Potatoes Are Cheaper

by Max Shulman

  “You wanna listen or you wanna bullshit?” he said.

  “Listen,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. “Morris, I’m gonna level with you.”

  “Ho-ho-ho,” said Celeste.

  “I mean it,” said Mr. Zimmerman. “Something terrible happened yesterday.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I went by my doctor for a checkup,” he said. “He found a lump.”

  “Where,” I said.

  “In my wallet, putz,” he said. “Will you shut up and listen?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry about the lump.”

  “Don’t be sorry, it was only suet,” he said. “All the same it makes a man think. Who knows when they’re gonna get called?”

  “Especially so fat,” I said.

  “Naturally I’m still hoping Celeste will stop this bullshit and throw you out,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sure I will eventually,” said Celeste. “But what’s the big hurry?”

  “See, Morris, what I’m up against?” said Mr. Zimmerman. “But I’m fighting you, don’t worry, I’m fighting you till I drop. In fact, I’m going next week by my lawyer and making a codicil on my will. You know what’s a codicil?”

  “What?” I said.

  “A codicil is Celeste don’t get a goddam penny if she marries you,” he said.

  “Mr. Zimmerman,” I said, “even a monster wouldn’t do such a thing to an only child.”

  “Aha, now you put your finger on it,” said Mr. Zimmerman. “I’m gonna make the codicil, sure. But maybe you’re right. Maybe in the end I’ll weaken and change it back.”

  “So why make it in the first place?” I said. “Running up all those lawyer bills and everything?”

  “Because I ain’t gonna weaken,” said Mr. Zimmerman. “You know anybody around town who calls me softhearted?”

  “Nobody,” I said.

  “And don’t you forget it,” he said. “Still and all, a man got to be prepared for the worst. So in case, God forbid, you do marry Celeste and in case I don’t chase the both of you out in the street—I will, don’t worry, but I’m talking in case—then I better start getting you ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I said.

  “To be a son-in-law,” he said. “You begin working for me tonight.”

  “Well, well,” I said, giving myself a mazeltov, because finally the old sonofabitch had said the magic word—son-in-law. Let him threaten all he wanted with his codicils; I had my foot in the door now and we both knew it.

  “Okay, enough bullshit,” he said. “Go on over to my Fine Arts Theatre right away. There’s a kid named Rex taking tickets, about your size. Tell him he’s fired and put on his uniform.”

  “You wanna talk about salary?” I said.

  “You’ll take what I give you,” he said.

  “That seems fair,” I said and Celeste and I drove over to the Fine Arts Theatre where after a little crying this kid Rex finally gave up his uniform. It fitted me nice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Naturally Albert was pleased when I told him the news about my job with Zimmerman. “I am proud and thrilled, Morris,” he said. “Now let me tell you something as your closest friend and relation. If you blow it again this time, I will murdalize you.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  “I’ll worry,” he said. “I’ll worry because I know you’re still honing for this Bridget cooz, aren’t you?”

  “A little maybe,” I said.

  “How did I get such a schmuck for a cousin?” he said.

  “Albert,” I said, “I’ve given up on Bridget, honest to God I have. But that don’t mean I can just kick her out of my mind.”

  “You got to,” he said.

  “Yeah?” I said. “You wouldn’t talk so cocky if you’d ever been in love yourself.”

  “Well,” said Albert, “I guess I better tell you something I was never gonna.”

  “What?” I said.

  “I been,” he said.

  “In love?” I said, giving him a look.

  “What’s the matter, you think you invented it?” he said.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me before?” I said.

  “If you knew who the broad was, you wouldn’t have to ask,” he said.

  “So who?” I said.

  “This is real embarrassing,” he said.

  “Come on, Albert,” I said.

  “I don’t think I can tell you,” he said.

  “Albert, you can’t do this to a person,” I said. “Now come on.”

  “All right,” he said. “You remember in John Marshall Junior High we had a penmanship teacher Miss Stapleton?”

  “So?” I said.

  “Her,” he said.

