by Max Shulman
If she’d said, “Let’s go into the University boiler,” I’d have followed her just as fast. I really felt something big for this broad. The hots, of course, but something extra too. For a second I got scared again, but it passed.
She sat down at her desk and I sat on the other side. “Mr. Katz,” she said, “poetry is my life.”
“Call me Morris,” I said.
“Oh, may I?” she said.
“Why not?” I said.
“Morris,” she said, “poetry is my life. To find a talent such as yours—such a combination of paganism and lyricism, such elfin conceits, such grandeur alongside such whimsy, as though Herrick and Milton were somehow combined, or Marvell blended with Keats—”
“Listen,” I said. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Why?”
“Would you like to go out with me?” I said.
“You mean it?” she said. “You want to take me out?”
“I’d like to see anyone stop me,” I said.
“I’m honored,” she said. “Deeply, deeply honored.”
“Good,” I said. “You haven’t got a car, have you?”
“No,” she said.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll scare one up somewheres. Is seven o’clock all right?”
“Fine,” she said. “I’m in the women’s dorm. Ask for me at the desk.”
“In that case I better have your name,” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “How silly of me.”
“So what is it?” I said.
“Bridget O’Flynn,” she said.
“Oy,” I said.
Chapter Five
My excuse is this: how can a person recognize love when they never caught it before?
I’m talking about Bridget O’Flynn. What I had for her was nothing as uncomplicated as the hots. It was love, no question, and a heavy case into the bargain, but I didn’t realize it till later that night. I should have known right away, I guess, but I didn’t. Albert did.
I ran to find Albert as soon as I left the L’Etoile du Nord office. “Albert,” I said, “I got to borrow your car tonight.”
“What for?” he said. “I thought Zimmerman had a car of her own.”
“It’s not Zimmerman,” I said. “I just met a sensational new broad.”
“Rich?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Jewish?” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “She’s one of the O’Flynns from Minsk.”
“No,” said Albert.
“No what?” I said.
“No car,” he said.
“How come?” I said.
“Look how you look,” he said. “You are rosy like an apple and your eyes are double size and you can’t stop grinning.”
“So?” I said.
“So I have seen those signs before,” he said, “and they can only mean one thing: love, you schmuck.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I want to bang this broad is all.”
“Not in my machine,” he said. “I ain’t gonna provide the vehicle for you to fuck away the Zimmerman millions.”
I argued some more because it really did sound ridiculous, what Albert said, but he was a rock so I had to go look for someone else with a car. After striking out with about a dozen guys, I finally tried Bruce Albright who didn’t have a car but his father the doctor did.
“Bruce,” I said, “do you think you could get your father’s car tonight?”
“I doubt it,” said Bruce. “He needs it at night in case the hospital calls.”
“Couldn’t he take a streetcar?” I said. “This is important.”
“You got some broads?” Bruce said.
“Just one,” I said.
“For both of us?” Bruce said.
“As a matter of fact, only me,” I said.
“So what do I do?” Bruce said. “Fan your ass?”
“Actually,” I said, “what I had in mind was you hang around the pool hall while I take the car.”
“In your hat,” Bruce said.
“Bruce,” I said, “if you saw this broad, you’d do it.”
“Morris,” he said, “I have seen your broads and in my opinion they are not worth somebody dying of a ruptured appendix while my father waits for a streetcar.”
“You haven’t seen Bridget,” I said.
He gave me a funny look. “Bridget who?” he said.
“O’Flynn,” I said.
He got red in the face. “Is that who you think you’re gonna boff tonight?” he said.
“Not think,” I said. “This is a lead pipe.”
He got red in the neck besides the face. “Listen,” he said, “it so happens I have been trying to pin Bridget O’Flynn for two semesters.”
“You mean fraternity pin?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “For your information I love that girl. In fact, I’d marry her in a minute if she’d have me.”
“Oh-oh,” I said.
“So you keep the hell away from her,” said Bruce. “You hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said, and you’d think that would have been the end, true? Two clear warnings: one from Albert and one from Bruce. So what did I do next? I went and found Celeste Zimmerman.
“Celeste,” I said, “I’m sorry but I can’t go out with you tonight. I got a job.”
“Oh, heck,” she said. “Well, never mind. I’ll pick you up when you finish work.”
“I don’t finish till morning,” I said. “I’m a night watchman at the First National Bank.”
“Well, this is a fine how-do-you-do,” she said. “How long is this job gonna go on?”
“Not very,” I said. “I’m just trying to raise a little money so I can take you to nice places.”
“I don’t want to go to nice places,” she said. “All I want is to get in the back seat and you-know.”
“We will,” I said. “Real soon.”
“Don’t forget,” she said.
“By the way,” I said, “since you’re not going anywheres tonight, can I borrow your car?”
(You see? You see what kind of madness I was in the grip of? No risk was too big, no trick was too dirty, and still I didn’t realize what it was, this thing I had for Bridget O’Flynn.)
