Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man Read online

  Dawn came in the following week, which is to say, this past Saturday. I thought she would be bringing one of the other girls along too, but nobody else could get away. It’s exam week, or exam week is coming up, or something. They’re all in the same class, with another year to go before they graduate. I guess school will let out this week or next, and not all of them will be spending the summer in the New York area, but they have solemnly assured me that I will have balled all six of them before they leave for wherever they’re going. There are only two that I haven’t gotten to so far, Ellen and Nancy. I wouldn’t want to miss out on either of them, believe me.

  I didn’t know if I would be able to handle Dawn. If I’d be up to it, that it. Oh, you know what I mean. Because I spent the previous night with Jennifer and was slightly exhausted. Smoked a lot of grass, and while it had more or less worn off I still felt faintly spaced out. I was relieved when just one of them showed up, and relieved too that it was Dawn, because all anyone had to do to please her was pay proper attention to her breasts, and anyone who wouldn’t want to do that would have to have something the matter with his head.

  Anyway, I surprised myself. It was really a sensational evening, and I use the term advisedly.

  So here it is, Monday, and I keep telling myself that I ought to go out and look for a job, and I think I might have done just that, except I got this letter from Steve and wanted to answer it right away. Although I don’t suppose you would say that I am answering his letter, Fran(ces), since it’s you I’m writing to. But in the sense of this letter being in response to the other letter, then I guess it constitutes an answer.

  A few paragraphs ago I was going to say that being in bed with two girls at once reminded me of the conversation with Bill Adams, but I don’t think I sent you that conversation. Unless I’m mistaken, that was in a letter I wrote to Lisa. I’ll allude to it anyway, Fran, on the chance that you might see a copy of that letter sometime, or that you might have an affair with Lisa yourself, as far as that goes. Did you ever have anything going with another girl? You always swore you didn’t, but that might have been because you thought I wouldn’t approve of something. Now that it no longer matters whether or not I approve of what you do or have done, I wish you would answer that question again. I’d be damned interested. An honest answer would probably explain a lot about you. Of course there’s no reason why you should have to explain aspects of yourself to me, but I would be interested.

  Please keep in touch.

  Love,

  Pancho Villa

  P.S: It occurs to me that I haven’t said anything about the fifteen hundred dollars which seems to have shrunk to $1480, and which also seems to have turned from our money into your money. You managed to figure out that the whole thing ought to belong to you, on the theory that you were leaving me our ratty furniture and the unwashed dishes and some of your dirty underwear. (Or did you want me to send the underwear along? I’d be glad to, but I don’t know if they would allow me to send it through the mail, let alone across international boundaries. But just say the word and I’ll look into the situation more closely. If you don’t want them, I can probably sell the lot to one of those funky-underwear freaks.)

  I can see your point, Fran, but I’m afraid you’re not seeing things in their true perspective. Love can do this, and I think the air of total illogic which you share with Steve is proof enough of the bond of devotion that unites you. But let me try to bring things more clearly into focus for you.

  Like you, I started with the premise that the $1480 (if you insist) was in the nature of community property, belonging equally to both of us. While it’s true that I was the one who put most of the money in the account, you were the one who barely managed not to spend all of it, so I guess that makes us equal partners in the venture.

  I figure we’re also equal partners in the debts that existed when you walked out, and they came to a great deal more than the balance in the account, especially when one includes the money I owe Lisa, which after all must be included since I owed it to her before you decided to dissolve the partnership and merge your shares with Stevie Boy. In that sense, if you follow this through all the way, you owe me more than $1480. You owe me a lot more like two grand, but I’ve decided to call it even at $1480 by pretending that our furniture is worth $520.

  And no matter how deeply you and Steve are in love, you still can’t be misty-eyed enough to believe that the crap in our apartment is worth anywhere near that much. If the sagging bed and the leaking sofa and all that garbage are worth $520, then the Salvation Army store on Thompson Street has assets greater than General Motors. Let’s face facts, honey. I would have to pay someone to haul this dreck out of here. If I stuck it out on the sidewalk, everybody would walk right past it.

  You owe me money, Fran(ces). We both know this, and at least one of us knows that sooner or later you are going to make it good.

  I have faith in you.

  P.V.

  10

  WHITESTONE PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  67 West 44th Street

  New York 10036

  From the desk of Clayton Finch, President

  June 22

  Mr. Laurence Clarke

  74 Bleecker Street

  New York 10012

  Dear Mr. Clarke:

  You may recall that I once described you as having stowed away on a corporation. It would now appear that you are attempting to hang onto the hull of Whitestone Publications, Inc., with the tenacity of a barnacle. It is my sad duty to pry you loose and cast you adrift, hoping that you will escape the waves of poverty and reach the shores of gainful employment.

