Potatoes Are Cheaper

by Max Shulman

  “Ma,” I said, “where’s all this money coming from?”

  “Don’t worry, I took care,” said Ma. “I went today by the loan shark and hocked everything I got in the world. What’s the matter, sonny? Why are you sweating?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “It’s hot in here.”

  “How could it be hot?” said Ma. “I used the coal money to make a deposit on the hotel. Morris, is everything okay by you and Celeste?”

  “Of course,” I said. “So when’s the wedding?”

  “Three weeks from Sunday,” said Ma.

  I felt the blood run out of my head. “So soon?” I said.

  “With a gypsy like Kaplan you don’t waste time,” said Ma. “Morris, you look funny. You sure everything’s okay by you and Celeste?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” I said, trying to put on a smile, but Ma kept giving me a look, so I figured the best thing for me was to get the hell out of there.

  So I went and took a slow walk down Selby Avenue, not going anywhere special, just shlepping along and wondering how soon the next disaster was going to hit me. It wasn’t long. As I went past the Sel-Dale Bar and Grille, Rummy Rosenberg, the only Jewish drunk in St. Paul and one of the few in the whole world, came out and puked on my suit.

  Chapter Nine

  When your luck goes, it goes, that’s all.

  The whole following week I kept trying to get to Celeste, but how could I when she never showed up at school? Naturally I tried calling her on the phone, but each time I did, the butler hung up on me. And I couldn’t get to Bridget either. Every day I’d go to the L’Etoile du Nord and every day Lance Berman and Claude Applebaum would throw me out. And don’t think they couldn’t. They might have been fruits but there’s no size limit on the breed and these two were as big as zeppelins.

  Finally I got fed up one day. I grabbed their teapot in one hand and their picture of Hart Crane in the other and I told them either they let me in or I started smashing.

  “But she has somebody with her,” they said.

  “Here goes Hart Crane,” I said, and whammed it into the wall.

  That did it. They bit their knuckles and got out of my way and I ran into Bridget’s office hollering her name. But I stopped hollering as soon as I got through the door. Lance and Claude hadn’t been lying; there was somebody with Bridget: a nun.

  Now, I’m not a nut like my mother when it comes to nuns. I mean I don’t believe for one second they really drink the blood of Jewish babies, not in the Twin Cities anyhow, but all the same there’s a lot of people I’d rather bullshit with than nuns. Still, here was Bridget and that was the main thing.

  I could tell she was just as excited to see me as I was to see her. Her eyes got all shiny and her mouth started to smile and she jumped up like she wanted to run into my arms. But only for a second. All of a sudden she sat down and stopped smiling and didn’t look at me.

  “I assume you brought a poem,” she said, real cold.

  “As a matter of fact, no,” I said. “But—”

  “Then please leave, Morris,” she said.

  “Morris, is it?” said the nun. She was a little old freckle-faced woman with glasses and a brogue. “Aha,” she said, “so you’re the Hebrew who’s got this child at sixes and sevens. I’m Sister Mary Frances.”

  “How do you do?” I said. I looked for a ring to kiss but she wasn’t wearing any so I just kneeled for a couple seconds.

  “I like you Hebrews, Morris,” said Sister Mary Frances. “You’re devious, of course, and scandalous cheats, and there is the matter of killin’ Christ. Still, what I always say is any race that gave the world Heifetz and chicken soup can’t be all bad.”

  “I’ll have my Ma make you a jar,” I said.

  “A big jar, mind, with matzo balls,” said Sister Mary Frances. “’Tis my passion, chicken soup, right after Christ and poetry. And speakin’ of which, are you a poet yourself or are you doin’ the dirty to poor Bridget as I suspect?”

  “I’m a poet, I’m a poet,” I hollered.

  “Then why don’t you write poems?” said Sister Mary Frances.

  “Because I’m miserable, is why,” I said. “Who can write poems if they’re not happy?”