  “Are you nuts?” I hollered. “She was a hundred years old.”

  “She was twenty-eight,” he said.

  “So you were fourteen,” I said.

  “Fifteen,” he said. “But so what? I loved her, that’s all.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “That’s not love. That’s what they call puppy love.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he said. “Well, Miss Stapleton had it too.”

  “She loved you?” I said.

  “That’s what she told me,” he said.

  “When?” I said.

  “Every time I fucked her,” he said.

  “Oh, my God!” I said, getting white. “Where’d you do that?”

  “In her flat,” said Albert. “Where did you think—the cafeteria?”

  “How long did this go on?” I said.

  “The whole ninth grade,” he said.

  “Albert, this is craziness,” I said. “A penmanship teacher?”

  “You don’t know the worst,” he said. “We were gonna get married as soon as I turned sixteen.”

  “Oh, my God!” I hollered. “What happened?”

  “Well, one day we were up at her flat screwing,” he said, “and there was a knock on the door. ‘Who is it?’ hollers Miss Stapleton. ‘Wanna buy a Liberty Magazine?’ comes a voice, a woman’s voice. ‘Just a minute, I’ll be right there,’ hollers Miss Stapleton. But I grab her. ‘Miss Stapleton,’ I say, ‘please don’t go.’ Because I knew right away who was out there.”

  “Your mother?” I said.

  “Who else?” said Albert.

  “So why didn’t you tell Miss Stapleton?” I said.

  “Would you like to tell somebody your mother is peddling magazines?” said Albert.

  “I see what you mean,” I said. “So what did you do?”

  “I says to her, ‘Miss Stapleton, please don’t go. What do you need with a Liberty?’ So she says, ‘I’m keeping up with a serial.’ And before I can stop her, she puts on a kimono and finds a nickel and goes to the door.”

  “So your mother sees you?” I said.

  “No, I was in the bedroom,” he said.

  “Well, that was lucky,” I said.

  “But my goddam Golden Gloves jacket was in the front hall,” he said.

  “Oh-oh,” I said.

  “Ma had Miss Stapleton on the next train out of St. Paul,” he said. “In the kimono.”

  “And a damn good thing, I say,” I said.

  “I say it too,” said Albert. “Now I say it. Just like you’ll say it some day about this Bridget cooz.”

  “You really think so, Albert?” I said.

  “You’ll forget her, Morris, I guarantee you,” he said.

  “Don’t you ever think about Miss Stapleton any more?” I said.

  “Sometimes when I’m doing Palmer Method,” he said. “But it passes.”

  Well, if somebody had shagged Bridget out of town like Albert’s mother shagged Miss Stapleton, maybe I would have got over her in time. I doubt it, but maybe. The trouble was nobody shagged Bridget. So one night a couple weeks later I was taking tickets at the Fine Arts and who should walk into the lobby but her! And not just her; her with her arm in that schmuck’s elbow, Bruce Albright!

  Well, talk a
bout your frozen moment! Bridget gave a gasp. I gave a gasp. She stared. I stared. She turned pale. I turned pale. She turned red. I turned red.

  Finally that schmuck Bruce spoke up: “You gonna take these tickets or what?” he said.

  “Hello, Bridget,” I said. “How you been?”

  “Fine, thank you,” she said. “And you?”

  “Tip-top,” I said. “So what’s new?”

  “Nothing much,” she said.

  “Hey, Shorty, I’m talking to you,” Bruce said.

  “You changed your hair a little,” I said. To Bridget, not Bruce.

  “Yes, a little,” she said.

  “It looks nice,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Of course the old way looked nice too,” I said.

  “You’re asking for it,” Bruce said.

  “Well, it was good seeing you, Morris,” Bridget said.

  “Me too,” I said. “Oh, by the way, my new poem is coming along just terrific.”

  (You see? There I was again, pissing up the same old rope. What poem? There was no poem; there never would be. So what happened to all those sensible decisions I made? Gone, that’s what happened. Gone the second I saw her face, that wonderful face, and I only knew one thing: screw sensible; I loved this girl and I couldn’t let her go, not yet, not without one more try at least.)

