Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Dorothy Parker / Just a Little One

Dorothy Parker


Dorothy Parker / Sólo uno cortito

I like this place, Fred. This is a nice place. How did you ever find it? I think you’re perfectly marvellous, discovering a speakeasy up here in the Forties. And they let you right in, without asking you a single question. I bet you could get into the subway without using anybody’s name. Couldn’t you, Fred? 

Oh, I like this place better and better, now that my eyes are getting accustomed to it. You mustn’t let them tell you this lighting system is original with them, Fred; they got the idea from the Mammoth Cave. This is you sitting next to me, isn’t it? Oh, you can’t fool me. I’d know that voice anywhere. 

You know what I like about this place? It’s got atmosphere. That’s what it’s got. If you would ask the waiter to bring a fairly sharp knife, I could cut off a nice little block of the atmosphere, to take home with me. It would be interesting to have for my memory book. I’m going to start keeping a memory book tomorrow. Don’t let me forget. 

Why, I don’t know, Fred—what are you going to have? Then I guess I’ll have a highball, too; please, just a little one. Is it really real Scotch? Well, that will be a new experience for me. You ought to see the Scotch I’ve got home in my cupboard; at least it was in the cupboard this morning—it’s probably eaten its way out by now. I got it for my birthday. The only other thing I got was a year older. 

The person that gave me that Scotch must have heard some rumor that I was making a collection of lethal weapons. Would you care anything about hearing me use “lethal” in a sentence? Lethal little guy alone, you big bully. You don’t like it, Fred? I don’t know—I’m rather fond of that one. It’s got action, and at the same time the sentiment is nice. All right, Fred, it’s rotten. I wouldn’t argue with you for the world. 

This is a nice highball, isn’t it? Well, well, well, to think of me having real Scotch; I’m out of the bush leagues at last. Are you really going to have another one? Well, I shouldn’t like to see you drinking all by yourself, Fred. Solitary drinking is what causes half the crime in the country. That’s what’s responsible for the failure of prohibition. But please, Fred, tell him to make mine just a little one. Make it awfully weak; just cambric Scotch. 

It will be nice to see the effect of veritable whiskey upon one who has been accustomed only to the simpler forms of entertainment. You’ll like that, Fred. You’ll stay by me if anything happens, won’t you? I don’t think there will be anything spectacular, but I want to ask you one thing, just in case. Don’t let me take any horses home with me. It doesn’t matter so much about stray dogs and kittens, but elevator boys get awfully stuffy when you try to bring in a horse. You might just as well know that about me now, Fred. You can always tell that the crash is coming when I start getting tender about Our Dumb Friends. Three highballs, and I think I’m St. Francis of Assisi. 

But I don’t believe anything is going to happen to me on these. That’s because they’re made of real stuff. That’s what the difference is. This just makes you feel fine. Oh, I feel swell, Fred. You do too, don’t you? I knew you did, because you look so well. I never saw you look better. I love that tie you have on. Oh, did Edith give it to you? Ah, wasn’t that nice of her? You know, Fred, most people are really awfully nice. There are darn few that aren’t pretty fine at heart. You’ve got a peach of a heart, Fred. You’d be the first person I’d go to if I were in trouble. I guess you are just about the best friend I’ve got in the world. But I worry about you, Fred. I do so, too. I don’t think you take enough care of yourself. You ought to take care of yourself for your friends’ sake. You oughtn’t to drink all this terrible stuff that’s around; you owe it to your friends to be careful. You don’t mind my talking to you like this, do you? You see, dear, it’s because I’m your friend that I hate to see you not taking care of yourself. It hurts me to see you batting around the way you’ve been doing. You ought to stick to this place, where they have real Scotch that can’t do you any harm. Oh, darling, do you really think I ought to? Well, you tell him just a little bit of a one. Tell him, sweet. 

Do you come here often, Fred? I shouldn’t worry about you so much if I knew you were in a safe place like this. Oh, is this where you were Thursday night? I see. Why, no, it didn’t make a bit of difference, only you told me to call you up, and like a fool I broke a date I had to go to the theatre with a terribly attractive man because I thought I was going to see you. I just sort of naturally thought so, when you said to call you up. Oh, good Lord, don’t make all that fuss about it. It really didn’t make the slightest difference. It just didn’t seem a very friendly way to behave, that’s all. I don’t know—I’d been believing we were such good friends. I’m an awful idiot about people, Fred. There aren’t many who are really your friend at heart. Practically anybody would play you dirt for a nickel. Oh, yes, they would. 

