by Max Shulman
“Listen,” I said, ducking behind the Vachel Lindsay, “you wouldn’t happen to know anyone who got an apartment within walking distance?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said.
“How about within streetcar distance?” I said.
“Oh, my beloved,” she said, “don’t you think that I too am burning to hold you in my arms?”
“Burning, eh?” I said.
“Aflame,” she said. “To cleave, to meld, to become as one.”
“Do you know anybody with a garage maybe?” I said.
“No,” she said. “Can’t you get a night off soon?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh, well, at least we still have our afternoons,” she said. “And there’s all kinds of marvelous things coming up—the Maxfield Parrish retrospective, the Flemish altar cloth exhibit—oh, lots and lots of things.”
“Maybe I can,” I said.
“Get a night off?” she said.
“I’ll find out,” I said.
Chapter Seventeen
I tried. Naturally I knew better than to ask Zimmerman so I worked on Celeste instead.
“Celeste,” I said to her that night when the hump was over and I was helping her look for her barrette, “do you think you could get your father to give me the night off tomorrow?”
“What for?” she said.
“My Uncle Nochim is coming in from Duluth,” I said. “I didn’t see him for ten years already.”
“A likely story,” she said. “You got another girl again, don’t you?”
“What a silly idea, my darling,” I said, giving this little tinkly laugh.
“You must have,” said Celeste. “The whole night you didn’t pester me to get married.”
“Okay, let’s get married,” I said.
“Stop pestering,” she said.
“So how’s about tomorrow night off?” I said.
“No,” she said. “You can see this alleged uncle in the morning.”
“He’s catching the midnight train for Chicago,” I said.
“Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “Okay, I’ll fix it with Daddy.”
“You mean it?” I said.
“Why, sure,” she said. “And by the way, I’m coming along to meet this uncle.”
“Now just a minute,” I said.
“Ha-ha, the joke’s on you,” she said. “You want to try again?”
“Okay, I guess I’ll have to tell you the real reason,” I said.
“Oh, boy, this should be great,” she said.
“I got to have a tumor operated,” I said.
“Good going, Morris!” she said. “That’s the way to lie—big!”
“I only wish I was,” I said.
“Where have you got this alleged tumor?” she said.
“That’s just it,” I said. “It keeps moving.”
“Where is it now roughly?” she said. “I’d like a feel.”
“How would you like this barrette up your nose?” I said.
“How would you like to work tomorrow night?” said Celeste.
And that finished that.
So I knew there’d be no nights with Bridget, only those long humpless afternoons at the museum. Naturally I kept looking for someplace where you could do daytime boffing but it was no use. I did have one fairly good idea—a furniture store on a slow Monday—but I finally decided against it. Just as well, probably.
Well, as you can see, things weren’t too great, but on the other hand they weren’t too desperate either. Until one morning I came to school and found a note in my P.O. box from Mr. Harwood telling me to report to his office. Right away I felt a chill grab a hold of my heart because what did I ever get from Mr. Harwood except bad news, that prick?
As I walked into his office I saw a copy of Esther Resnick, American laying on his desk, so I figured that must be the bad news: he wasn’t going to let Bridget publish the poem because it was too sexy or too communist or too both. To tell you the truth, I didn’t care a whole lot. After all, the poem had done its job—getting Bridget back—so why kick?
“Okay, so you won’t let the poem get published, right?” I said to Mr. Harwood.
“Correct,” he said. “But there’s a bit more. Sit down, please, Mr. Katz.”
Then he surprised me: he gave me a smile—a squeaky little thing, it’s true, but still the first one I ever saw on that pinchy face of his. So I sat down and he not only surprised me again, but he damn near put me six feet under. Listen to what he said:
“Momser,” he said, “why are you plagiarizing Itzik Fishel?”
“Oh, no!” I hollered and for a second everything went black and the room started in whirling around. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t! “Oh, no!” I hollered. “You’re not Jewish?”
“Nu, why not?” he said.
“How does a Jew get a name Harwood?” I said.
“One starts with Horowitz,” he said. “But shall we return to your plagiarism?”
“Stop calling it plagiarism,” I said.
“What do you call it?” he said.
“Plagiarism is stealing,” I said. “I didn’t steal. Believe me, I worked a hell of a lot harder on that poem than Fishel ever did.”
“A novel interpretation,” he said. “I wonder how the Dean will like it.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, starting in to shake. “You told this to the Dean?” Because if the Dean knew, everybody else would, especially Bridget. Then I’d be absolutely a goner.
“Not yet, but of course I’m going to,” said Mr. Harwood.
“Don’t,” I said. “Let me explain what happened.”
“I’m sure it would be endlessly diverting,” he said. “But I have a class in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll just hit the high spots,” I said.
So I told him a condensed but still heartbreaking version of what had been going on with Bridget, Celeste, Crip, Albert, Ma, Jonathan, and Nettie and Gittel.