  For some reason you seem disinclined to return our unintentional overpayment in the amount of $75.63. While I find your attitude deplorable, I cannot deny that I find it equally unsurprising. On the chance that your affairs were in litigation of some sort, I did direct a brief letter in this regard to the attorney you mentioned in your letter to my secretary. He replied over the telephone and I must admit I was quite incapable of making out what he was getting at. Either you are up to one of your intricate little pranks or you are desperately in need of a better-qualified legal counselor. The man was either terribly confused or a raving maniac.

  But the overpayment is minor. While our legal staff would no doubt caution me against saying as much, we would be heartily glad to forget the $75.63 if it were equally possible to forget you in the bargain.

  I refer, of course, to your continued unauthorized use of our Xerox machine.

  You might be astonished, Mr. Clarke, to know quite how many memoranda your conduct has inspired. The most annoying aspect of all about your behavior is that you seem inclined to make an extra copy of everything you Xerox, which you then leave in the vicinity of the machine. These bits of Kilroy Was Here nonsense have been passed around several offices, particularly in the sales and editorial departments, and have occasioned slight amusement in certain quarters and considerable embarrassment for certain other parties. They also constitute a thorn in the side of the personnel responsible for supervising the Xerox machine. It would seem that you are to them as Robin Hood was to the Sheriff of Nottingham. Any number of traps have been laid for you, Mr. Clarke, but you seem to walk right through them. The situation is further complicated by the fact that no one seems to remember what you look like, due to the reclusive nature of your stay here and the lack of interaction between you and other employees. While your features are ineradicably engraved upon my own memory, I have better things to do than stand around all day watching the Xerox machine.

  As you can no doubt appreciate, I am not able to view all of this without a certain degree of humor. My sense of humor is your life preserver, Mr. Clarke. A more humorless man would no doubt have you arrested.

  I, on the other hand, merely wish to issue an order. At no time are you to make use of the Whitestone Publication, Inc., Xerox machine. At no time are you to enter the premises of Whitestone Publications, Inc. At no time are you to utilize any Wh
itestone letterhead, or to in any way identify yourself as editor of Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls.

  Nor are you at any time to direct any obscene and insulting communications to my secretary, or any communications, obscene or otherwise, to me.

  Yours very truly,

  Clayton Finch

  CF/rg

  11

  Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls

  67 West 44th Street

  New York 10036

  LAURENCE CLARKE, EDITOR

  June 23

  Mr. Clayton Finch,

  Pres. Whitestone Publications, Inc.

  67 West 44th St.

  New York 10036

  Dear Mr. Finch:

  First of all, let me say that I hope you have no objections to my making use of my remaining stock of Ronald Rabbit’s stationery. I took it along only because you suggested that I clean out my desk, and a stack of letterheads and envelopes was all I could find. I felt that the letterhead of a defunct magazine bearing the name of an editor no longer in your employ would be of small use to anyone at Whitestone. I know that such material is occasionally put to use as scrap paper. It seemed to me at the time, however, that Whitestone was in little danger of a scrap-paper shortage, what with the constant stream of executives seeking new employment and the sad parade of magazines and whole divisions folding up and vanishing into limbo.

  In any case, I resolved at the time to use the Ronald Rabbit’s letterhead only for correspondence directly relating to the welfare of Whitestone. While I am no longer a member of the Whitestone crew, I still cannot help feeling a vested interest in the ship’s sailing a clearly charted course.

  It is in this spirit that this present letter is offered, and I can only hope that it will prove valuable, to everyone from yourself as Captain of the Ship down to the lowliest member of the crew, and indeed to the whole entity that is Whitestone.

  I have several suggestions, so let me take them one at a time:

  (1) It seems to me that, while an incident well known to both of us (and to half the world) may have been responsible for the commercial failure of Ronald Rabbit’s, the magazine may have had a strike against it to begin with. I refer, of course, to the charge of male chauvinism which was ofttimes leveled at us. Could we not revive the magazine, in essentially the same format—though slightly updated, needless to say—but with a change of title? Reborn as Rachel Rabbit’s Magazine for Girls and Boys, it would seem that we would be au courant in a rather exciting way. I had first considered the title Rozanne Rabbit’s Magazine for Girls and Boys but rejected it for the time being on the grounds that it might provoke any number of “inside gags” in the publishing industry concerning an executive secretary with that first name who is possessed, if you will, of an insatiable appetite for carrots. This would not be a problem with Rachel, or, come to think of it, with Rosalie, Rhonda, Ruth or Rita.

  (2) Should your reaction to (1) be favorable, I would beg to be considered for the post of editor. I should be glad to submit a resume upon request, and, if policy dictates, would willingly assume the nom de guerre of Laura Clarke for the term of employment.

  (3) This last point may well be the most important of all. In any mammoth corporation, Mr. Finch, an executive is faced with the problem of delegating authority wisely. One cannot take too much upon one’s own shoulders, nor yet can one put too much trust in the good judgment of inferiors.

