by Max Shulman
But otherwise it was a nice ceremony, a little fast maybe, but for nine bucks Rabbi Pflaum wasn’t going to throw in any extras. So it was over one, two, three, and Libbie and Jonathan stamped on their wine glasses and kissed each other and everybody came crowding around the bride and groom to give mazeltov.
Pretty soon came a chord from the orchestra and Ralph Rifkin stepped to the microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Dancing is about to begin and of course we all know, don’t we, what lucky couple are going to have the honor of dancing the first dance all by themselves?”
“Of course,” said Ma, and as Rifkin gave the downbeat, she grabbed A. M. Zimmerman and pulled him out to the middle of the dance floor. And she kept him there too, no matter how hard he struggled, just the two of them dancing till the song was over.
I couldn’t hear what Ma and Mr. Zimmerman were talking about while they danced because they were twirling by too fast—it was the “Hava Nagilah”—but I did manage to catch a couple of lines. “Nu, Zimmerman,” Ma said, “you see what kind of classy people I got by my wedding?”
“I don’t give a shit if you got FDR coming to sing ‘I Love You Truly,’” said Mr. Zimmerman. “Celeste ain’t gonna marry that cockaroach.”
Which didn’t sound like Ma was off to a flying start exactly. But I wasn’t worried; Ma had cracked tougher nuts than old Zimmerman in her time. And besides, I was doing just fabulous with Celeste. That tux of mine really knocked her for a loop. She kept staring at me with pop eyes and breathing fast and yanking on my sleeve. “Let’s get out of here, for cry-yi,” she said. “I’m hornier than a billy goat.”
“We got to wait till Libbie and Jonathan take off,” I said.
“For where?” she said.
“The honeymoon,” I said.
“Where they spending this honeymoon?” she said.
“Upstairs,” I said. “Ma made the hotel throw in a double room with the deal.”
“Where they gonna live afterwards?” said Celeste.
“With us,” I said. “Naturally.”
“How awful!” she said.
“Well, at least they got a hotel room tonight,” I said.
“Hey, let’s you and me get a hotel room tonight too,” she said. “It must be even better than a car.”
“That’s what I hear,” I said. “But who got three dollars?”
“Me,” said Celeste.
“Okay,” I said.
“Tell your sister to get the lead out,” said Celeste.
“I’ll try,” I said, but I found out there was no way to hustle Libbie. Crying and kissing people were Libbie’s two favorite things and she’d never had this many chances in her life.
After my mother and Mr. Zimmerman finished their solo, the dancing became general and the food and drinks were brought in, featuring my Aunt Bryna’s specialty, a Star of David in blue and white chopped liver, and everyone started in having a good time, except of course for Celeste who kept looking at her watch and jerking my sleeve and Mr. Zimmerman who couldn’t break loose from Ma’s wristlock. And naturally, Mrs. Zimmerman, who hung on to a sconce and never stopped howling.
Celeste and I danced a little but not much, not together anyhow, because the minute we got out on the dance floor Nettie and Gittel came tearing over and cut in. “I’ll take the boychik,” Nettie said to Gittel, “and you take the fatty.” So Nettie got me and Gittel waltzed away with Celeste. They must have kept us dancing for a full hour, including intermissions when the orchestra wasn’t even there, before Uncle Benny and Aunt Esther came and rescued us. After that Celeste and I stayed off the dance floor and waited at the bar for the bride and groom to leave.
Celeste and I were pretty much alone at the bar because except for a few exceptions like Rummy Rosenberg who I’ve mentioned, your average Jew is no drinker. With such heartburn, how can he? But now and then somebody dropped by. Aunt Lena came over and tried to pin up Celeste’s brassiere straps so they wouldn’t keep falling out, but it didn’t work. Uncle Shimen came by and asked Celeste if she’d ask her father if he could use an usher. My little cousin Evelyn came by and sang “The Good Ship Lollipop” till Celeste gave her a kick.
