Dorothy Parker
JUST A LITTLE ONE
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.
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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