Read Online The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog, and of His Friend Marilyn Monroe by Andrew O’Hagan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew O’Hagan
Tags: Biographical, Fiction, Literary, General, Performing Arts, Pets, Contemporary Women, Dogs, Film & Video
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the tired businessman with his flagging handshake and his Friday face, and who would deny him a bourbon on the rocks and a pretty girl in her TWA cap to smooth his cares away? If you believed the adverts, and we all did, the period in and around Christmas 1960 was a regular party above the clouds, a world apart from the hassles below.
Frank had his own jet, but it was grounded that month. The early days of jet travel were made for Frank. He was an absolute natural for the roped-off areas and beaming girls of the early airlines. ‘Welcome back, sir,’ said the girl. ‘It’s been a long time.’ Her white shirt stood outside her collar, and she leaned on the bulkhead ready for something new. The arched eyebrows, the amused eyes, the crimson lips: everything about her said ‘yes’ to an indecent proposal. ‘What a cute dog,’ she said.
‘You like him, huh?’
‘Why, Barbra. Look at Mr Sinatra’s dog. Isn’t he just adorable?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Barbra. ‘And the puppy’s not bad either.’
‘You girls,’ said Frank, smiling. ‘Trouble. A whole heap of trouble. We having a clam-bake in here tonight, pussycat?’
‘Afraid not, Mr Sinatra,’ said the girl. ‘Barbra has church in the morning.’ They chuckled. She drew her tongue over her teeth, real sassy. ‘She done been bad before now. She got prayers.’
‘You girls are trouble. Well, tell her to bring me some communion wafers over here.’
‘Coming right up. Barbra, could you bring Mr Sinatra a double Jack with ice on the side?’
Frank was always making sure his rights were protected. He winked at the chief hostess and she leaned over the seat. He hit her with a fifty-dollar bill right there in her palm. ‘Make sure there ain’t gonna be no Harveys near this spot,’ he said. No virtue, no fellow-feeling, no country or pleading voice, could stand in the way of Frank’s pursuit of his own way of life. * He did what he wanted, good or bad. And yet, he appeared in our time to exude the kind of goodness that made people healthy.
I was supposed to stay in my box on the plane, but I was with the Chairman, so he lifted me out and I had a seat to myself. I was an old-fashioned traveller, though – that’s to say, I was scared. By that point, the airlines didn’t worry about people being scared any more, they worried about people being bored. Frank made my fear worse by immediately unfolding a copy of the New York Times and falling silent over a story about two planes colliding the day before over Staten Island. I turned towards the window but I could hear every word as it passed through his tough little mind. Frank read the story four times. That was the kind of person he was, and by the last time, we were deep in the bright clouds above Nevada. Frank read the paper and signalled for another drink, then another one, the story in the paper enveloping the cabin in dread but not Frank, who found the experience beautifully comforting. (Bad things happened to other people.) The wreckage from one of the planes had fallen on Park Slope in Brooklyn, setting fire to several brownstones, killing a sanitation worker shovelling snow and a man selling Christmas trees. A boy on the United 826 coming from Chicago had survived for a while in New York Methodist Hospital. He remembered in the seconds before the collision looking down at the snow falling on the city. ‘It looked like a picture out of a fairy book,’ the boy said.
* It was evidence of something special in Frank that he appeared so good to so many, because, in actual fact, he was as Locke described man after the absence of God, with ‘no law but his own will, no end but himself. He would be a god to himself, and the satisfaction of his own will the sole measure and end of all his actions.’
There was a night at the Waldorf Astoria. I remember Frank shouting at a half-dozen bellhops under a massive chandelier. He wanted a shoeshine. He wanted two dozen white roses. He needed a drink. He needed
Frank had his own jet, but it was grounded that month. The early days of jet travel were made for Frank. He was an absolute natural for the roped-off areas and beaming girls of the early airlines. ‘Welcome back, sir,’ said the girl. ‘It’s been a long time.’ Her white shirt stood outside her collar, and she leaned on the bulkhead ready for something new. The arched eyebrows, the amused eyes, the crimson lips: everything about her said ‘yes’ to an indecent proposal. ‘What a cute dog,’ she said.
‘You like him, huh?’
‘Why, Barbra. Look at Mr Sinatra’s dog. Isn’t he just adorable?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Barbra. ‘And the puppy’s not bad either.’
‘You girls,’ said Frank, smiling. ‘Trouble. A whole heap of trouble. We having a clam-bake in here tonight, pussycat?’
‘Afraid not, Mr Sinatra,’ said the girl. ‘Barbra has church in the morning.’ They chuckled. She drew her tongue over her teeth, real sassy. ‘She done been bad before now. She got prayers.’
‘You girls are trouble. Well, tell her to bring me some communion wafers over here.’
‘Coming right up. Barbra, could you bring Mr Sinatra a double Jack with ice on the side?’
Frank was always making sure his rights were protected. He winked at the chief hostess and she leaned over the seat. He hit her with a fifty-dollar bill right there in her palm. ‘Make sure there ain’t gonna be no Harveys near this spot,’ he said. No virtue, no fellow-feeling, no country or pleading voice, could stand in the way of Frank’s pursuit of his own way of life. * He did what he wanted, good or bad. And yet, he appeared in our time to exude the kind of goodness that made people healthy.
I was supposed to stay in my box on the plane, but I was with the Chairman, so he lifted me out and I had a seat to myself. I was an old-fashioned traveller, though – that’s to say, I was scared. By that point, the airlines didn’t worry about people being scared any more, they worried about people being bored. Frank made my fear worse by immediately unfolding a copy of the New York Times and falling silent over a story about two planes colliding the day before over Staten Island. I turned towards the window but I could hear every word as it passed through his tough little mind. Frank read the story four times. That was the kind of person he was, and by the last time, we were deep in the bright clouds above Nevada. Frank read the paper and signalled for another drink, then another one, the story in the paper enveloping the cabin in dread but not Frank, who found the experience beautifully comforting. (Bad things happened to other people.) The wreckage from one of the planes had fallen on Park Slope in Brooklyn, setting fire to several brownstones, killing a sanitation worker shovelling snow and a man selling Christmas trees. A boy on the United 826 coming from Chicago had survived for a while in New York Methodist Hospital. He remembered in the seconds before the collision looking down at the snow falling on the city. ‘It looked like a picture out of a fairy book,’ the boy said.
* It was evidence of something special in Frank that he appeared so good to so many, because, in actual fact, he was as Locke described man after the absence of God, with ‘no law but his own will, no end but himself. He would be a god to himself, and the satisfaction of his own will the sole measure and end of all his actions.’
There was a night at the Waldorf Astoria. I remember Frank shouting at a half-dozen bellhops under a massive chandelier. He wanted a shoeshine. He wanted two dozen white roses. He needed a drink. He needed
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