Was Edith here with you, Thursday night? This place must be very becoming to her. Next to being in a coal mine, I can’t think of anywhere she could go that the light would be more flattering to that pan of hers. Do you really know a lot of people that say she’s good-looking? You must have a wide acquaintance among the astigmatic, haven’t you, Freddie, dear? Why, I’m not being any way at all—it’s simply one of those things, either you can see it or you can’t. Now to me, Edith looks like something that would eat her young. Dresses well? Edith dresses well? Are you trying to kid me, Fred, at my age? You mean you mean it? Oh, my God. You mean those clothes of hers are intentional? My heavens, I always thought she was on her way out of a burning building. 

Well, we live and learn. Edith dresses well! Edith’s got good taste! Yeah, she’s got sweet taste in neckties. I don’t suppose I ought to say it about such a dear friend of yours, Fred, but she is the lousiest necktie-picker-out I ever saw. I never saw anything could touch that thing you have around your neck. All right, suppose I did say I liked it. I just said that because I felt sorry for you. I’d feel sorry for anybody with a thing like that on. I just wanted to try to make you feel good, because I thought you were my friend. My friend! I haven’t got a friend in the world. Do you know that, Fred? Not one single friend in this world. 

All right, what do you care if I’m crying? I can cry if I want to, can’t I? I guess you’d cry, too, if you didn’t have a friend in the world. Is my face very bad? I suppose that damned mascaro has run all over it. I’ve got to give up using mascaro, Fred; life’s too sad. Isn’t life terrible? Oh, my God, isn’t life awful? Ah, don’t cry, Fred. Please don’t. Don’t you care, baby. Life’s terrible, but don’t you care. You’ve got friends. I’m the one that hasn’t got any friends. I am so. No, it’s me. I’m the one. 

I don’t think another drink would make me feel any better. I don’t know whether I want to feel any better. What’s the sense of feeling good, when life’s so terrible? Oh, all right, then. But please tell him just a little one, if it isn’t too much trouble. I don’t want to stay here much longer. I don’t like this place. It’s all dark and stuffy. It’s the kind of place Edith would be crazy about—that’s all I can say about this place. I know I oughtn’t to talk about your best friend, Fred, but that’s a terrible woman. That woman is the louse of this world. It makes me feel just awful that you trust that woman, Fred. I hate to see anybody play you dirt. I’d hate to see you get socked. That’s what makes me feel so terrible. That’s why I’m getting mascaro all over my face. No, please don’t, Fred. You mustn’t hold my hand. It wouldn’t be fair to Edith. We’ve got to play fair with the big louse. After all, she’s your best friend, isn’t she? 

Honestly? Do you honestly mean it, Fred? Yes, but how could I help thinking so, when you’re with her all the time—when you bring her here every night in the week? Really, only Thursday? Oh, I know—I know how those things are. You simply can’t help it, when you get stuck with a person that way. Lord, I’m glad you realize what an awful thing that woman is. I was worried about it, Fred. It’s because I’m your friend. Why, of course I am, darling. You know I am. Oh, that’s just silly, Freddie. You’ve got heaps of friends. Only you’ll never find a better friend than I am. No, I know that. I know I’ll never find a better friend than you are to me. Just give me back my hand a second, till I get this damned mascaro out of my eye. 

Yes, I think we ought to, honey. I think we ought to have a little drink, on account of our being friends. Just a little one, because it’s real Scotch, and we’re real friends. After all, friends are the greatest things in the world, aren’t they, Fred? Gee, it makes you feel good to know you have a friend. I feel great, don’t you, dear? And you look swell, too. I’m proud to have you for a friend. Do you realize, Fred, what a rare thing a friend is, when you think of all the terrible people there are in this world? Animals are much better than people. God, I love animals. That’s what I like about you, Fred. You’re so fond of animals. 

Look, I’ll tell you what let’s do, after we’ve had just a little highball. Let’s go out and pick up a lot of stray dogs. I never had enough dogs in my life, did you? We ought to have more dogs. And maybe there’d be some cats around, if we looked. And a horse. I’ve never had one single horse, Fred. Isn’t that rotten? Not one single horse. Gee, I’d like a nice old cab-horse, Fred. Wouldn’t you? I’d like to take care of it and comb its hair and everything. Ah, don’t be stuffy about it, Fred, please don’t. I need a horse, honestly I do. Wouldn’t you like one? It would be so sweet and kind. Let’s have a drink and then let’s you and I go out and get a horse, Freddie—just a little one, darling, just a little one.

The New Yorker
May 12, 1928

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