My cousin Albert sat with us for a while too but he didn’t talk much. He was in a lousy mood. He’d had a date to bring to the wedding, a broad named Thelma Greenspan with ankles like a percheron who he met at school, but it turned out she didn’t come with him after all. What happened was still another case of Albert’s shitty luck. On his way over to pick up this Thelma, Albert had a few errands to do, like get a haircut, buy some rubbers, and steal some gas for his car. But he left himself plenty of time and he got to Thelma’s house right on schedule. So she took him inside to meet her mother and father, and right there is where it ended. Because who do you think her father was? The druggist who sold Albert the rubbers, that’s who.
So Celeste and I sat at the bar waiting for Libbie and Jonathan to leave which took longer than we expected because Jonathan got busy analyzing handwriting for the guests, but finally it came time. Ralph Rifkin gave a drum roll (actually he was going to do a cymbal clash but Nettie and Gittel had stolen his cymbals) and he announced that the bride and groom were about to exit. So everybody grabbed a handful of rice and went rushing over to the staircase at the end of the room where Libbie and Jonathan were standing on the top.
Ma knocked down ten or twelve people and got Celeste positioned right smack in the front of the crowd so she’d be sure and catch Libbie’s bouquet. Then Ma got a a good grip on Nettie and Gittel so they couldn’t jump up and intercept; those two had been known to leap as high as eight feet straight in the air. Then Ma gave Libbie a nod, and Libbie closed one eye, took aim, and flang the bouquet straight at Celeste, a perfect bull’s-eye.
“Nu, Zimmerman,” said Ma, “you saw it yourself. It’s fate.”
“Fate, my ass,” said Mr. Zimmerman.
“Pew, do these flowers stink,” said Celeste.
Then everybody started yelling mazeltov and throwing rice and during the confusion Celeste and I snuck downstairs and booked ourselves a room. (I registered as Mr. and Mrs. Bruce Albright. Ha-ha.)
Celeste and I were both a little unsure of ourself when we got to the room. She of course was a total amateur when it came to indoor humping, and I got to admit I wasn’t too experienced either. I was, as you know, a highly skilled car humper but I hadn’t done much of it in rooms except for those few times at Cockeye Jennie’s, but they were only ten-minute tricks, not nearly enough time to learn the fine points. So you could say the both of us were kind of feeling our way.
“Well, I guess the first thing is we take off all our clothes,” said Celeste.
“No,” I said, “I think the first thing is we tip the bellboy.”
“That’s the way I’d do it, folks,” said the bellboy.
So Celeste gave him a dime and he left.
“Okay,” she said, “now we take off all our clothes, right?”
“Shouldn’t we talk a little bit first?” I said.
“Why can’t we talk while we’re taking off all our clothes?” she said.
“We could do that, I guess,” I said.
So we started in undressing. “I love you,” I said.
“Well, I hope you do, Morris,” she said, “but even if you don’t, I’m sure looking forward to this.”
“Me too,” I said. “And pretty soon, mark my words, we’ll be having a real wedding night of our own.”
“Not if Daddy can help it,” she said.
“Don’t worry, you’ll soften him up,” I said.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” she said.
“I would,” I said which was the God’s truth. I was counting heavily on it. In fact, I’d already decided that if I lost both Bridget and the Zimmerman money, I was going to borrow Albert’s car and monoxide myself.
“See if you can unloosen this zipper,” said Celeste. “If you can’t, just rip the dress up the side.”
“I got it,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said. “You want some help with that collar button?”
“Thanks,” I said and in a couple minutes we finished undressing and looked each other over.
“To be honest I liked you better in the tux,” she said.
“Look who’s talking,” I said.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “I’m sorry I haven’t got a prettier body for you, Morris.”
“Not your fault,” I said. “A person got to play the hand they’re dealt.”
“That’s how I feel,” she said. “And besides it’s not such a bad body.”
“Oh?” I said.
“I’m talking medically,” she said. “It never gets sick and it never gets tired and it loves food and sex. Would I be better off if I was beautiful and puny?”
