Read Online The Ginger Man by J. P. Donleavy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. P. Donleavy
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you to get on?"
"British rubbish. Get on where ? Where to ? "
"Make something of yourself. You think it's so easy, don't you. I don't even think you'll get your degree. Cheat on your exams. Don't think everything you do escapes attention. Don't look shocked, and I know how you go and butter up your professors. How long do you expect to get away with it?"
"Absurd"
"You've insulted every friend I have. People who could help you. Do you think they'll help a rotter, an absolute rotter?"
"Rotter? Rotter? Me, a rotter?"
"And a liar."
"liar?"
"You needn't smirk. My friends could help us. Lord Gawk could have introduced you to a firm in London."
"What's stopping him?"
"You. Your insulting manner. You've ruined me socially."
"Not at all. Why blame me if your pukka friends ignore you?"
"Blame you? My God, how can you say that I can't blame you, when you called Lady Gawk a whore, ruined her whole party and shamed me. Blame you ? "
"The woman is stupid. Moral decadent"
"It's a lie. You sit there and you haven't had a bath for a month, your feet smell and your fingernails are filthy."
"Quite."
"And I have had to suffer the humiliation of having my family involved. What do you think? Daddy was so right"
"Daddy was so right Right God's teeth, let me for Christ's sake eat my dinner. Daddy, daddy. Sterile bastard, that daddy of yours is merely a leech on the Admiralty's bottom and a pompous lot of shit"
Marion ran from the room, she tripped up the narrow stairs. He heard her slamming the bedroom door and the creak of the bed springs as she fell. Silence and then her choked sobs. He reached for the salt, shook it over the plate. Nothing came out He raised his arm. The salt cellar crashed through the window and smashed to little pieces on the gray concrete wall outside. He kicked his chair over, picked up his jacket He went behind the clock where he knew Marion had been saving change for weeks. He took it all and let it slip, clinking, into his pocket
A very red face. Guilt Grinding the teeth. Soul trying to get out of the mouth, swallowing it back into the body. Shut out the sobs.
He ordered a bottle of stout and a Gold Label, telling the boy to bring him another stout and Gold Label. Boy didn't understand. Sebastian stamping his foot, shouting.
"Do as I say."
Boy, short sleeved, mumbling.
"I don't think you should talk to me that way, sir."
"Sorry, I'm upset Bring me some cigarettes too."
What a sorry sad day. I want company. A morass of black coats, coughing and spitting. Get out of here.
He went across the street. Had a nickelodeon there. He played "That Old Black Magic," and "Jim Never Brings Me Any Pretty Flowers." Like Chicago. A man in Chicago accused me of having a Harvard accent What are you, from Evanston? Don't talk to guys like me. The bruised and dumb, the snotty and sniffling. Her stinking hairy tits. I'm not blaming her for hair around her nipples. That's all right I just don't like the British, a sterile genital-less race. Only their animals are interesting. Thank God they have dogs. She wants her life sitting on her fanny in India, whipping the natives. Wants Bond Street Afternoon tea at Claridges. Lady Gawk tickling her twat with a Chinese fan. I'll break something over that woman's face. The way I lose my dignity is dreadful. Worrying about silly misunderstandings. She can leave. I'll tell her to get out. Stay out.
The end of the song. Outside, standing in front of the cinema waiting for the roaring tram. It's so noisy, coming down the hill out of the night, mad teetering vehicle. Seems to work like a coffee grinder. But I love the color and the seats, all green and warm, orange, pink and passionate. Like to run up the spiral stairs to the top and see the schoolchildren sitting on the outside platform. I like it because I can see into all the gardens and some of the evening windows. I was impressed by trams when I first set foot in this country. From the top deck you can see into some personal
"British rubbish. Get on where ? Where to ? "
"Make something of yourself. You think it's so easy, don't you. I don't even think you'll get your degree. Cheat on your exams. Don't think everything you do escapes attention. Don't look shocked, and I know how you go and butter up your professors. How long do you expect to get away with it?"
"Absurd"
"You've insulted every friend I have. People who could help you. Do you think they'll help a rotter, an absolute rotter?"
"Rotter? Rotter? Me, a rotter?"
"And a liar."
"liar?"
"You needn't smirk. My friends could help us. Lord Gawk could have introduced you to a firm in London."
"What's stopping him?"
"You. Your insulting manner. You've ruined me socially."
"Not at all. Why blame me if your pukka friends ignore you?"
"Blame you? My God, how can you say that I can't blame you, when you called Lady Gawk a whore, ruined her whole party and shamed me. Blame you ? "
"The woman is stupid. Moral decadent"
"It's a lie. You sit there and you haven't had a bath for a month, your feet smell and your fingernails are filthy."
"Quite."
"And I have had to suffer the humiliation of having my family involved. What do you think? Daddy was so right"
"Daddy was so right Right God's teeth, let me for Christ's sake eat my dinner. Daddy, daddy. Sterile bastard, that daddy of yours is merely a leech on the Admiralty's bottom and a pompous lot of shit"
Marion ran from the room, she tripped up the narrow stairs. He heard her slamming the bedroom door and the creak of the bed springs as she fell. Silence and then her choked sobs. He reached for the salt, shook it over the plate. Nothing came out He raised his arm. The salt cellar crashed through the window and smashed to little pieces on the gray concrete wall outside. He kicked his chair over, picked up his jacket He went behind the clock where he knew Marion had been saving change for weeks. He took it all and let it slip, clinking, into his pocket
A very red face. Guilt Grinding the teeth. Soul trying to get out of the mouth, swallowing it back into the body. Shut out the sobs.
He ordered a bottle of stout and a Gold Label, telling the boy to bring him another stout and Gold Label. Boy didn't understand. Sebastian stamping his foot, shouting.
"Do as I say."
Boy, short sleeved, mumbling.
"I don't think you should talk to me that way, sir."
"Sorry, I'm upset Bring me some cigarettes too."
What a sorry sad day. I want company. A morass of black coats, coughing and spitting. Get out of here.
He went across the street. Had a nickelodeon there. He played "That Old Black Magic," and "Jim Never Brings Me Any Pretty Flowers." Like Chicago. A man in Chicago accused me of having a Harvard accent What are you, from Evanston? Don't talk to guys like me. The bruised and dumb, the snotty and sniffling. Her stinking hairy tits. I'm not blaming her for hair around her nipples. That's all right I just don't like the British, a sterile genital-less race. Only their animals are interesting. Thank God they have dogs. She wants her life sitting on her fanny in India, whipping the natives. Wants Bond Street Afternoon tea at Claridges. Lady Gawk tickling her twat with a Chinese fan. I'll break something over that woman's face. The way I lose my dignity is dreadful. Worrying about silly misunderstandings. She can leave. I'll tell her to get out. Stay out.
The end of the song. Outside, standing in front of the cinema waiting for the roaring tram. It's so noisy, coming down the hill out of the night, mad teetering vehicle. Seems to work like a coffee grinder. But I love the color and the seats, all green and warm, orange, pink and passionate. Like to run up the spiral stairs to the top and see the schoolchildren sitting on the outside platform. I like it because I can see into all the gardens and some of the evening windows. I was impressed by trams when I first set foot in this country. From the top deck you can see into some personal
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