Read Online The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog, and of His Friend Marilyn Monroe by Andrew O’Hagan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew O’Hagan
Tags: Biographical, Fiction, Literary, General, Performing Arts, Pets, Contemporary Women, Dogs, Film & Video
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a town car and a goddamn private line. Frank’s needs always came out like urgent threats, but the boys seemed glad to have them and happy to oblige, their handsome young faces readily opening up to Frank’s abuse and the heavy tips that were sure to follow. My legs were stiff and I felt sore after all these hours in cramped surroundings, a feeling which I tried to show by the usual means, whining a little aria and hopping on the sidewalk. I think Frank got the message the next day because he sent the car away and we walked from the Waldorf to 444 East 57th Street. Frank never walked anywhere. It was a lovely, snow-filled day, and my paws were enjoying the skiddy ice on the streets. Frank was busy cursing as he pulled down his hat and exhaled wildly, the king of Sicily pulling at the leash, saying, ‘Heel, goddamnit, heel,’ and me feeling pleased with this nice levelling moment, the Chairman being dragged up Park Avenue. ‘Take it easy, baby! Slow the fuck down.’
As we approached Sutton Place, Frank took a deep breath of the East River and felt nostalgic. Humans feel such compassion for themselves, it’s one of their charms, and Frank, who loved to think he was above all that, was travelling that day into a sepia picture of his old mother and how the rough persistence of her love once mingled with the river noises. He looked up at the Queensboro Bridge. The other side is paprika shops and sausage houses, he thought, and over here it’s one perfume counter after another. With Frank no feeling ever survived long enough to challenge his basic sense that life was a load of baloney. He caught himself thinking of the paprika shops as we walked down the street and he sniffed into the breeze and put his hand in his pocket. ‘What a shmuck,’ he said.
Vince was the doorman of the building at 444. A pigeon was pecking a low brass grille beside the door as we walked up. ‘Hey buddy,’ said the pigeon. ‘Listen up. This guy’s the nuts. Are you gonna be hanging around here? This guy’s the business.’ Vince came out of the lobby smiling like a benighted failure. Vince had qualities few of us have: I admired the guy. The great comedy about most people is they think this life is the only one they’re going to live: they stock it up with panic, pain, worth, and glory; they fly a metal bird from Los Angeles to New York, but they haven’t yet grasped the basic facts. God is not in his place of work and is not answering his phone – get it? You don’t get saved, brothers and sisters, you get reassigned . The only person I ever met who acted like they knew this was Vince, who must have lived some other life as a pig in shit. None of us really remembers where we’ve been. We don’t know. He laughed easily at events and slapped his big fat thigh, eating donuts and laughing like every day was a holiday, which it is – it’s a holiday from being somebody else. Vince was the first man I met who didn’t think he owned himself.
‘Well, looky here at this nice English lord,’ says he, stroking me in Frank’s arms.
‘I’m Scottish, actually.’
‘And look at how he yaps so nice. I could swear he is singing a song to you and me, Mr Sinatra.’
‘Watch him. He’s a playboy. Is she ready?’
Frank nodded upwards and Vince got his meaning. ‘She ready for you,’ he said. ‘Go right up to 13E. I’ll give this little duke his lunch.’
What a guy. We must have been down there for a good half-hour together. He opened a tin of Dash and mixed it in a bowl. What can I tell you: Liver Treat with a side order of National Biscuits, ready to eat in the mirrored lobby, under the electric candles, Vince at his little desk listening to a football game from Yankee Stadium, the Giants playing the Cleveland Browns. Dash was probably the best of all the tins they had in America. It wasn’t up there with Mrs Higgens’s own small casseroles, but after prison slops, you know, and after Mrs Gurdin’s cakes – she fed her dogs
As we approached Sutton Place, Frank took a deep breath of the East River and felt nostalgic. Humans feel such compassion for themselves, it’s one of their charms, and Frank, who loved to think he was above all that, was travelling that day into a sepia picture of his old mother and how the rough persistence of her love once mingled with the river noises. He looked up at the Queensboro Bridge. The other side is paprika shops and sausage houses, he thought, and over here it’s one perfume counter after another. With Frank no feeling ever survived long enough to challenge his basic sense that life was a load of baloney. He caught himself thinking of the paprika shops as we walked down the street and he sniffed into the breeze and put his hand in his pocket. ‘What a shmuck,’ he said.
Vince was the doorman of the building at 444. A pigeon was pecking a low brass grille beside the door as we walked up. ‘Hey buddy,’ said the pigeon. ‘Listen up. This guy’s the nuts. Are you gonna be hanging around here? This guy’s the business.’ Vince came out of the lobby smiling like a benighted failure. Vince had qualities few of us have: I admired the guy. The great comedy about most people is they think this life is the only one they’re going to live: they stock it up with panic, pain, worth, and glory; they fly a metal bird from Los Angeles to New York, but they haven’t yet grasped the basic facts. God is not in his place of work and is not answering his phone – get it? You don’t get saved, brothers and sisters, you get reassigned . The only person I ever met who acted like they knew this was Vince, who must have lived some other life as a pig in shit. None of us really remembers where we’ve been. We don’t know. He laughed easily at events and slapped his big fat thigh, eating donuts and laughing like every day was a holiday, which it is – it’s a holiday from being somebody else. Vince was the first man I met who didn’t think he owned himself.
‘Well, looky here at this nice English lord,’ says he, stroking me in Frank’s arms.
‘I’m Scottish, actually.’
‘And look at how he yaps so nice. I could swear he is singing a song to you and me, Mr Sinatra.’
‘Watch him. He’s a playboy. Is she ready?’
Frank nodded upwards and Vince got his meaning. ‘She ready for you,’ he said. ‘Go right up to 13E. I’ll give this little duke his lunch.’
What a guy. We must have been down there for a good half-hour together. He opened a tin of Dash and mixed it in a bowl. What can I tell you: Liver Treat with a side order of National Biscuits, ready to eat in the mirrored lobby, under the electric candles, Vince at his little desk listening to a football game from Yankee Stadium, the Giants playing the Cleveland Browns. Dash was probably the best of all the tins they had in America. It wasn’t up there with Mrs Higgens’s own small casseroles, but after prison slops, you know, and after Mrs Gurdin’s cakes – she fed her dogs
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