Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

2

Mr. Stephen Joel Adel

c/o American Express

Monterrey, Mexico

Dear Steve:

Let me tell you in front, old pal, that I think you’re a total rat bastard and an unprincipled son of a bitch who ought to be tied up and horsewhipped.

Now that we’ve got all that out of the way, I thought I’d write and tell you and Fran how I’ve spent the past couple of days. As she may have told you, Fran was considerate enough to leave a note, and it seems only civil of me to respond to it. I originally thought of writing to Fran instead of to you, since it was Fran and not you who left the note for me. But I rolled this sheet of paper into the typewriter and stared at it and, instead of typing “Dear Fran,” I typed what you see above. This sort of thing has been happening lately. I started to write a poem Friday afternoon, and what came out was a letter to Lisa. You remember Lisa.

Why didn’t you ever take Lisa to Mexico, you son of a bitch? Christ, I would have paid your plane fare.

Anyway, the point is that I’ve decided not to fight my typewriter. Whatever it wants to do is fine by me. I spent a year and a half deep in writer’s block, and now that I think about it I can’t avoid the suspicion that it happened because I would sit down at the typewriter with certain preconceptions that kept getting in the way. I would decide to write a certain poem, and that poem just wouldn’t happen on the page, and as a result I didn’t write anything for a long time, until I decided to shortcut the whole operation by not sitting down at the fucking typewriter in the first place.

You picked a good day to take yourself and Fran out of my life. I got home early that afternoon because they canned me at Ronald Rabbit’s. They finally figured out that I was a captain without a ship, and instead of finding another ship for me they cut me adrift and let me swim. You’d love the story, but I’ve already written it all to Lisa and I don’t want to go through it again. It wasn’t that much fun to live through, let alone to write about. If you ever have an affair with Lisa (after all, there are only three hundred people in the world, and sooner or later they all sleep with each other), maybe you can get her to show you the letter. Or if you ever meet Clay Finch, he’ll give you his side of it.

I got home from Ronald Rabbit’s with my cottontail between my legs, and found that you had hied yourself south with my wife and my fifteen hundred dollars. I know it’s ungallant as all hell for me to say this, and you may not want to show this part of the letter to Fran, assuming you want to show her any of it, but of the two, I rather miss the fifteen hundred more. I had a use for it, what with a drawer full of bills and alimony to pay and no money coming in. I had a use for Fran, but we must face facts. If one takes a walk down the street, one has a much better chance of picking up a woman than of picking up fifteen hundred dollars.

An even harder thing to pick up this late in life is a best friend. Much as my first impulse was to hate you, I’ve decided it would be silly to throw off a fifteen-year friendship over something like this. At the moment you’re near the top of my shit list. There’s no getting around that. But I know that you have a sense of honor, and sooner or later you’ll send back the fifteen hundred and all will be forgiven. If, on the other hand, you keep the fifteen hundred and return Fran, I swear I’ll hunt you down and cut your fucking throat for you.

Jesus, I hope this letter gets to you. I don’t suppose you were expecting mail, but if I know you, you’ll check with American Express in every town you hit, whether anyone knows you’re going to be there or not. And Fran is just about as compulsive that way. I think I’ll put something on the envelope about forwarding it to Cuernavaca if you don’t call for it in two or three weeks. Fran said (well, wrote, actually) that you wanted to go to Cuernavaca to photograph the ruins.

I didn’t know there were ruins in Cuernavaca. For that matter, I didn’t know you had this big thing for photographing ruins. If you wanted ruins to photograph, old buddy, you didn’t have to go all the way to Cuerna-fucking-vaca to take pictures of them. You could have come over to Bleecker Street and worked your shutter to the bone.

In fact, precisely that notion was going through my mind when I finished the letter to Lisa. I put a lot of stamps on it and mailed it, and then I went over to the Kettle of Fish and behaved as though they were going to reintroduce Prohibition on the morrow. I drank Irish whiskey for a while, and then I drank some India Pale Ale. Do you remember the time we got totally wiped out on India Pale Ale at the Riviera, and we wound up taking this cab full of conventioneers to Harlem and pimping for them? Of course you remember, how could you forget, how could anybody forget?