  “Yes sir, the poem is coming along lickety-split,” I said. “But you know what would help? If we could have a couple conferences.”

  “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this crap,” said Bruce, getting red.

  “So go someplace else,” I said. “Who needs you?”

  “That does it,” he said and pulled back his arm but luckily it was the arm Bridget was hanging on. “Please, Bruce,” she said, “let’s find another movie.”

  “What for?” he said. “This is the one I want to see.”

  I couldn’t blame him for that. It was Pigskin Parade with Stuart Erwin and Patsy Kelly, a laff riot.

  “Please, Bruce,” she said again.

  He growled a little but finally he left with Bridget, thank God, and I stood there blinking my eyes. For a long time I blinked. Was I really doing what it looked like—picking fights with goyim six feet four inches, starting another hopeless chase after Bridget again? Yes, I really was.

  And what if I did get Bridget back? Could I keep her? Of course not. Could I dump Celeste? Of course not? So what chance did I have? Only one: that Titania, queen of the fairies, would come in the middle of the night and stick a magic propellor in my ass so I could fly away with Bridget to an enchanted land beyond the sea.

  In other words, don’t hock me with sensible questions. All I can tell you is what I did, not why, and what I did was head for Rochester first thing next morning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Naturally I was hoping Crip was recovered enough to write me a poem. He wasn’t. All the same, he had made a terrific improvement. The great big mummy case was off of him completely now. The only casts he was wearing were two little ones. Of course with my luck they were both on his hands.

  Still it was great to see him looking so much better and I told him so.

  “Thanks, Morris,” said Crip. “You should have seen me a couple days ago. I had no casts on at all.”

  “No kidding,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “The doctor took off that big body cast and he examined me carefully, inch by inch, and he looked real pleased. So I said to him, ‘Well, doc, what do you think?’ So he said, ‘Well, Walter, it’s still too early to tell of course but at this point it looks good. So cross your fingers.’ So I did, and you see what happened.”

  He held up the two casts.

  I just gave a sigh; what else could I say?

  “I guess you still need a poem, huh?” he said.

  “Worse than ever,” I said.

  “Have you tried stealing one someplace?” he said.

  “Every place,” I said. “But I’m always afraid she’ll recognize it. You wouldn’t happen to know of some great poet nobody ever heard of, would you?”

  “I’m afraid not, Morris,” he said. “With great poets it’s bound to get around.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” I said.

  “I know some bad poets nobody ever heard of,” he said.

  “That wouldn’t help, I don’t think,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Morris,” he said. “I wish I could do something for you.”

  “Listen,” I said, “don’t you worry about my little problems. Just take care of yourself and continue with your road to recovery.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Well, I better get going,” I said. “Anything I can tell your mother?”

  “Yes, tell her thanks for the mangoes,” he said.

  “Sure thing,” I said and waved and left.

  Well, this time I was ready to quit, I really was. Wouldn’t you be? And I would have quit, no question, except a couple days later, in my own kitchen of all places, right out of nowheres, all of a sudden the answer fell smack into my lap.

  It happened on a Sunday morning a little past nine o’clock. Jonathan had just left the house with his mysterious magic red hose. He’d been going out now every Sunday morning since he married Libbie and always without fail he come home with at least twenty bucks so we knew it couldn’t be poor boxes he was heisting. What it was we still didn’t know, but by now nobody asked. What the hell, a double sawbuck every Sunday and a floor show into the bargain, who could complain?

  Anyhow, Jonathan was off on his evilness, and the rest of us were just lazing around the kitchen while Pa read the Jewish Forward out loud. Itzik Fishel’s poem this week was real rip-snorter, full of tragedy and capitalist oppression and hollering. Esther Resnick, American it was called and I tell you, it just wrung out a person from emotion. So I sat and listened to Pa reading and—whammo!—all of a sudden there it was—my answer! There is was plain as day—the great poet nobody ever heard of. Itzik Fishel, who else? Why didn’t I think of it a long time ago?

