Potatoes Are Cheaper

by Max Shulman

  But to get back to Celeste. She quickly developed a taste for humping—not a talent, mind you, just a taste—and before the first week was over she was following me around like a dog. So on Saturday night I made my next move.

  “Celeste,” I said, “don’t you think it’s time you met my folks and I met yours?”

  “Well, I’m in no hurry,” Celeste said. “I hear your mother is ghastly.”

  “Who told you?” I said.

  “My father,” she said. “He said your mother is a bitch on wheels and your father is so dumb he can’t find his ass with both hands.”

  “Where does he know them from?” I said.

  “From way back,” she said.

  “I see,” I said. “Did he say anything about me?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He said you were a slimy little fortune hunter and I can’t ever see you again.”

  “What did you say?” I said.

  “I drank a bottle of iodine,” she said.

  “Well, Celeste,” I said, “you can’t keep drinking iodine every night. I better meet your father and explain the facts.”

  “What facts?” she said.

  “I am no fortune hunter,” I said. “I love you.”

  “Oh, Morris, he’ll never believe that,” she said. “I’m having plenty trouble myself.”

  “How can you doubt me?” I said. “Read the poem.”

  “I can’t,” said Celeste and all of a sudden started to giggle.

  “Why can’t you?” I said. “And what’s so funny?”

  “Promise you won’t get mad,” she said.

  “About what?” I said.

  “Well,” she said, “that poem is so brilliant and so wonderful and so thrilling—”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “That I submitted it to L’Etoile du Nord,” she said.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “The literary magazine at the University,” she said.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You submitted my poem?”

  “Under your name, of course,” she said.

  “But you never asked me,” I said.

  “I was afraid you’d say no,” she said.

  “Damn right I’d say no,” I said.

  “See? I knew it,” she said. “Morris, you musn’t be selfish. The world needs beauty.”

  “When did you submit the poem?” I said.

  “Yesterday,” she said.

  “So you haven’t heard from the magazine yet,” I said.

  “I won’t hear. You will,” she said.

  “What’s the name of this magazine again?” I said.

  “L’Etoile du Nord,” she said.

  I made a careful note of it because first thing Monday morning I was going over there and take the poem back. I couldn’t do a rotten thing like that to my friend Crip—let his poem be published under my name. It was enough he was getting me laid; he didn’t have to get me famous too.

  So I said no more to Celeste about the poem; that problem would be taken care of on Monday. Right now I had a more urgent problem to take care of: A. M. Zimmerman. If I couldn’t get him on my side, the whole project was in the toilet.

  “Celeste,” I said, “I want to talk to your father as soon as possible.”

  “No, Morris,” she said, “let me do it my way. I’ll keep trying to kill myself and he’ll come around eventually.”

  “That’s no good, Celeste,” I said. “Some day he might not stop you.”

  “Yes, that could happen all right,” she said.

  “So how’s about if I come over tomorrow?” I said. “What time do you eat on Sunday?”

  “Brunch is eleven o’clock,” she said.

  I didn’t know what brunch was but I didn’t ask because I figured my sister Libbie, who keeps track of high society, would tell me. She did. Brunch is lox and bagel, except in silver dishes.

  So on Sunday morning I got up early and caught a nine o’clock streetcar because it was a good long trip from where I lived to Celeste’s house in fancy uptown Minneapolis. I made it a few minutes before eleven and walked up on the porch past a big lawn with statues and rang the doorbell.

  Celeste answered. “Hi, there,” I said.

  “Let’s go in and get it over with,” she said.

  She led me inside the house which I won’t even try to describe. All I’ll say is I never saw such a house before except in MGM movies with Norma Shearer.

  Celeste’s mother and father were in the dining room. There was also a maid and butler laying out silver dishes. I’d seen lots of maids before but never a butler except, of course, in those same Norma Shearer movies.

  Mrs. Zimmerman was a lumpy woman who looked like Celeste, only with wrinkles. Mr. Zimmerman was a fat, purple-faced man in a cashmere suit that cost more than some people pay for a house.