  “’Tis true,” said Sister Mary Frances. “Take that merry elf Edgar Allan Poe, for instance.”

  “Very funny,” I said to Sister Mary Frances. “And you can forget the chicken soup.”

  “Morris,” said Sister Mary Frances, “this child is sweeter than life to me. I’ll not have you deceivin’ her.”

  “I’m not,” I hollered. “I swear to God.”

  “Careful, son,” said Sister Mary Frances. “With me around it might be official.”

  I saw her point. Not that I believed in God too much. I mean I’m not like my mother who says, “If there’s no God, go explain radio.” But still and all, who knew for sure? So why take chances, especially the way my luck was running?

  “On second thought I won’t swear,” I said. “You know why?”

  “Yes,” said Sister Mary Frances.

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “I won’t swear because the fact is I don’t know any more if I can still write poetry. I might just be too crumpled up inside. Remember that, Bridget, the next time you decide to monkey around with a sensitive artist.”

  “Oh, Morris!” Bridget hollered, and looked at me like her heart was breaking. Mine was, I’ll tell you that.

  So I reached out my hand to Bridget and she reached hers back but before we could touch, Sister Mary Frances picked up a ruler and gave Bridget a whack across the knuckles. “Don’t let this devil dazzle you, girl,” she said. “Stick by your guns: a poem or nothin’.”

  “You’re right of course, Sister,” said Bridget.

  “Why don’t you go cure a leper?” I said to Sister Mary Frances.

  “We’ll give you till tomorrow to bring in a poem,” said Sister Mary Frances.

  “We?” I said. “I got to deal with you too?”

  She gave a mean smile and nodded. “Good day, you sly semite,” she said.

  “Good day, yourself,” I said, and went out to see if I could find someone to write me a poem in a hurry.

  First I tried Henry Leibowitz. You remember Henry—the straight-A kid who rode to school with Albert and me and did our homework. “Henry,” I said, “I’ll give you a dollar cash if you write me a poem.”

  “That’s a deal,” he said. “And here’s the poem:

  Hot-cha

  Boop boop a doop.

  Mother’s making

  Blubber soup.”

  “Cut the comedy,” I said. “Don’t you want the money?”

  “Like life itself,” he said. “But what makes you think I can write poems?”

  “You get all A’s, don’t you?” I said.

  “But that’s memory,” he said. “A whole nother thing. If you want, I’ll memorize a poem for you, any poem you pick, I don’t care how long. In fact, for a buck I’ll give you Evangeline and throw in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Wait,” he said. “Tell you what I’ll do: Evangeline and Ancient Mariner plus The Faerie Queene, all eight cantos.”

  “So long, Henry,” I said.

  “For fifty cents?” he said.

  But I just dragged myself away and went looking for somebody else to write me a poem. I looked and looked but it was impossible. Finally I decided the only solution was to by it myself. I don’t mean writing a poem; I wasn’t that crazy. I mean stealing a poem, which was also pretty crazy when you consider Bridget knew practically every poem ever written. Still, what choice did I have?

  I tried to go about it as shrewd as possible. First, I looked through the back shelves of the library till I found books that were so covered with dust that I could tell nobody had taken them out for years. And second, I didn’t steal any one poem. What I did was steal little dribs and drabs from lots of poems and string them together. So even if anybody reco
gnized a part of my poem, they still wouldn’t recognize the whole thing.

  When I finished stitching up the poem I looked it over and to tell you the truth, it seemed pretty good to me. But it also seemed pretty bad too; that was the confusing part.

  Not being too confident, I decided the best thing was to get an expert opinion before I sprung the poem on Bridget. I went to Mr. Harwood’s office. He wasn’t exactly my favorite American, that prick, but poetry he knew, no question.

  “Mr. Harwood,” I said, “I wonder if you’d read this and tell me what you think.”

  “Certainly,” he said. “A bit of baggy-pants salacity is always welcome in my bleak life.”

  I handed him the poem. “Ode on Melancholy,” he said. “Catchy title.”