Ah, those were the days, Steverino...

I didn’t get totally wiped out this time, however. I kept on drinking, gradually slowing the pace and letting myself get wrapped up by first the jukebox and then some old thoughts. I’d planned on devoting the major portion of the evening to self-pity. In fact I was looking forward to it. But self-pity is like cops and cabs and women — it’s never there when you want it. I would try to tell myself how classically desperate my situation was, how absolutely everything had gone wrong at once, even to Jennifer having her period.

I know that you know about Jennifer, but I don’t know whether or not you told Fran. I was wondering about that as I sloshed down the India Pale Ale, as it happens, and I tried to put myself in your position. If I were fucking the wife of my best friend, I asked myself, and if I happened to know that said best friend had an occasional piece on the side, would I tell the best friend’s wife about it? I could see one good reason to do so. It could lessen her guilt, after all. I mean, cheating on a cheater is just turnabout, which we all know is fair play.

But on second thought, I decided that if I were fucking my best friend’s wife, the last thing I would want to do is cut down the guilt. I mean, man, without the guilt, what would be left of your relationship? You can both feel guilty about how you’re giving the shaft to old Laurence with a U, Clarke with an E. Your mutual guilt holds you together, no? The day you begin to exorcise my ghost, the day there’s just the two of you in that bed without my ectoplasmic presence to keep you company, that’s the day you two will begin to fall apart.

I’m a sneaky son of a bitch, aren’t I?

Ah, well. If you haven’t told Fran about Jennifer, you might as well tell her now. I’m glad I told you, Steve, and I’m also glad I never introduced you to Jennifer or you might have taken them both along to old Me-hee-co. Who steals a man’s wife steals trash, but he who steals a mistress—

Speaking of trash, I have a thing to tell you, Steve, and I don’t know how to do it without violating the bounds of good taste. The thing is, even without self-pity, I did find myself thinking a lot about my relationship with Fran. Naturally I was seeing it in a new light now. For something like three months she had been having an affair with you, and I was just now learning about it.

(Incidentally, where did you screw? Our apartment or your loft? It’s hard for me to believe that you spent all that much time together. Fran didn’t have too many unexplained absences. Oh, well. If you ever reply to this letter, you might let me know how you worked out the mechanics of the affair. I find myself oddly, even dispassionately, interested in that sort of thing. God knows why.)

What I realized in the Kettle, though, was that although I never suspected anything at the time, anything at all, I could in retrospect almost put a date on the beginning of your affair with Fran.

It must have started just about the time she wouldn’t swallow.

Oh, hell. There’s no way to be tasteful about this. And I could not mention it at all, but the typewriter tells me it wants to discuss it, and I already explained about giving this typewriter its head.

And that’s what this anecdote is about, anyway. The giving of head.

Well, I don’t suppose I have to tell you that Fran gives sensational head, Steve. You probably think the girl is a born cocksucker. Actually, I can say with a certain amount of pride that I taught her virtually everything she knows in that department. When I first meet your mistress, Steveroo, she was a far cry from the Oral Vacuum Cleaner she is today. Oh, she was willing enough to play the flute, you understand, but she kept hitting the wrong notes. But a willing pupil, God knows, who ultimately earned the title Miss Million Dollar Mouth. As a matter of fact, it was her skill in this area which moved me to propose marriage, and at the actual moment when I popped the question (among other things) she was physically incapable of answering, her parents having schooled her not to talk with her mouth full.

Good taste does seem to have gone by the boards, doesn’t it?

But one evening in March, probably a day or two after you two commenced your playlet of star-crossed lovers, Fran and I went to bed, and stroked and petted in the usual fashion, and then I crouched on hands and knees and paid oral homage to the little man in the boat. (We had gradually weeded soixante-neuf out of our repertoire, on the theory that it was better to concentrate on one thing at a time.)