  Well, naturally I was in a big rush to start in translating Esther Resnick, American from Yiddish into English, but Sunday was a busy day for me on account of continuous performances from 2 P.M. at the Fine Arts Theatre. So I didn’t tackle the poem till the next day.

  I’ll tell you in a minute how it went, but first I’d like to say one thing: Thanks to Itzik Fishel, this poem Esther Resnick, American was absolutely loaded with power. I want to emphasize this point. That’s one thing I did not have to do: put in power. That was there already, the power, and I’m glad to give the credit to where it belongs: Itzik Fishel.

  But still and all, it was me who did the heavy part. I don’t mean translating the poem from Yiddish; that was easy. But translating is one thing, and poetry is another. I’ll show you what I mean. Here, exactly, is how the first stanza of the poem looked after I put it in English:

  Woe is me, last night Esther Resnick killed herself!

  Oh, woe, such a young person, sixteen years old that’s all,

  a baby yet,

  With her own scissors she stabbed herself, you hear me?

  Poor all her life and dead already, a curse on such a world!

  Well, as you can see, it’s got power to spare, no question. But go find a rhyme. Also where is what they call the meter?

  So that’s what I had to do, make rhymes and meter, and if you think that’s simple, try it some time. All I can say is, if you’re looking for light work stay out of the poetry business. Anyhow, take a look at the same first stanza after I fixed it up:

  Last night a girl aged sixteen years,

  Named Esther Resnick, not J. P. Morgan,

  Took out her pair of pinking shears,

  And plunged them through a vital organ.

  All the difference in the world, right?

  But as I say, I worked my ass off. That first stanza alone took me a whole half a day and the rest weren’t any quicker. But finally aft
er a hard couple weeks it was done and you’ll excuse me if I say it, but I got to: it was a beaut. I knew it couldn’t possibly fail with Bridget; I was absolutely positive. Now let me tell you why I didn’t give it to her.

  I got home from school the day I finished the poem—I hadn’t given it to Bridget yet; I was going to make a nice clean copy and hand it to her tomorrow—and as Albert drove me up to my house we heard such hysterical screams coming from inside that we figured somebody was at least dead, so naturally we rushed in, the both of us.

  I still can’t describe exactly what we saw there, but I’ll try to give you a general impression. In the middle of the living room was Jonathan with my four aunts standing around him all screaming like maniacs. “Scandal!” they were screaming. “Disgrace! Shame! Gevald!” Things like that they were screaming.

  “Take it easy, girls, take it easy,” Jonathan kept saying but they wouldn’t. They just screamed and shook their fingers in his face and jumped up and down and got redder and redder till they looked like tomatoes.

  Then they started belting him with their little pointy fists and that’s when Libbie leapt in. “Anybody who touches my husband got to kill me first!” she hollered and flang her body across Jonathan’s like Molly Pitcher or Barbara Fritcher or whatever the fuck her name was in the history book.

  On the other side of the room my uncles were huddled together trying to look invisible like they always did when there was hollering. My father was with the uncles of course, also trying to look invisible, and he came the closest to making it.

  Ma was pacing the whole length of the room, back and forth, forth and back, pacing fast, almost running, every once in a while giving Jonathan a glare, but not saying a word; she was too mad to talk.

  And standing near the doorway, twirling his night stick, grinning, enjoying the whole show, was Officer Mulcahey, the cop from the Selby Avenue beat.

  “What happened for God sakes?” I hollered.

  It took a good ten minutes to get the answer because all the aunts were screaming so loud you couldn’t hear any of them. But bit by bit I pieced it together. What happened was the truth had finally come out about where Jonathan was getting his money.

  I’m ashamed I didn’t figure it out from the very beginning, that’s how obvious it was. I mean if a man is a crook and also a handwriting expert, isn’t it obvious what kind of crookery he’d be doing? Forgery, of course.