Ok Christian. And said he'd just heard on the radio that this is a real blizzard we're having, make sure Charlie's put chains on all the cars. And Charlie's eyes opened pleasantly wide when I walked up to him. And he said Mr Christian what are you doing here. I said I 'm working. And he said holy christ.
Mrs Sourpuss smoked Kool after Kool. I lit them for her with her lighter. She blew the smoke out from under a big wide brimmed black hat. Leaning forward to tap her ash in a tray pulled out from the walnut ornamented back of the driver's seat. She spoke to the chauffeur through a microphone like a little tea strainer. His name was Glen. He gave me dirty looks through his rear view mirror and once during a prolonged sneer crashed us into the back of the hearse. Charlie got out shaking his fist and shouting.
''For crying out loud can't you see me in front, you numbskull, you could have killed the deceased or something."
Mrs Sourpuss put her hand over her mouth as she laughed. And turned to me looking right down into my fur covered lap. Where I was most rapidly rotating my thumbs.
"Are you interested in sports, Mr Christian.''
''Sometimes I put on the gloves. I boxed.''
"Really."
"I 'm pretty able to take care of myself.''
"But it would be terrible if something happened to your hands. Do you like good books and music.''
"Yes I do."
"I do too. Really good books. I really love books."
"I like books."
''I knew you did. It's written all over you.''
Crossing the bridge high up over the water where the East River flows in and out of the Hudson. Leaving the island of Manhattan. Arrive on the mainland of the Bronx. Mrs Sourpuss took off her hat and put her head back. Opened her mouth and rolled her tongue around in each cheek. Tapped ash from her cigarette and took a long drag. Up there in front of us, her husband. In a white satin lined casket covered in wreaths and flowers. One's own sorrow all dried away. Think it will never go. Till it's gone.
''What's your name I can't keep calling you Mr Christian.''
"Cornelius."
"You must have had an old fashioned mother and father to give you a name like that.
''
''They were immigrants and left me an orphan.9'
"Hey that's sad."
Cars keep away from a funeral on the highway. Folk rushing for home in the blizzard. Perched on the rocky knolls those houses where people live who look safe from life. Behind their cozy window panes. In rambling rooms. Refrigerators full with ice cream, olives, pimento cheese. Sliced bologna and roast beef all ready to lay thickly between the mayonnaise slathered rye bread. Sit on a big sofa in the sprawling living room. Sink your teeth in all that eating and wash it down with soda pop. A big fire blazing. Dozens of radiators tingling hot all over the house.
"Where are we now. Cornelius. How far is it."
"Not far madam."
"Do me a favor and cut out that madam. Makes me feel old."
"Sorry."
"My name is Fanny. Where are we.''
"This is the Bronx."
''Doesn 't look like the Bronx."
"It's the Bronx. It has woods, deer, fish, muskrats, possum, owls, snakes."
"I didn't know it was this kind of burg. When are they going to civilize it. Hey that hurt your feelings what I said.''
"O no."
"It did."
''I was raised in the Bronx.''
"No kidding. There. There are more woods. Just like you said."
''The cemetery has a lake with ducks."
"No kidding."
The cortege climbing the winding hill through the woods. Grey limozine without chains, skidding on the ice. Another two cars behind. White clouds of exhaust rising from the back of the hearse. Where I waited with Helen we wait for green on the stop lights. In my own romantic Bronx. I was a new little boy all the way from Brooklyn moved on the street. Made a friend called Billy whose mother just died. He asked me over. To try out his boxing gloves he got for Christmas. His father watched us from a ring side seat on the cellar stairs. I thought he would be too sad to fight and instead he beat the living shit out of
Mrs Sourpuss smoked Kool after Kool. I lit them for her with her lighter. She blew the smoke out from under a big wide brimmed black hat. Leaning forward to tap her ash in a tray pulled out from the walnut ornamented back of the driver's seat. She spoke to the chauffeur through a microphone like a little tea strainer. His name was Glen. He gave me dirty looks through his rear view mirror and once during a prolonged sneer crashed us into the back of the hearse. Charlie got out shaking his fist and shouting.
''For crying out loud can't you see me in front, you numbskull, you could have killed the deceased or something."
Mrs Sourpuss put her hand over her mouth as she laughed. And turned to me looking right down into my fur covered lap. Where I was most rapidly rotating my thumbs.
"Are you interested in sports, Mr Christian.''
''Sometimes I put on the gloves. I boxed.''
"Really."
"I 'm pretty able to take care of myself.''
"But it would be terrible if something happened to your hands. Do you like good books and music.''
"Yes I do."
"I do too. Really good books. I really love books."
"I like books."
''I knew you did. It's written all over you.''
Crossing the bridge high up over the water where the East River flows in and out of the Hudson. Leaving the island of Manhattan. Arrive on the mainland of the Bronx. Mrs Sourpuss took off her hat and put her head back. Opened her mouth and rolled her tongue around in each cheek. Tapped ash from her cigarette and took a long drag. Up there in front of us, her husband. In a white satin lined casket covered in wreaths and flowers. One's own sorrow all dried away. Think it will never go. Till it's gone.
''What's your name I can't keep calling you Mr Christian.''
"Cornelius."
"You must have had an old fashioned mother and father to give you a name like that.
''
''They were immigrants and left me an orphan.9'
"Hey that's sad."
Cars keep away from a funeral on the highway. Folk rushing for home in the blizzard. Perched on the rocky knolls those houses where people live who look safe from life. Behind their cozy window panes. In rambling rooms. Refrigerators full with ice cream, olives, pimento cheese. Sliced bologna and roast beef all ready to lay thickly between the mayonnaise slathered rye bread. Sit on a big sofa in the sprawling living room. Sink your teeth in all that eating and wash it down with soda pop. A big fire blazing. Dozens of radiators tingling hot all over the house.
"Where are we now. Cornelius. How far is it."
"Not far madam."
"Do me a favor and cut out that madam. Makes me feel old."
"Sorry."
"My name is Fanny. Where are we.''
"This is the Bronx."
''Doesn 't look like the Bronx."
"It's the Bronx. It has woods, deer, fish, muskrats, possum, owls, snakes."
"I didn't know it was this kind of burg. When are they going to civilize it. Hey that hurt your feelings what I said.''
"O no."
"It did."
''I was raised in the Bronx.''
"No kidding. There. There are more woods. Just like you said."
''The cemetery has a lake with ducks."
"No kidding."
The cortege climbing the winding hill through the woods. Grey limozine without chains, skidding on the ice. Another two cars behind. White clouds of exhaust rising from the back of the hearse. Where I waited with Helen we wait for green on the stop lights. In my own romantic Bronx. I was a new little boy all the way from Brooklyn moved on the street. Made a friend called Billy whose mother just died. He asked me over. To try out his boxing gloves he got for Christmas. His father watched us from a ring side seat on the cellar stairs. I thought he would be too sad to fight and instead he beat the living shit out of
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