  What brings this all home is a letter I today received. It seems to have originated from your office, and was either signed by a subordinate or, in the crush of daily work, was signed by yourself without you having taken the time to read it. A glance will assure you that you would not at your worst moment be capable of producing such drivel. While a letter of this sort directed to me would have no obvious repercussions, you can surely imagine the results if a more important letter were handled in this fashion. For that matter, even this particular letter could have unfortunate results should it be widely circulated among, for example, editorial and sales personnel. While the word laughingstock is a bit strong, I’m sure the point is clear to you.

  In the event that you do not have a copy of the letter at hand, I am enclosing herewith a Xerox copy for your attention.

  With all good wishes,

  Laurence Clarke

  Editor Emeritus

  LC/s

  Enc.

  12

  Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls

  67 West 44th Street

  New York 10036

  LAURENCE CLARKE,

  EDITOR

  June 23

  Miss Rozanne Gumbino

  Whitestone Publications, Inc.

  67 West 44th Street

  New York 10036

  Dearest Rozanne:

  The offer still holds, you gorgeous cunt, you.

  Hungrily,

  The Phantom

  13

  74 Bleecker St.

  New York 10012

  June 23

  Mr. Ronald David Caulder, Esq.

  Muggsworth, Caulder, Travis & Beale

  437 Piper Blvd. Richmond, Va.

  Dear Mr. Caulder:

  I have it on reasonably good authority that you are presently engaged in the preparation of a suit of defamation of character against Mr. Clayton Finch, President of Whitestone Publications, Inc.

  This puts me in a rather awkward position, as I have ties of allegiance to both Mr. Finch and yourself, having served one in the capacity of editor and the other in the capacity of son-in-law. My first impulse was to sit this one out on the sidelines, but further reflection has convinced me that neutrality in this instance would be cowardly and irresponsible.

  Accordingly, I’m enclosing herewith a Xerox copy of a letter I received today from Mr. Finch. You’ll note his reference to yourself in the passage I’ve marked. His characterization of you as “either terribly confused or a raving maniac,” and his recommendation that I cease to employ you professionally, would certainly seem to be actionable. Of course mine is only a lay opinion in every sense of the word, and you will no doubt be better able to judge this point.

  At the same time, I do owe a measure of loyalty to Mr. Finch for past favors. Thus, should this matter ever come to court, it would be my duty to testify on his behalf. I would then confirm his charge and would testify that, during the time I have known you, you have frequently been terribly confused and have more than occasionally acted the role of a raving maniac.

  My regards to your client Mrs. Clarke. Please convey to her my best wishes for success in her forthcoming marriage.

  Very truly yours,

  Laurence Clarke

  LC/s Enc.

  14

  219 Maple Road

  Richmond, Virginia

  Saturday

  Dear Larry,

  I ought to know better than to write you this letter. You’ll probably send a copy of it to my father, or to The New York Times, or God only knows where. And I get the feeling that the more I ask you not to, the more likely it is that you will, which gives me pause. I’ve always said that you were the strangest person I’ve ever known. That’s your charm, sugar loaf, but it’s also your downfall. I think right now your madness has taken its strangest form to date. I’ve heard of dancing manias and praying manias. There was a poet, Christopher Smart, who used to make his friends fall down in the streets of London and pray with him. They tucked him away in Bedlam. Samuel Johnson said he didn’t think the man was all that mad, and that he’d as soon fall down and pray in the streets with Kit Smart as anyone else in London.

  Why am I telling you this? I think it’s because there’s nobody to talk to about anything much more complex than the weather and baseball. Dammit, I miss New York. It’s nice breathing fresh air, but it gives you all this energy, lover, and then you have nothing to do with it because you’re in Richmond. Or rather I’m in Richmond.

  But to get back to you. You seem to have a correspondence mania, and I don’t under
stand it, but I can see where it might be fun. And at least you’re writing something. You know, sometimes I think that’s why I left you. You were a writer and you weren’t writing anything, and that went against the grain of the old Protestant Ethic, of which I suppose I’m still a willing captive.

  Hmmmm. Why, indeed, am I telling you this? I guess to warn you to be careful of Father. You know about his bark. His bite is even worse. Please do not provoke him.

  You’re going to send him this fucking letter. I just know you are. Dammit, don’t.

  Well, Richmond is beginning to get to me, as I think I said. I’m getting the old urge for a trip to Big Town. Thought I might come up next weekend and take in a couple of shows. Maybe I’ll give you a ring and we can gripe about old times or something.

  If I thought you could be trusted, I would make you a deal. I know you can’t, but I’ll offer the deal anyway. If you’ll quit mailing things to Daddy, especially this letter, I’ll stop trying to get blood from your turnip. In other words, I’ll lay off on the alimony demands until you start to get things together.

  On the other hand, Larry love, if you decide to be a total rat bastard and send this to Daddy, I’m going to drop the reins and give him his head. He has been telling me to have you thrown in jail for nonpayment of alimony. I have been telling him not to be silly, because how could you earn money to pay me if you were in jail? Still, prison would keep you from mailing any objectionable letters, so if you force my hand, you’ll get locked up, darling.