Fran had herself a nice hearty orgasm. I’m sure she didn’t try to tell you that she and I stopped balling in the course of her affair with you, but it’s possible she fed you some shit about not having orgasms with me, or faking them. I wouldn’t blame her for that lie, and neither should you, Steve. Just a white lie, after all. And I don’t imagine you would have been stupid enough to believe it, anyway. You know what Fran’s like when she comes. All those delicious contractions, and the subtle taste of egg white. She could no more fake that than Vesuvius could counterfeit an eruption.

When the lava stopped flowing, I flopped on my back like a beached whale and let her return the favor. No point in describing all that. No doubt you’re as familiar as I am with the ministration of those lips and that tongue.

Ah, I shall not entirely cease to miss you, Fran—

But to the point. She did her work well, as always, and I got where I was going, and then she inexplicably began gagging and coughing and ran to the toilet, where she relayed my gift to her to the New York sewer system. The toilet flushed and she returned with a vaguely troubled look in her eyes, muttering something about something having gone down the wrong way.

I don’t think we screwed any less frequently after that, Steve. She never pleaded a headache when I was in the mood, and as a matter of fact, she occasionally initiated things. But she stopped swallowing. I wish there were a couther way to say it, but there isn’t. She stopped swallowing.

Funny how there are levels to intimacy, isn’t it? An echo of adolescent dating behavior, when there were things one could do on a first date and other things one could do on a third date and still other things one could do only when one was truly in love. We all of us have different levels, different cutoff places. Some women with a far lower threshold than our Fran would find it impossible to sleep with two men at the same time. Others would find it possible to engage in the act, but could only achieve orgasm with one of the two partners. Others might manage intercourse with both lover and husband, while withholding fellatory delights from the latter. But this adorable girl has yet another set of standards. Her lips were never sealed, just her esophagus.

Why am I telling you all this? I’m sure you can guess my baser motives, but there is one altruistic impulse involved as well, old buddy. If you two are going to live together, you ought to know as much as possible about one another. And you also ought to be able to know when someone has begun to replace you in her affections.

The day she spits you out, old buddy, is the day you’ve been replaced.

This typewriter is really chockfull of surprises. I honestly never meant to write you any of this. I didn’t mean to write you at all, as I said. I was going to write Fran and tell her how I spent the weekend. When one has been jilted, one wants to get a little of one’s own back, ignoble as that may be, and this was a sensational weekend, and writing to Fran about it would constitute a symphonic chorus of “I can get along without you very well, believe me...” Believe me.

I left the Kettle when they closed it, since there didn’t seem to be any alternative. By then I had drifted in and out of perhaps a half-dozen conversations and twice as many private reveries and was having a high old time, in all senses. And I had very nearly managed to drink myself sober all over again. To wit, my memory of some of those hours in the Kettle was sketchy, but when I walked out into the stale air of MacDougal Street I was in full possession of what faculties Providence gave me.

Not that I was sober. I could walk straight and talk straight and think straight — well, almost — but I was nevertheless looped.

If drinking always worked that way, I swear I’d do it every night. There’d be no earthly reason not to.

So I walked up MacDougal Street singing something. I think it was “Big Yellow Taxi,” the Joni Mitchell thing. There are some difficult notes in the chorus and I was missing some of them, and aware of it, but I still sounded pretty good to me. I crossed MacDougal at Third Street. I don’t recall having any special destination in mind. There was a station wagon waiting for the light to change. I crossed behind it (which I suppose constitutes jaywalking, which you can add to the list of my sins) and I paused at the end of a line of the song, suddenly unable to remember what came next, and through the open rear window of the station wagon two voices supplied the next line in unison. Two clear, fresh, youthful, soprano voices, and they got all the notes right.

I leaned an elbow on the back of the wagon and peered owlishly in at them. The car was full of girls. There was one in front driving and one sitting next to her, and there were two more in the back seat, and there were another two — the songbirds — sitting cross-legged in the luggage compartment. The ones that I could see were all very pretty. So, I learned later, were the others. A total of six pretty girls sitting two and two and two in a station wagon at the corner of MacDougal and West Third at something like three-thirty on a Saturday morning.

“Why, hello,” I said. “I certainly want to thank you for helping me out with the song.”

“It’s a beautiful song,” one of them said.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” I said.

“It was raining earlier.”