  “Mummy, Daddy,” said Celeste, “I’d like you to meet Morris Katz.”

  “How do you do?” I said.

  Nobody answered. Mrs. Zimmerman looked at me for a second and bit her lip. Mr. Zimmerman said, “Let’s eat.”

  There was no conversation at brunch either. Mrs. Zimmerman would give a sniffle once in a while, but Mr. Zimmerman just kept his head bent over his plate, stoking his face with both hands. To be honest, I didn’t mind the no conversation. I’d never had such fancy groceries in my life.

  When Mr. Zimmerman had finished his twelfth or fifteenth helping, he pushed his plate away and turned to me. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll talk in the library.”

  This puzzled me for a second because I knew the library was closed on Sundays, but he meant his own. So I followed him toward a set of double doors—he stopped for a minute on the way to give his wife a pat; she was crying pretty hard by now—and then we went into a big room full of leather-bound books stacked floor to ceiling. A good thing Celeste was taking library science.

  “Well, you certainly got a lot of nice books,” I said.

  “Books are bullshit,” he said. “Sit down and shut up. I’ll do the talking. Want a cigar?” He handed me a mahogany box.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking one. “I’ll smoke it later.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “You’ll sell it later. Get a good price. They’re four bits retail.”

  I made a note of it.

  “Let’s not waste time with bullshit,” he said. “Let’s get right to the point which is this: it don’t bother me that somebody’s trying to marry Celeste for her money. Why else would they marry her? But she can do better than you, for Christ sakes. With her money she should get at least a German Jew, not a Litvak from the low-rent district.”

  “So where did you come from?” I said.

  “Never mind from,” he said. “Look at me now—successful, respected, feared, a president of B’nai Brith, a man with a butler. Who the hell are you, horning in around here?”

  “I am the choice of your daughter, that’s who,” I said.

  “Leave her out of this,” he said. “She don’t know her ass from a hot rock, especially since you showed up. Somehow you got her hypnotized—what hypnotized? You’re diddling her, that’s simple—so as a practical man I got to consider the possibility you might pull it off. Well, let me tell you something before this thing goes too far. In case you got a notion the money’s gonna fall in your lap if you marry Celeste, forget it. You’ll get nothing.”

  This made me thoughtful, you can be sure. “Nothing?” I said.

  “Not a penny,” he said. “Oh, I might give you a job maybe. But I pay thirty a week tops and you’ll work your balls off, I guarantee you. Remember, I got two dozen theaters and they’re open till eleven every night. So, Mr. Fortune Hunter, here is the big jackpot you’re chasing: for sixteen hours a day you’ll work your balls off, and at night you’ll come home and find Celeste … What’s the matter, kid? Something on your mind?”

  I’ll tell you what was on my mind. When you threaten a guy like me with thirty dollars a week it’s like threatening a dog with meat. Why, for Chr
ist sakes, for thirty a week I’d have married a pregnant Chinese midget with one short leg!

  “Mr. Zimmerman,” I said, “I don’t know why you keep talking about money. I love Celeste and that’s all that matters.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “You gonna stay away from my daughter?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then you’re a bigger putz than I thought you were,” he said. “Shall we join the ladies?”

  So we went back into the other room where Celeste and her mother were cracking their knuckles. “Nu?” said Mrs. Zimmerman, giving an anxious look at Mr. Zimmerman.

  “He won’t quit,” said Mr. Zimmerman.

  Mrs. Zimmerman threw her face on the table and shrieked, but Celeste gave me a big smile.

  “Well, Mrs. Zimmerman,” I said, “I’m sorry you and Mr. Zimmerman feel this way. I can only hope you will get to like me better because if you like me or not you are going to have me for a son-in-law.”

  “Not while there’s a breath left in my body,” said Mr. Zimmerman, and Mrs. Zimmerman cried so hard she slid out of her chair. Mr. Zimmerman picked her up and took her away somewheres—to a recovery room maybe.

  “Well, Celeste,” I said, “how’s about coming over to meet my folks now?”