Even when I picked her up at seven o’clock in the women’s dorm, I didn’t realize what it was. True, I felt a little goofy when I saw her; in fact I wanted to laugh right out loud. But that didn’t seem like anything to get alarmed about.
“Hello, Morris,” said Bridget and sure enough I busted out laughing. Not little bitsy chuckles either; big ho-ho-ho’s.
“Is anything wrong?” she said.
I shook my head and kept on laughing. Anything wrong? Never in my life had anything been so right.
“Shall we go?” she said, giving a nervous look at the house mother who was giving a nervous look at me.
So I managed to stop laughing except for a giggle that got loose every now and then, and I put Bridget in the Oldsmobile I had borrowed from Celeste and drove down to the River Bank and parked. I pushed the seat back and stuck one hand around Bridget’s shoulder and the other one on her knee.
“Morris,” she said, taking my hand off her knee. “Bruce Albright phoned earlier and said you were going to try to seduce me tonight.”
“There’s a pal,” I said.
“I would be terribly disappointed if that’s all you had in mind,” she said.
“You would, huh?” I said.
“Of course,” she said. “This is the first time I’ve ever been close to a real poet. There are so many questions I’d like to ask.”
“Well, okay,” I said. “But don’t be surprised if I sound just like a regular person.”
“What I want to know primarily is this,” she said. “What makes a poet? I mean beside talent and sensitivity. And empathy naturally. And of course the gift of imagery and the thirst for beauty and the questing heart.”
“That about covers it,” I said. “And may I say you sure know your onions about poetry?”
“How much agony is necessary to the creative process?” she said.
“A whole lot,” I said.
“So it’s true what Shelley says,” she said. “‘They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’”
“Old Shelley’s right on the nose as per usual,” I said.
“I’ll bet he’s your favorite poet,” she said.
“That’s right,” I said. “He’s Number One in my book.”
“I was sure of it,” she said. “What do you think of Milton?”
“Milton who?” I said.
“John Milton,” she said.
“Number Two,” I said.
“My feeling exactly,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s a shame he’s so neglected today?”
“Well, you know the public,” I said. “All the time new thrills.”
“How true,” she said. “Where do you rate Wordsworth?”
“Number Three,” I said. “You about through asking questions?”
“Just one more,” she said. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”
I knew from experience there was no use lying when they asked this one. You might be able to explain away your big hook nose, but once the pants came off, the cat was out of the bag for sure. “Yes,” I said.
“How lucky for you,” she said.
I gave her a look.
“To be one of the People of the Book,” she said. “To live for art, for culture, and for social justice.”
“Yup, that’s what we live for,” I said, thinking of a few examples: my cousin Albert, for instance, and Lepke Buchalter, and a kid named Heshie Stein from my neighborhood who used to fart in a Mason jar every morning before school, seal the lid real quick, and then let it loose in the cafeteria at lunchtime.
But what the hell, if Bridget thought Jews were the cat’s meow, why complain? Would I have been better off if she called me “Sheeny” and spit on my gabardine?
“And how lucky for me too,” said Bridget, looking at me all big-eyed and panty. “To be in the company of such a man—poet, civil libertarian, sensualist, Jew—why, it’s a dream come true!”
“The hand’s going back on the knee now,” I said.
“All right,” she said. “But I think you should know I’m a virgin and will resist.”
“Well, let’s see what happens,” I said.
So I put my hand on her knee and gave her a kiss, just a small kiss, exploratory you might say. No tongue, no pressure, just lips lightly on lips for a count of five. Not more than five, I’m sure, because all of a sudden I couldn’t stand it. I took my lips off hers and my hand off her knee and jumped away, as far away as I could get, all the way over to the corner of the seat behind the steering wheel. Because now, finally, I knew what I should have known from the beginning. It was love.
Well, if I tell you I was surprised, I’d be short-changing you. I was just plain poleaxed, that’s what I was. Love? Me? How could it happen?
But it had happened, and no mistake. So what was I going to do about it? Well, that didn’t take much thinking. I was going to stop right now. Take Bridget home, give her a firm handshake, and never look back. What else could I do?
So I reached for the key to start the car and all of a sudden a new thought hit me. Or let’s be honest: I thought it was a thought but it wasn’t. Like any other schmuck in love I began to con myself. I’ll dump Bridget, I told myself. Don’t worry, I’ll dump her. But what’s the hurry? What’s it going to hurt if I wait a couple days? Or even a couple weeks? Don’t I deserve to enjoy a little? Have I got such a great life to look forward to with that meatball Celeste? Ain’t I entitled to pile up a few memories before I begin my stretch?
You see? That’s what you do when you’re in love. You sell yourself horseshit and call it kreplach. And you don’t know the difference, that’s the funny part. Anyhow, I didn’t. Don’t worry, I’ll get rid of her next week, I told myself, and I took her in my arms.
