mr. Halitoid declared that terror Avas rampant in this city and asked this reporter, "Are our rights to be protected or must we walk in fear outside our homes."
Mr. George Smith whose name at times has vaguely been connected with dealings in the financial district was not available at his business address nor at Merry Mansions where he resides with many other prominent citizens, and show business personalities.
The picture taken by our photographer by telephoto lens (white structure at right centre in trees) is believed to be the only picture in existence of Mr. Smith's tomb, still abuilding in Renown Cemetery. The mausoleum when finished will, it is rumoured, be the largest of its kind anywhere and will contain every modern innovation including plumbing.
At the gates of Renown Cemetery, this reporter asked Mr. Browning architect in charge of building, "If he considered Mr. Smith's tomb a new note in graveyard antics consistent with the attack asserted by Mr. Halitoid." And he replied to this reporter, "According to my experience, Mr. Smith is a rare gentleman of the old school."
"Hey mister you all right back there."
'Tes."
"Look as if you seen a ghost. You weren't that color when you got in my cab."
"It's nothing. An old characteristic of amphibians. Turn color when they get nervous for camouflage."
"You don't say. Hey just like that animal maybe they got in the museum right there we're passing, called the Thunder Reptile, brought my kid to see it. Hey that's better, the blue sunglasses give nice contrast to the green."