  “You like it?” I said.

  “Adore it,” he said. “Do you mind if I read aloud?”

  “Go ahead,” I said, and he did:

  ODE ON MELANCHOLY

  If I should die think only this of me:

  I loved not wisely but too well.

  I thought thou wert a blessed damozel

  But, nay, thou wert a belle dame sans merci.

  Rememberest not, O mistress mine,

  To err is human, to forgive divine?

  Did He who made the lamb make thee?

  So show a little charity.

  Hey nonny, be not like a wolf on the fold,

  For somewhere an angel with a book of gold

  Is writing the names who love thee best

  And, lo, Morris Katz leads all the rest!

  Mr. Harwood put the poem down and took off his glasses and stared at me for a long time. “Mr. Katz,” he said finally, “I have a grotesque feeling this is not a jape.”

  “What’s a jape?” I said.

  “I’m right,” he said. “Dear God!”

  “You don’t care for the poem?” I said.

  “Appalling,” he said.

  “That bad, huh?” I said.

  “Execrable,” he said. “Cretinous.”

  “Okay, I get the idea,” I said.

  “Did you write it yourself?” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Did you write the last one too?” he said. “The one about Celeste?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Did something happen to you between those two works?” he said. “Something that might result in brain damage?”

  “You said it,” I said.

  “That could account for it,” he said. “But I’m dubious. Something murky is going on. Would you care to tell me what?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s the problems of undergraduates.”

  “You sure picked the right business,” I said.

  “No, Mr. Katz,” he said, “the business I picked was to be a madly successful novelist. This is the business I got.”

  “There’s worse things,” I said. “Stop whining.”

  “You’re right, of course,” he said. “Rude, but right.”

  “Look who’s talking about rude,” I said. “Can I have my poem back?”

  “With dispatch,” he said. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “Make a paper airplane,” I said.

  “A sound decision,” he said.

  But actually what I was going to do with the poem was give it to Celeste. Maybe it wasn’t good enough for Bridget, but for Celeste it was plenty okay. The only problem was, where the hell was Celeste? She still hadn’t showed up at school and the butler was still short-stopping my calls.

  I tried once more, disguising my voice this time.

  “Zimmerman residence,” said the butler.

  “May I talk to Miss Zimmerman?” I said.

  “Who’s calling, please?” said the butler.

  “Professor Harwood,” I said.

  “Of course you may talk to Miss Zimmerman, sir,” said the butler.

  “Swell,” I said.

  “Appear in person at the front door,” said the butler. “She will be happy to see you any time.”

  “Good day,” I said.

  “Good day, Mr. Katz,” said the butler. “And if you’re thinking of sending a letter, be advised that Miss Zimmerman’s mail is being intercepted.”

  So I went home feeling like a dog’s breakfast and believe me, what I saw at home didn’t cheer me up any. Ma was still working on the plans for Libbie’s wedding. Every day she added new names to the guest list—doctors, lawyers, accountants, insurance adjusters, tax appraisers, and anybody else who might give a little class to the affair. Most of them were practically strangers but that didn’t matter; they got invited anyhow and the wedding kept growing bigger and bigger, fancier and fancier, more and more expensive, and all to impress A. M. Zimmerman who was never going to show up.

  “So where’s Celeste?” said Ma when I walked in. “How many times I told you bring her home so I can measure her for the pink taffeta formal?”

  “She got homework,” I told Ma. “I’ll bring her tomorrow.”

  “That’s what you said yesterday,” said Ma, giving me a look. “Morris, you positive everything’s okay by you and Celeste?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Believe me, Ma.”

  “I believe you, sonny,” she said. “You know why?”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because if you’re lying I’m gonna put my head in the oven,” said Ma.

  Well, that settled that. I made up my mind right then and there I was going to see Celeste tonight even if I had to bust her door down. So I went to get Albert in case I did.

