What did he think of John McGrath, Marie’s father?
As an obstacle to whatever “understanding” he might reach with Marie. He was correct in this thought.
What were some of the terms of opprobrium that Mr. McGrath used in regard to Tom?
At various times and in various circumstances, John McGrath is known to have said: little tin god, patch on a man’s ass, phony as a three-dollar bill, Mr. High and Mighty, five-hundred-dollar millionaire, nigger rich, coo-pay? guinea moustache, our conquering hero, couldn’t keep a wife, skirt chaser, up to no good, goddamned fool of a ladies’ man, a fart in a gale of wind, Lothario, another tale of woe, and nothing but bullshit and broken glass.
To return for a moment to Tom’s coupe — or coo-pay: Why did this mundane vehicle have the effect that it did indeed have upon people?
It spoke of independence and the devil-may-care, of freedom and youthful rakishness. Thus it appealed to the feminine libido and awakened masculine envy and fear of cuckoldry.
Was Tom indeed a maker of cuckolds?
If rumor is to be given credence, the answer is “yes.” Three men putatively so served were: Lewis D. Fielding, a junkman of Ossining, N.Y., through his wife, Barbara; Alfred Bennett Martinez, a plumber of Ozone Park, N.Y., through his wife, Danielle; William V. Bell, a shop teacher of Paterson, N.J., through his wife, Joanne. These are not their real names.
We have been given certain intelligence concerning particular words and phrases used by our subject, these serving to set him apart from what he thought of as the hoi polloi. May we be enlightened as to the nature of these distinguishing uses of the language?
He delighted in “ab-soid!”; “coozy” for “cozy”; “nook” as a term for the female genitalia; he always “built” a drink; “sunny honeys” was his name for fried eggs; he pronounced “croquet” “crocket,” save when he was losing; a navy-blue jacket that he wore on semiformal occasions was his “din-din coat” or his “soup catcher”; his briar pipes were, in winter, “mitt warmers” and in summer, “skeeter chasers”; his Plymouth coo-pay was affectionately dubbed his “perambulator”; and, among men whom he knew fairly well, he called his moustache his “womb broom” or his “pussy bumper.”
Was he in any way the injured party in the twelve-year marriage to Janet Thebus nee Baumholz of Passaic, New Jersey, a marriage that ended in a bitter divorce?
Hardly. She had been a faithful and excellent wife and mother, while Tom had been unfaithful whenever occasion presented itself, said infidelity commencing but eight months after the couple’s return from a honeymoon trip to Asbury Park.
Was there one outstanding flaw in the otherwise carefully composed whole that Tom presented to the world?
Yes, although considering our subject’s amatory successes, the flaw was apparently not an egregious one. Our subject’s trousers hung from his waist to his thighs with no readily distinguishable evidence that he possessed buttocks. It was one of the few things that he was touchy about, and it is believed that he had, on several occasions, wept in self-pity over this physiological lack. A waitress in Weehawken, N.J., nettled by his rather broad and arrogant sexual innuendoes concerning the size of her bosom, once enjoined him: “Take a powder, you assless wonder!” It had taken a month after this incident before he would remove his overcoat when calling on clients employing female help.
Was he an absolute fraud regarding his relationship with Marie?
Perhaps not an absolute fraud.
~ ~ ~
Dear Marie,
Dare I call you, Marie darling? Or should I address you, you swell thing, as Mrs. Recco, prostrating myself before your tiny feet in formality. Like a monkey in a tuxedo on a chain held by an old dago? And of course I beg you to forgive that terrible word knowing that you, dear princess and Queen of sweetness were once married to a dago and so got your name. But I don’t hold that against you, not on your life, darling!
But feel that it was one of the nervous exesses of youth when the blood boils in its heat and has to be cooled even though the cooler is a dago. Don’t I know of the furey of youth? My God. Did I ever tell you my ex, Janet was also of Italian blood and heritage. So believe me my lucious morsel of sugar when I tell you that I know whereof I speak when it comes to one, dago spouses and two, the fleshy reasons for marrying same. Or as they say, Any port in a storm.
No. God forbid I should ever hold it against you you married a ginzo. Who as I hinted, knows better than me what it is like trapped in a marriage with a greaseball! Didn’t I tie the knot of conubial bliss, ha ha, with a ginzo myself? Or maybe that would be called a ginza.
But let me cease complaining and belly aching to you. Dear sweet Madam, my troubles must be extremely boring to you.
The purpose of this letter is what, I am sure, you are venturing a guess at. To whit. How come Tom Thebus, how I dream by the way that you call me Tom in your dreams and in private. How come he is writing me a letter when he sees me every day from morning till night and could certainly speak up concerning items on his mind? Don’t argue. I know that you are thinking something like this, I just know it. I am a crackerjack when it comes to female psycology. A man cannot be a salesman for years without learning a thing or two about female psycology. The receptionists and switchboard girls and so on that a drummer meets and talks to every day teaches him more than he wants to know, believe me. A drummer by the way, Dear, is a word for a salesman in case you didn’t know it.
Okay. The reason that I am writing you a letter is that I haven’t got the nerve to say to you face to face, your gorgeous face, all the things I might find the intestinal fortitude to say here on paper. For the truth of the matter is I love you. And I am going ga-ga thinking about you and holding my tongue out of sheer dumb embarrassment. I also have the feeling that you like me! Maybe even more than like? I know that when our eyes happen to meet you cast yours down and blush so sweetly. How I hope and pray that it is the case that you do feel something truly deep for me.
When I think of you in the lonesomeness of my room I am embarrassed to spill the beans to you but, I must, I think of you and I do it. My Honey Cake, you were a married woman for years and even though I know that you are pure and clean as newly fallen snow I know, that you know what it is. And my deep deep shame is I wish that when I am in the throews of passion that you are there with me! In the dark with your lips blending with mine, the only girl in the world, with your sweet body next to mine and your delicate and fragile hand like fine China instead of my rough and callussed one doing it to me. And I also dream that I am doing it to you. That is my shameful dream. But I must tell you.
And that would be just a warm up, a prelim before the main event, in my shameful dream. And Darling, you know what the main event means. I tell you honestly and truly that I cannot sleep a wink when I think of you shed of your clothing. I do not count seeing you on the beach in the bathing suit that you like to wear to the beach, however, I praise you to the skies for it and displaying your sweet modesty to everybody. But my dream is to see you a tigeress in the gloom of my lonely room. Not modest but wild! Sort of tearing and ripping off your clothing and your unmentionables and things to stand free and proud and noble. As a lady wants to be forever and ever with her mate whoever he may be.
And I trust and hope and pray on my hands and knees that you might think that there isn’t a man more worthy than Yours Truly. I who worship from afar and fall down crying like a baby on his bed every night in the silence of his lonely room, sobbing to his God to let you love me as I love you!