"Is there something wrong, Mr. Smith."
"I'm all right Herbert."
"Don't mind me, Mr. Smith, I just couldn't help noticing through the mirror. If you don't want to talk or anything it's all right."
"I was thinking Herbert, all the engine birds and wheels. Roll roll"
"You look tired, Mr. Smith. Maybe if you're not doing nothing, you might kinda like to come home with me and have a meal. Plenty for everybody. You know, if you're not doing anything."
"Thank you."
"Wife's always glad to see you. Says she gets a real kick out of some of your remarks. Steak and kidney, I know it's your favorite."
Smith slunk deeply in the kindly leather. World goes by so grey on these streets. Man stumbling against a wall in tatters. Grey smile, and silver hair. Newspaper wrapped around a shin. Luckier than poor old Bonnif ace drenched red in his underwear. Brought him a dozen hankies with a blue letter C from the gift counter to mop up. I offered him cash and he asked for understanding. And a long loan of the sable.
Granite pillars above the wide steps. In there they administer justice. Only takes a minute to attach the electrodes. Just pop one here on the top of the head, couple little straps around the arms and legs. Dynamo House sadly named.
"Where to, Mr. Smith."
"Left around the park. And down Golden Avenue."
"This is where the money was flying round."
"I remember."
"Human nature had an outlet that day, huh, Mr. Smith. Offer about the meal stands. No trouble."
"Thanks Herbert. Miss Tomson's holding a party later."
"O sure. You want a rain check."
"A rain check."
"Don't mind me saying, Mr. Smith, but she's some girl. And funny, a real nice person. Real nice. You know."
"Yes."
"Where you want me to stop."
"The big building, Hotel on the right. That'll be all for tonight."
"This is The Excelsior."
"Yes,"
"Sure you're all right, Mr. Smith. You know you look very very tired."
"I'm fine, Herbert. Fine. Airport was a little hectic. Mr. Clementine rather takes life lightly. I suppose I'm of the dour outlook."
"You're not dour. Hey look, what about your coat. You want the bag, paper bag. The cane,"
"Mr. Clementine was a little short on garments this evening."
"You take this, now Mr. Smith."
"No, no, Herbert. I couldn't possibly."
"I insist. I really do. I don't like the way you look at all. So you're going to take this, whether you like it or not."
"O.K. Take my stick too never know when it comes in handy."
"Might be a little big around the shoulders that's all."
"Herbert will you keep this paper bag in the trunk and lock it."
"Sure."
Smith stood on the curb. In Herbert's dark overcoat. Coming to attention with a smile and wave to Herbert taking the dreadnaught to its deathy garage. Go back then to his wife and nice little home. Full of kitchen smells, of spice and pretty woman. Ah God. Anymore of this and I'll fold up and dissolve on this pavement. Lean on the apple branch. Guess I just want someone to come out of somewhere, reach my ear. Whisper in. George. O George. You're good looking, trustworthy and kind. And mysteriously exciting. Here's my life, love. Let's waltz the rest of the road together, to get wrinkled and grey. May our distinction and flamboyance be mature.
The lobby of The Excelsior. Faint smiles upon some faces. Mr. Park at the ball room door. A wave. A grin. Like some little hometown coming. Need a haircut. Cheap quick trip into the Barber College. Get trimmed by an undergraduate. The evening bristles mowed down. Otherwise I feel terrible. Brave Bonniface of the strange strength. They drag him down by the heels. He makes a pulley arrangement on the other side to go whizzing up again. Footpoundals ablaze. Hang on by fingertips George. Hang on. Shore up. Company Sixty Two. Deploy left flank. Howitzer die fuckers. Command gone to pieces. Under six months constant shelling. And candied parsnips for chow. Must make it to the elevator as if nothing is the matter with me.
Elevator boy sizing up Smith. That's true sonny, the coat doesn't fit me. Her Majesty's door, grey gleaming gun metal. Printed right across my eyes. See a mirage. Dear Sir, we invite you to dance with joy, before we make you hobble with affliction. Yours very truly. The Hoods. Gentlemen, vouchsafe a dance to the tune of the fandango. Open up, Your Majesty. Let me fall in.
"O. Is it."
"George Smith."
"We've met. On the phone. I'm Lettia Calvin. Do please come in. Her Highness is dressing. May I get you a drink."
"I would cherish a glass of beer."
"Of course."
Miss Calvin. I cannot imagine a connection with a certain Cedric. Lady in waiting, blue lilacs in her hair. Where have all the kings gone. I would be their friend. Her Majesty is such a pleasant queen. Made a country out of this room. I'm her footpig. Reach for this beer with a trembling hand. Forty thousand people agreed to get together to whip out the carpet where I stand. My golden invitation. On the mantel. Must arrange the menu for Thistle Plot. Tureens of giblets supreme. The fried egg miraculous, little sinking suns on the sideboard. And the specialty of chopped livers for the Bonniface. The end is near, when you want it far away. Kids kick all premonitions out of one's head. And then, silence. Death rears. Who dat ahead. What dat up dere. Matilda said God was nervous. Because he's black. And so much white trash elbowing into heaven.
"George, my God."
"How do."
"You're white."
"Of course."
"But terribly white, George."
"I'm fine."
"Let me feel."
"O God."
"Don't crack George. No fever. You're going to be all right."
"I'm not. Your Majesty, the airport is too harsh for Bonniface. Employment too much. But what can I do."
"Give him a private income."
"Your Majesty let me water your plants before they die at this altitude."
"Don't you dare pee on my terrace."
Smith deeply reclining in the feather crimson softness. Her Majesty standing room center. Light glinting on her hair. Laugh lingering around her eyes. Each deft line little magic wings to make her face a wreath to lay upon my mind when I die. Slip down under the waves. Why all the ash flinging. Bonniface at his wedding. Miss Tomson at hers. Never imagine her wagging up the aisle in white. Terrible moments asleep coming back from airport, dreamt she married in black amid black lillies on the altar of the church. In a musky summertime. Her blue eyed face, her blond hair tied up. She threw the black flowers to me. In the third row. Said catch Smith, hold them for me while I'm busy dying with this guy. From this summer wedding.
Dark cloud
Came
And fell
Black snow.
"Shall we go, George. Shall I call down for a car/'
"Take you by horse cab. Where is the Baron Mum-chance."
"He's become a bartender who occasionally mixes me free drinks."
"O my God the decline."
Two strange specimens passing out the lobby of The Excelsior. Her Majesty wrapped in a python stole. Two little glittering eyes in the fur at her neck and twined round to a tail trailing from her own. An attic heirloom she felt like bringing to life again. So easy to worship her. Eyes full of all her escapes from tragedy. A heart sad, worn and splendid. Whispered to George he was incorrigible as he slipped the doorman a valueless foreign coin. An inspiration to begin a collection.
A taxi to the horse cab rank. Where the man said it's you again. Memory for faces. Snap of the whip. Away. Through the cars. Lake edged with ice. And a skating rink flooded with light. All the windows up there where they trim the toenails, lacquer the lips and look down to the terrible doings in the park. In my dream Miss Tomson asked me to the summer place of the man she married. To make music with my trembling organ. Said Smith Smith, soon soon, I'll dump this guy. Then all the black lillies I threw you at the wedding. Bring them, I'll wear them over me and take them off one by one. And I asked her meanwhile. To come to the sale of damaged hearts. Such good value. Buy me.