  I’ll tell you how things were between me and Albert. Things were okay again. Because in the last week Albert himself had had a tragedy of his own and he had learned, like I did, what it was to have your hopes in tatters and your dreams in ruins.

  You remember what I told you about Albert’s lousy luck with broads? To begin with he struck out with Miss Zucker, but at least he got to bang her maid. But after that there weren’t even any consolation prizes, just blanks, one failure after another. Then suddenly his luck changed. He took out this Irene Farber, a fat broad in Remedial English with bushy nostrils whose father owned the biggest work-gloves store in St. Paul, and sure enough he got in.

  Well, Albert was flying high there for a while. But not long. Because a couple days later he found out something he didn’t know: he had picked up the crabs from Miss Zucker’s maid. And Irene Farber found out she had picked them up from Albert, and that was the end of that bonanza.

  So now Albert also knew what disappointment was like, and it made him a kinder, humbler person and we were friends again. So on this night we’re talking about I went to the Sel-Dale Rec and found Albert sitting there with his balls painted blue and I told him I needed to get to Celeste right away and would be help me. “Of course,” he said, so we hopped in the Maytag and drove over to the Zimmerman house.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” said Albert. “If they give you any trouble, holler.”

  “Okay,” I said and started up the path to the house but before I was halfway there the front door opened and out came Celeste in a hat and coat with her mother and father and the butler. The butler was carrying a big trunk with Celeste’s initials on it.

  We all stopped dead when we saw each other, except for the butler. He kept on walking and put the trunk in the back of Celeste’s Oldsmobile which was parked in the driveway. But I just stood still and gawked, Celeste stood still and blinked, Mr. Zimmerman stood still and ground his teeth, and Mrs. Zimmerman grabbed a hold of a tree and started bawling.

  “Get out of here from here!” Mr. Zimmerman hollered at me.

  “Celeste,” I said, “where are you going?”

  “Don’t talk to me, you cockaroach,” said Celeste.

  “Celeste,” I said, “you got to stop listening to your father. He has taken a strange dislike to me.”

  “So have I,” said Celeste.

  “You
’ll feel different after you read this,” I said.

  I tried to hand her my poem called Ode on Melancholy but Mr. Zimmerman jumped in front of her.

  “Are you going?” Mr. Zimmerman said to me.

  “Not till Celeste reads this,” I said to Mr. Zimmerman.

  “Sven,” Mr. Zimmerman said to the butler, “knock him down.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the butler, and started walking toward me.

  “Albert!” I hollered.

  Albert got out of his car. The butler took a look and stopped walking toward me.

  “Sven, did you hear me?” said Mr. Zimmerman.

  “You knock him down,” said the butler to Mr. Zimmerman.

  “You’re fired,” said Mr. Zimmerman. “Celeste, get in the car.”

  “Celeste, where are you going?” I said again.

  “I’ll tell you where she’s going,” said Mr. Zimmerman. “She is going to the Frances Shimer Junior College in Mount Carroll, Illinois. How do you like that, Mr. Emptypockets?”

  “Wait!” I hollered to Celeste. “Read this first.”

  I tried to hand her the poem again but Mr. Zimmerman jumped in the way. “She ain’t reading nothing,” he said.

  “All right, I’ll read it out loud,” I said.

  “She got no time to listen,” said Mr. Zimmerman.

  “Yes, she has,” said Albert and took the front seat out of the Olds.

  So I read my poem out loud.

  There was a silence afterwards and several people scratched their head.

  “Well?” I said to Celeste.

  “Sounds kind of familiar,” she said.

  “Of course it does,” I said. “That’s because it’s what they call iambic. All your best love poems are.”

  “Oh,” said Celeste.

  “I think it’s great in my opinion,” said Albert.

  “Really?” said Celeste. “What do you think, Sven?”

  “A pastiche,” said the butler. “Grossly derivative.”

  “See?” said Albert to Celeste.

  “I hope you ain’t expecting no references,” said Mr. Zimmerman to the butler.

  “So is it on again, you and me?” I said to Celeste.