  “Do I have to?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, and we drove over to St. Paul and got to my house just as Pa was reading the last few stanzas of Itzik Fishel’s new poem which I’ll explain.

  Ma doesn’t know how to read, not even Yiddish. She won’t admit it, of course. She always says she can’t find her glasses, but she can’t read and that’s a plain fact. So every Sunday Pa goes out and gets the Sunday edition of the Jewish Daily Forward and reads it out loud to Ma. First he reads the news stories which naturally are all about pogroms and strikes because the Forward is not only Jewish, it’s also socialist. Then he reads the editorials—against pogroms, for strikes—and for the grand finale he reads the latest poem by Itzik Fishel, who is called “The Sweet Singer of the Sweat Shops” and who writes a long poem every week where he hollers about the downtrodden workers and the rotten bosses.

  He’s a real fire-eater, this Itzik Fishel, and Pa puts everything he’s got into the reading—yelling, rolling his eyes, waving his arms. It’s not so much that Pa likes the poetry, but it’s the only time in the week when he’s allowed to raise his voice.

  Celeste got pretty nervous when she saw Pa carrying on, but I didn’t want to interrupt his one big moment of the week so I waited till he was finished. Then I introduced Celeste to Ma and Pa. Libbie wasn’t there.

  “How do you do?” said Celeste.

  “How do you do?” said Pa.

  “Sit down,” said Ma. “You want a bottle pop?”

  “No, thank you,” said Celeste.

  “I knew your father in the old days,” said Ma.

  “Yes, I know,” said Celeste.

  “He always had snot hanging from his nose,” said Ma.

  “Is that so?” said Celeste.

  “How’s your mother?” said Ma. “She still have fits?”

  “Not too often,” said Celeste.

  “Give her my regards,” said Ma.

  “Thank you,” said Celeste.

  “Where’s Libbie?” I said.

  “You won’t believe it,” said Ma. “She’s out with a fella.”

  “No kidding,” I said, surprised. “Who?”

  “A new one she found someplace,” said Ma. “He got a funny name.”

  “Jonathan Kaplan,” said Pa.

  “Yeh, Jonathan Kaplan,” said Ma. “Who ever heard of naming a boy after a apple?”

  “Libbie’s my sister,” I said to Celeste.

  “She’s about your size,” said Ma to Celeste, “so if you got any dresses you don’t need—”

  “Well, I guess we’ll be moving along,” I said.

  “I’d like that,” said Celeste.

  “You missed most of Itzik Fishel,” said Pa. “You want I should read it again?”

  “No, he don’t,” said Ma. “Good-by, Celeste. Remember about the dresses.”

  So Celeste and I went out and spent the afternoon driving around the countryside. It was beautiful Indian summer weather, so we stopped for a while at Powder-horn Park and got laid in a pile of leaves. Afterwards we saw Jack Oakie, Ann Miller, and Kenny Baker in Radio City Revels at A. M. Zimmerman’s Bijou Theater for free, and then Celeste brought me home. All in all, a thoroughly successful day.

  Chapter Four

  I was still grinning the next morning when Albert picked me up for school. “Good weekend, huh?” he said, noticing my grin.

  “Let me put it this way,” I said. “I think I’m engaged.”

  “Mazeltov, Morris,” he said, and gave my arm a squeeze that ripped the sleeve like paper.

  “How about you?” I said. “Any dates this weekend?”

  “Two,” he said.

  “Good,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Saturday she was so fat I couldn’t find it, and Sunday I drew a dyke.”

  “Well, hang in there, Albert,” I said. “Remember the old confidence.”

  “You bet,” he said, giving my other arm a squeeze, and now I had a sleeveless jacket.

  Then we picked up Bruce Albright and Henry Leibowitz and drove to school. As soon as we got there I went to the basement of the journalism building where the L’Etoile du Nord office was so I could get Crip’s poem back.

  In the office were these two fairies reading manuscripts and drinking tea in little thin cups under a picture of somebody named Hart Crane. Behind them was a closed door marked “EDITOR.”