“Earlier it was the winter of my discontent. Now it’s made glorious summer.”

“And are we the sons of York?”

“I doubt it,” I said, squinting in at them. “You might be the daughters of Lancaster.”

“Burt Lancaster? Hey, is Burt Lancaster anybody’s father?”

“If we were wise children,” another one said, “I suppose we would know.”

“Are you a wise child?” another one asked me.

“No, I’m a mad drunken poet.”

“Oh, everybody’s a mad poet. Are you at least Welsh?”

“My mother came from Ireland,” I said. “ ’Did your mother come from Ireland?’ ” I sang.

The light had turned green in the course of all this, but the car stayed where it was. Now it turned red again.

“And where did your father come from, mad drunken poet?”

“How would I know? I’m an unwise child.”

“Have you a name, mad poet?”

“Mad with a U,” I said, “and poet with an E.”

“I think I missed that one,” somebody said.

“Laurence with a U,” I said, making another stab at it. “Clarke with an E.”

“Laurence Clarke?”

“Yes, Laurence Clarke the mad poet.”

“What do you do when you don’t write poems?”

“Everything,” I said. “I never write poems. I haven’t written a poem for a year and a half.”

“Then what do you do?”

I considered this. “I don’t edit Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls,” I said.

“Neither do I, mad poet.”

“Ah, but I did,” I said. “Or at least I was presumed to do so, but Ronald Rabbit’s doesn’t exist. I was stowing away on a corporation, and today they fired me.”

“Poor mad poet.”

The light had turned green again, and the car behind us was using his horn to bring this fact to our attention. “We can’t just stand here,” one of the girls said.

“We can’t drive away,” another one said. “We can’t leave Mad Poet here. How would we find him again?”

“You mean Laurence Clarke. You shouldn’t call him Mad Poet.”

“You can call me Mad Poet if you want to.”

More honking behind me. The tailgate dropped and the girls in the luggage compartment moved to make room for me. “We’ll give Mad Poet a ride,” one of them said. “Hop in, Mad Poet. Hop in, M.P.”

“Military Police,” said a voice from the front.

“No, Member of Parliament. Laurence Clarke, Member of Parliament. Where are you going, Laurence Clarke?”

“To hell in a handcar.”

I got inside, and got the tailgate shut behind me. The station wagon lurched forward just as the light turned red. The honker behind us didn’t make the signal and went on honking his distress at us as we sped away.

“Where are you going, Mad Poet?”

“Call him Larry. Can we call you Larry? Where are you going, Larry?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have a home?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So we’ll take him home with us.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be brittle!”

“Utterly peanut. Should we kidnap you, Larry?”

“No one would ransom me.”

“Then we could keep you forever, and feed you peanut brittle and marmalade.”

“And treacle, and weak tea with cream in it.”

“How super if we could kidnap him.”

“Go ahead,” I put in. “Kidnap me. But treacle makes me ill and weak tea with cream in it is very hard to find. I’ll have jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, if that’s all the same to you.”

“Mad Poet knows Alice.”

“Mad Poet knew Alice long before you ever fell down any rabbit holes,” said Mad Poet. “And Mad Poet feels the same way about little girls that Lewis Carroll did.”

“Oh, super! Mad Poet’s a dirty old man.”

“But not that old.”

“How old are you, Mad Poet?”

“Thirty-two.”

“We’re sixteen. Except Naughty Nasty Nancy, who is fifteen.”

“A mere child,” murmured Naughty Nasty Nancy. She was one of the two in the back seat, and wore a peaked witch’s cap and granny glasses.

“Hey, Mad Poet! Where do you want to go?”

“Wherever you’re going,” I said.

A forest of giggles. “But we’re going to Darien!”

“Excellent.”

“That’s Darien, Connecticut!”

“Only Darien I know,” I said.

“Do you really want to come with us?”

“Wherever you want to go,” I said, “that’s where Mad Poet wants to go. Be it Darien or Delhi or Dubuque. Whither thou goest, Mad Poet shall go. Mad Poet loves you.”

“All of us?”