“That’s a very mature attitude,” I said.
“Well, let’s get cracking,” she said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Don’t spend too much time on pre-coital play,” she said. “I’m already ready.”
“Okay,” I said, and we gave it a go.
This was one of the nights when I had no trouble getting it up, thank God, so I didn’t have to close my eyes and imagine movie stars. I was able to pay full attention to what was going on, and I picked up a lot of interesting information I never knew about room humping. First of all, when it comes to comfort and warmness, a room got a car beat all hollow. I mean it’s just no contest. But on the other hand there’s a big disadvantage too: you can’t drive anywheres after you finish and there’s nothing to do when a hump is over except start another one so you end up tearing off a lot more pieces than you had in mind actually.
But Celeste enjoyed it which I was glad for because after all, she had a lot of money tied up in that room. To her it was worth every penny. She just kept yelling, “Ride ’em, cowboy!” and loving each draggy hour. It was four o’clock in the morning before I finally persuaded her we should go home.
“Well, Morris,” she said as we got dressed, “I want you to know this was the swellest evening of my life. So far, that is.”
“Likewise,” I said.
“I’m gonna ask Daddy for three dollars so we can get a room again,” she said.
“I wouldn’t tell him what the money’s for,” I said.
“You seen a bust pad anywheres?” she said.
“Here in the bedclothes,” I said. “Also your glasses.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Well, let’s go.”
“Your dress is on backwards,” I said.
“Oh, phooey,” she said and took it off. “Listen,” she said, “as long as it’s off, how about one more you-know?”
“Well, I guess one more won’t hurt,” I said.
So I squeezed out another one and then she took me home and walked me to the door. “Rest up good,” she said. “Nighty-night.”
“Nighty-night,” I said and she went back to her car and drove off to Minneapolis whistling.
I stood on the porch thinking for a couple minutes after Celeste was gone. And I got to say I was thinking very clearly in spite of how late it was and all I’d been through. Or maybe that helps. Maybe when the old pecker runs down, the old brain finally gets a chance.
Anyhow, these were the thoughts I thought: First about Celeste: Obviously she was nobody whose picture you pasted in your locker, but still and all, there were lots of worse broads around, lots of poorer ones for sure. And I had Celeste now; that was the point. All I had to do is play it careful and I’d soon be up to my poopik in Zimmerman money.
So why keep chasing Bridget? Wasn’t it time already to wipe the yum-yum out of my eyes and see things the way they really were? Celeste I had, Bridget I never would, and only a half-wit would keep on trying.
So right there on the front porch at four-thirty in the morning, thinking clearly for a change, I finally made up my mind: no more Bridget. It hurt. Believe me, it hurt. It hurt so bad I almost couldn’t do it. But I did. I made my decision and then I gave a sigh and blew my nose and went into the house wondering what it was going to be like, life without happiness.
Chapter Twelve
Well, life goes on, happiness or not.
Libbie and Jonathan moved in with us the day after the wedding as you know, and although I was more dead than alive on account of giving up Bridget, I still couldn’t help looking forward to next Sunday morning. It was on Sunday mornings, you’ll remember, when that big bull-shitter Jonathan told us he went around to all those beer joints and made a fortune blowing out beer coils with his little red hose. So naturally I could hardly wait to see what would happen. Ma too.
Sure enough, at 9 A.M. on Sunday Jonathan stuck that little red hose in his pocket, kissed Libbie, and said, “So long, folks. I’ll be back in a flash with the cash.”
“Yeh, yeh,” said Ma and me, both of us wondering what excuse he’d have when he came home. Well, imagine our surprise when he walked in a few hours later, whipped off his hat, made a bow, and said to Ma, “Here you are, Madame Queen.” Then he turned the hat over on Ma’s lap and out fell a mess of singles and change, twenty-three dollars it came to!
“And here’s for you, my blushing bride,” said Jonathan to Libbie and handed her a six-ounce bottle of Djer Kiss perfume. So she busted out crying naturally.