What happened next you can believe or not, suit yourself, but it’s the God’s truth. I took her back in my arms and kissed her and right away I could tell there was absolutely nothing between me and the goal line. Not only was she not resisting, but she was helping. So what did I do? I stopped, that’s what.
That’s right. I took one hand off her knee and the other off her tit and just sat back and held her gently, not even kissing, just holding gently and every once in a while giving her hair a sniff. That’s all: just holding and smelling hair for maybe half an hour.
“Morris,” said Bridget after a while, “did you forget what you were going to do?”
“No,” I said, “but somehow, don’t ask me why, this is all I want right now.” Which was the truth.
“You’re very sweet,” said Bridget.
“You are Milky Way and Snickers together,” I said. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?” she said.
“Are your folks well fixed?” I said, thinking maybe if she was a rich shicksa it might put a whole new face on the situation.
“I never knew my mother and father,” she said. “I was raised by the sisters.”
“Whose sisters?” I said.
“The nuns at the Convent of the Sacred Heart,” she said.
I groaned. Here’s how my mother felt about nuns: if she ever happened to see one on the street, she made a circle three times, said Shma Yisroel and ran to kill a chicken.
“I was a foundling actually,” said Bridget. She was full of good news, this broad. “But I wouldn’t have traded my upbringing for anyone’s in the world. It was Sister Mary Frances who taught me to love poetry. Do you know I was only two years old when she had me reciting Invictus? You’re familiar with Invictus, of course.”
“Who ain’t?” I said.
“Oh, Morris,” said Bridget, “I can hardly wait till you meet Sister Mary Frances. You two will adore each other.”
Sure, I thought. And Ma will adore her too. Maybe we can all get together and recite Invictus over a glass of Manischewitz.
“But enough about me,” said Bridget. “It’s you who are the fascinating one. Tell me what you’re writing at present.”
“A poem,” I said. “What else?”
“Oh, Morris!” she said. “When can I see it?”
“Tomorrow night,” I said.
“Oh, Morris!” she said again and she kissed me again and it was so wonderful I didn’t want to let go. I just wanted to sit and kiss her all night. Not bang her; kiss her. There was still no horniness. If love is supposed to get it up for a guy, I had the wrong kind.
But I tore myself loose after about fifteen minutes because I knew if I kept up this insane kissing it would be so late when I got back to St. Paul that Crip would be fast asleep and where would I get a poem? So I took Bridget back to the dorm, made a date for seven tomorrow night, and headed for Crip’s.
Chapter Six
There was a surprise waiting for me when I got to Crip’s house: he wasn’t home. Aunt Ida and Uncle Shimen were there spitting out seeds from a bunch of Tokays, but Crip was gone.
“Gone where?” I said.
“Rochester,” said Aunt Ida. “He read the new stuff from the Mayo Clinic and he decided to take a chance.”
“How long will he be there?” I said.
“A week, maybe two, who knows?” said Aunt Ida.
“Well, give him my best wishes for a total recovery and especially a swift return,” I said, and went home wondering how I was going to stall Bridget tomorrow.
At home on this night of surprises I found still another surprise. In fact, several. First of all the lights were on in the living room. Usually at this hour on Monday night the only light you could see was from the dial on the radio where Ma was listening to the “Lady Esther Serenade.” But tonight not only the table lamp was lit, but the floor lamp and the overheads too. And—get this—the radio was off.
“Why, it’s Morris!” said Libbie, jumping up as I walked in. “How good to see you, Morris,” she said and gave me a kiss.
This confused me, I want to tell you. We’re not known for kissing at my house. Sometimes after surgery, but that’s about it.
“Morris,” said Libbie, “may I present Jonathan Kaplan?”
Now I understood everything. This was the new guy Libbie met last week. Obviously things must have got serious already if Ma had the radio off and the brown silk on.
Jonathan Kaplan stood up and took my hand and gave me a smile, so I took his hand gave him a smile and we looked each other over for a minute. My policy is don’t make up your mind too quick about people because it’s awful easy to get fooled. Sometimes, for example, you meet a guy who looks as crooked as an alderman and he turns out to be dead honest. Or sometimes the other way around. So I held up judgment on Jonathan Kaplan. True, my first impulse when I saw him was to run quick and sew up my pockets, but what did that prove?
I snuck a quick glance at Ma and saw that she didn’t like the looks of Jonathan Kaplan also. She was glaring at him like he just offered her pickled pig’s foot. But that didn’t prove much either. The fact was that Ma hated everybody in the whole world unless they were on the radio.
So, as I say, I held up judgment on Jonathan Kaplan. All I did was shake his hand and say, “How do you do?”
“I don’t do too great, Morris,” he said. “Not tonight anyhow. Did you bring your billy club?”
“What billy club?” I said.
“I thought you might want to join in,” he said. “Your mother is giving me the third degree.”
“Yes, Mother, really!” said Libbie.