  “Yes?” said the first fairy.

  “I got to see the editor,” I said.

  “She has somebody with her at the moment,” said the first fairy. “But I’m sure she won’t be long. Would you care to wait?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Sit any-old-where,” said the second fairy. “We’re very slap-dash here.”

  “Lapsang Souchong?” said the first fairy, holding out a teapot.

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “I’m Lance Berman,” said the first fairy.

  “I’m Claude Applebaum,” said the second.

  “How do you do?” I said, but I sure as hell didn’t give them my name. That’s all I needed: fruits on the phone every night.

  So I just found a place to sit and sat down and looked through some old issues of the L’Etoile du Nord which was a small magazine with splinters in the paper and smeary ink and a lot of what they call free verse. Now, I don’t pretend to be an expert, but to me the difference between free verse and my cousin Crip’s poetry is the difference between chicken shit and chicken salad.

  But luckily I didn’t have to read too long because pretty soon the door marked “EDITOR” swung open and to my surprise out walked Mr. Harwood, my freshman adviser.

  Lance and Claude jumped up when they saw him. “Well?” they said to him.

  “No,” he said to them.

  “Oh, drat!” they said, and stamped their foot.

  Then Mr. Harwood noticed me sitting there. “Well, well,” he said. “I had no idea pornography was among your meager talents.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Your poem,” he said. “I use the term loosely.”

  “What do you know about it?” I said.

  “More than I wish, Mr. Katz,” he said. “I am, as I believe I told you, the faculty supervisor of student publications.”

  “My gracious!” screamed Lance, grabbing my sleeve. “Are you Morris Katz?”

  I nodded, not knowing what the hell.

  “He’s here! He’s here! Morris Katz is here!” screamed Lance and Claude together, jumping up and down and clapping their hands and running through the door marked “EDITOR.”

  “Actually, I’m rather sorry I can’t allow your doggerel to run,” said Mr. Harwood to me. “As undergraduate effusions go, yours is almost readable. Bu
t it is, I’m afraid, far too spicy for the Christ-bitten clods who run this university. You do understand?”

  “Sure,” I said because at last I did understand and I was tickled pink. Mr. Harwood was telling me that he wouldn’t let the magazine publish my poem—I mean Crip’s poem—because it was top dirty. Which solved my problem completely.

  “Well, good-by, Mr. Katz,” said Mr. Harwood. “Will I be seeing some more of your work?”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I’m thinking of quitting poetry.”

  “Pursue that thought,” said Mr. Harwood and left, the prick.

  Then I started to leave myself, but at this moment the editor came tearing out of the door marked “EDITOR” followed by Lance and Claude. The editor was a girl about nineteen or twenty, not tall, not short, with a pretty face and pretty hair and a first-class pair of knockers. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard and looked right into my eyes. “Mr. Katz,” she said, “I am honored to meet you—deeply, deeply honored. You’re not leaving, I hope?”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t going anywheres, I was staying right here because I had just come down with a big case of the hots for this lady editor. In fact, in my whole life I had never come down with such big hots in such a big hurry. And it was more than simple hots. I felt all kinds of feelings, all good. I felt happy and foolish and excited and smiley and lucky, all rolled into one.

  For a second I got scared. Could this be love? If so, I was going to make tracks in a hurry. Because love I needed like I needed a wart on my nose, especially right now when Celeste Zimmerman, the heiress, was all plucked and trussed and ready for delivery.

  But how could it be love? Me, Morris Katz, the master cocksmith from Selby Avenue, was I the kind of farfel-head who goes around falling in love at first sight with strange broads? Ridiculous.

  It was just a case of oversized hots, that’s all, and I saw no reason why I shouldn’t give it a go.

  “No, I’m not leaving,” I said to the lady editor.

  “Oh, splendid,” she said. “Mr. Katz, promise me something.”

  “Anything,” I said.

  “Will you write some more poems for the magazine?” she said.

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  Lance and Claude let out a cheer, and the girl gave me such a smile that I almost came on my leg. “Let’s go into my office,” she said.