Then he gave Pa and me each a half-pound Mr. Goodbar, and he started the entertainment. What a guy, that Jonathan! Crooked as an S-hook, no question, but by God wherever he was, was a party! You should have seen him this time. He sang, he danced, he juggled, he opened a bottle of pop with his armpit, and he gave some terrific imitations. The best one, I think, was Helen Keller carving a duck. Everybody got hysterical, even Ma who hated Jonathan, and me who was more dead than alive on account of giving up Bridget.
Later Jonathan and I got a chance to talk private for a couple minutes. Ma and Libbie were in the kitchen cooking supper and Pa was in the bedroom changing pants; he’d wet himself a little bit from laughing.
“Well, Jonathan,” I said to him, “I suppose I ought to keep my mouth shut and just enjoy your wonderful talent, but I’m dying from curiosity. So I’m gonna ask you once more. What the hell does a guy like you expect to get from a crappy outfit like us?”
“Morris,” he said, “even if I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Because you’re still too young and full of fancy ideas,” he said. “Now don’t get me wrong. I admire it; I really do. I was the same way myself once—brave and hopeful, chasing rainbows, pissing against wind. You think you’re the only one who ever dreamed about marrying a rich broad?”
“But I’m gonna,” I said. “There’s the difference.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I’m hoping and praying and holding my left nut for you, kid.”
“But?” I said.
“But let’s be a little realistic here,” he said. “When shleppers tangle with millionaires, don’t count your chickens. I’ll tell you something from long experience: guys like you and me only got one way to win: steal small.”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, it just so happens that Celeste is in the bag practically.”
“Marvelous,” he said. “Wonderful. Nobody’s rooting harder than me, you know that. But meanwhile it’s gonna hurt if you start looking around in a lower bracket also? Listen, for a broad who’s worth three, four thousand net, you’d be a very sensible buy.”
“Thanks a peck,” I said.
“I mean it,” he said. “Now you take Libbie’s friend, Ruthie Baumgarten, for example. Don’t make faces, Morris. It’s so terrible, a registered nurse?”
“She is also a registered harelip,” I said.
“So?” he said.
“So good-by,” I said because what’s the use arguing with a closed mind? Let Jonathan steal small if he wanted to; I knew I was going to end up with Celeste Zimmerman. In fact, I really knew it a little while later when she came over to get me in
the Olds. Because she said an unbelievable thing.
“Morris,” she said, “Daddy told me I should bring you to his office.”
“You sure he meant me?” I said.
“He said, ‘Bring the cockaroach,’” said Celeste.
“What do you suppose he wants?” I said.
“He wouldn’t tell,” she said. “My guess is he’s gonna offer you some money to stop seeing me.”
“Well, I sure hope he don’t try anything like that,” I said and I wasn’t kidding. I was afraid if he went as high as twelve dollars I’d grab it.
So we drove over to the Majestic Theatre in Minneapolis where Zimmerman had his office. The Majestic was the biggest and busiest of the Zimmerman theaters but I’ll tell you something: there were no lines standing there tonight. A stinkeroo called Dodsworth was playing with Walter Huston and Ruth Chatterton and if those two are movie stars, I say there’s a chance for my Aunt Bryna and Uncle Herschel too.
“Tickets, please,” said the doorman.
“Hi, Sven,” I said because it was the former butler. “Glad to see you working again.”
“Thank you, young master,” he said. “It’s not the same of course, but one does what one must. Good evening, Miss Celeste.”
“In here,” said Mr. Zimmerman, leaning out of his office, so we went in.
Mr. Zimmerman had a different expression on his face tonight. Usually when he saw me he got the same look—disgust with rage is the way to describe it, I think—but tonight he looked mostly confused. Disgusted and raged too, but mostly confused.
“I got something to say,” he said. “So shut up and listen.”
“Before you begin,” I said, “I want you to know I love Celeste and all the money in the world would never make me leave her.”