“All of you,” I agreed. “Mad Poet loves one and all, including Naughty Nasty Nancy, who is a mere child of fifteen. Mad Poet loves the daughters of Lancaster.”

“And the daughters of Lancaster love Mad Poet,” said a small voice at my side.

“How nice,” said Mad Poet. “How nice indeed.”

How nice, friend Steve. How nice indeed to be the Mad Poet, at once disarmingly drunk and brilliantly sober, joyously kidnapped by six winsome refugees from the Convent of the Holy Name. For six little maids from school were they, Steve, six little maids from one of those cloistered mausolea to which the Catholic aristocracy condemn their most nubile daughters for the duration of their delicious adolescences. They had stolen away that night shortly after bed check (bed check!) and had borrowed the car of their algebra teacher. Merry Cat was doing the driving. Merry Cat’s name is Mary Katherine O’Shea, and she possesses a license which allows her to drive in the State of Connecticut during daylight hours. If anyone had stopped Merry Cat, she would have been in a whole lot of trouble. No one did, and she wasn’t.

Merry Cat is sixteen, as are all of them but Naughty Nasty Nancy, the fifteen-year-old witch-girl whose last name is Hall. Merry Cat does have a feline face, with sharply sloping eyebrows and a quick grin. Her hair is black and her skin very fair, and what she looks like is a very classy Irish girl, which is what she is.

It is also what most of the rest of them are, Irish or Anglo-Irish or Castle Irish or Ascendancy or whatever. Shall I describe the rest of them for you?

All right, I think I will. But only because you insist, Steve-o.

Let’s return to the station wagon and do it geographically. Merry Cat, as I said, was driving. Sitting beside her was Dawn Redmond, a soft and quiet girl, soft of face and soft of body, with hair the color of a freshly opened chestnut and a slight complement of freckles on her cheekbones and across the bridge of her nose. She has exceptionally large breasts, and their sensitivity seems to be in proportion to their dimension. She goes all glassy-eyed when they are stroked, and can achieve orgasm from such attention.

In the back seat Naughty Nasty Nancy sat directly behind Dawn. Naughty Nasty Nancy does not speak too often, but her occasional remarks are always incisive. There is a distinctly fey quality to this girl, Steve. If you were casting Hamlet, you would pick her instantly for Ophelia.

On Nancy’s right was B.J. B.J. is Barbara Judith Castle. She looks enough like Merry Cat to be her sister, but isn’t. They may be cousins. I’m not certain. My memory of the conversation in which that part came up is somewhat vague, and I don’t know for certain whether they are cousins or lovers. I’m sure it’s one or the other. It’s possible, of course, that they are both.

Now for the luggage compartment, where I was sitting in a modified lotus position. On my right, Ellen Jamison, red-haired and slim-hipped and flat-chested and freckled. If her father ever loses his several million dollars, she can always earn a living posing for Norman Rockwell. She even has braces on her teeth.

Let me tell you something, Steve. Nothing brings you all the way back like kissing a girl with braces on her teeth. It makes you want to go home and stand in front of the mirror and squeeze blackheads. An ultimate nostalgia trip as the tongue-tip tickles all that shiny wire.

And on my left, chubby and giggly and bouncy and rosy-cheeked, Alison Keller. She wears her dark-brown hair in a Dutch cut, and her bangs fall upon her unlined brow. She is happy and bubbly and exuberant, and one is so delighted with this side of her that one doesn’t suspect there is more. But she paints, does Alison, and I have seen some of her paintings, and they are dark and mordant with echoes of Bosch and Dali, and they are weirdly wonderful, and so is she.

“We are truly kidnapping you, Mad Poet,” they kept saying. “And we will keep you hidden away in a cellar and smuggle scraps of food to you from the caf, and every day we will all steal down to you and make mad passionate love to you, and we will never never never let our Mad Poet go.”

How nice indeed.

The only hangup on the drive to Darien was that Merry Cat kept bitching about having to drive. “It’s not fair,” she would say. “Everybody else gets to neck with Mad Poet and all I have is the steering wheel. Doesn’t anyone else want to drive?”

No one else had a license. Except Mad Poet, but no one ever had the temerity to suggest that he drive.

“You’re always pestering to drive,” she accused them, “and now when I’m perfectly willing to let you, nobody wants to all of a sudden.”

So I could only neck with five of them, which was a shame. If life were perfect, we would have had a chauffeur. But why carp?

Steve, this was as perfect as life had ever gotten. Incredible.

You know, I shouldn’t have bothered with that geography shtick. It didn’t apply for very long. By the time we hit the West Side Drive, Dawn had climbed into the backseat, and she and Nancy and B.J. had done whatever it is you do to the backseats of station wagons to flatten them out, so that the backseat area just became part of an expanded luggage compartment. So there I was with the five of them, still in this same alcoholic haze and still sober regardless, and I reached out and kissed one, and the little devil opened her mouth instantly, and another one cuddled up and put my hand on her breast, and from there on you can write your own script. I never knew quite whom I was kissing nor whom I was touching at any given time. Nor did it ever quite matter.

The trouble is that I’m making it sound like an orgy, and it wasn’t at all like an orgy, not in the least. First of all, there was an air of utter innocence about the proceedings that couldn’t have been greater if we had been playing Parcheesi. We all liked each other and we were all having fun and it was all a lazy, giggly, delicious, magical thing.

Absolutely no urgency about it. The kisses were long and deliberate, the petting warm and wholehearted, but there was none of the rise and fall of serious sex about it. I find myself groping for words, perhaps because the whole ambience was one I had never experienced before, neither personally nor in fiction.

How to describe it? I could say that I engaged in two hours of incessant sex play and not only did not have an orgasm, but never much felt like having one. In youth I remember that sort of experience leading to an advanced case of testicular congestion, which I think we used to call Lover’s Nuts. I didn’t get this now. Perhaps it’s because I’m older now, but I rather doubt it.

Oh, hell, most of the time I didn’t even have an erection. It is not exactly unheard of for me not to have an erection in erotic situations, as I have not the slightest doubt Fran has told you. (Should you experience similar failings, you’re likely to hear about it, man.) But when that happened it was always because my mind was elsewhere, whereas this evening my mind was very much on what was happening. As a matter of fact, I cannot recall ever being so entirely involved in the Now, and entirely concerned with my partners.

So I not only didn’t have an erection but I didn’t want one. I just wanted to go on kissing and fondling and saying clever things and hearing them say clever things. Do you want to know what happened? I fell in love. I fell in love with all five of them. I fell in love with Merry Cat, too, and without laying a hand on her.

We played all the way to Darien, and they said I was their own personal Mad Poet and they would all share me forever, and I told them I wanted to take them all to Utah and marry the six of them and live happily ever after.

“And have children with all of us?”

“Only daughters.”

After we go to Darien—

But that’s enough. This typewriter not only says what it damned well wants to say, but it knows when it’s said enough. I would sort of like to tell you what happened after we got to Darien, and where I spent the night, and what happened the next day, and other things along those lines. I would like to tell you some more about the various girls, and some of the conversations we had and the things we said.

The typewriter has other ideas. It thinks I’ve said enough, and I have to abide by its decision. That’s the way we’re doing this.

The girls say they can’t understand why Fran left me. That they can’t understand why any woman would leave their wonderful Mad Poet. I don’t know, Steve, what sort of effect it would have on you if six beautiful, rich, sweet, sixteen-year-old girls said this to you. Maybe you would yawn. Not me. Not bloody likely.

Perhaps I’ll write more later. I seem to be in a letter-writing period, and after all, how many people are there for me to write to? So you may be hearing from me again. I might even tell you what happened later on.

Ah, well. It is Monday night and I am in New York, in my humble little flat on Bleecker Street. In a few minutes I will go to sleep in the very same bed where Fran and I so often shared connubial bliss, and in which you and she no doubt shared occasional moments of extranubial bliss. I wonder if I’ll dream, and of what.

Send the fifteen hundred as soon as you can, Steve. No big rush, but whenever you can spare it. And keep Fran with you. Not that I have any particular hatred for her, but I don’t much want to see her, and I honestly don’t think I could fit her into my schedule.

Eat your heart out, you son of a bitch.