“Well, that’s about it, Mr. Harwood,” I said when I finished. “And I certainly hope you got a fuller understanding now.”
“I have indeed, Mr. Katz,” he said, “and I sympathize profoundly.”
“So how come you’re laughing?” I said because all of a sudden he started. He tried not to, but snorts and wheezes kept spurting out and his glasses fogged up so bad he had to take them off and wipe them about thirty times.
“Hey, listen,” I said to him, “you want a real laugh? I got some pictures of the Morro Castle going down.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Katz,” he said, finally getting control of himself. “I do sympathize, I assure you.”
“Tell it to Sweeney,” I said.
“No, it’s true,” he said. “I know this will require rather a large suspension of disbelief on your part, but long, long ago I too was a player in this same forlorn comedy.”
My jaw dropped open. “You mean you fell in love with a shicksa?” I said.
“Hard to credit, isn’t it?” he said.
“You’re not kidding,” I said. “How serious was it?”
“I got my nose fixed,” he said. “Does that give you an indication?”
“Yes,” I said. “A beautiful job, by the way.”
“You really think so?” he said.
“It fooled me,” I said. “But what happened with the shicksa?”
“What always happens?” he said.
“Your mother?” I said.
“What then?” he said. “And how do you propose to deal with yours?”
“Damned if I know,” I said. “How did you deal with yours?”
“I waited for her to die,” he said.
“How long did it take?” I said.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “She’s still alive. The shicksa is dead though.”
“Well, it probably wouldn’t have helped anyhow if your mother croaked,” I said. “From what I hear, even if they go they leave a curse.”
“That’s my understanding,” he
said. “Then why do you persist, Mr. Katz?”
“Love,” I said. “I can’t go on without Bridget. Are you gonna help me or not?”
“Not,” he said.
“A prick to the end,” I said.
“I can’t,” he said.
“Yes, you can,” I said. “You know why? Because if you don’t, I’m gonna tell the whole University you’re a Jew.”
“You’re a hard man, Katz,” he said.
“It’s a hard world, Horowitz,” I said.
“However, they already know I’m a Jew,” he said. “Why do you suppose I haven’t had a promotion in twelve years?”
“Looks like I’m screwed,” I said.
“You should be,” he said. “And royally. I can’t think why I’m letting you off.”
My jaw dropped open again. “You are?” I said.
“I am myself amazed, Mr. Katz,” he said. “It’s best you go quickly.”
“Not till I say thanks,” I said. “Thanks, Mr. Harwood, and I want you to know you’ll always be aces in my deck.”
“No fawning,” he said. “Go now and plagiarize no more.”
“Why not?” I said. “You won’t let the poems get published anyhow and meanwhile I’ll keep Bridget happy. So who’s hurt?”
“Will you take your chutzpah and go already?” he said.
“Right away,” I said. “Let me ask you one question: You wouldn’t have an apartment I could use this afternoon?”
“The Dean has a nicer one,” he said. “Shall I call him?”
“I’m going,” I said.
“Shalom,” he said.
So I went and took Bridget to a pewter exhibit.
Chapter Eighteen
For the whole eleven weeks I never did find a location for afternoon poon with Bridget, so it was the same damn museum day after day. It might have been a little better if there were a few other museums on campus but there weren’t and, believe me, once you have seen the Laocoön 77 times you don’t care if you never see another marble asshole as long as you live.
Even Bridget began to fidget after a couple weeks so I translated another Itzik Fishel to quieten her down. This new one was greater even than Esther Resnick, American in my opinion which I hope you’ve come to have a little respect for by this time. It was called The Great Triangle Shirtwaist Company Fire and it was about this famous sweatshop fire in New York back around 1911 which you probably heard of, where 146 Jewish and Italian immigrant girls got burned to death because the cheap, chiseling boss had never put in any fire escapes; instead he slipped the cops a few bucks not to report him.
You already know what the combination of me and Itzik Fishel is like, so there’s no need giving you the whole poem. But you might enjoy a little sample, so here’s the first stanza. If you’re not interested, just skip over.
A hundred and forty-six girls are dead,
A curse should be on the boss’s head,
’Twas him together with crooked cops,
Who killed those innocent Jews and wops.
The rest, if I may say so, was in the same general quality. In fact, Bridget thought it was far superior. I don’t know what Mr. Harwood thought. He got to laughing so hard, the prick, that I had to thump him on the back he shouldn’t choke. Well, you know Mr. Harwood.
Anyhow, the eleven weeks went crawling by somehow, and the Nettie-Gittel removal fund kept ootzing ahead little by little. Naturally we’d have all liked the fund to grow faster, not just me and my family, but all the neighbors too, because by now the whole Selby Avenue was starting in to cuss and mutter about the old ladies. What made everybody so sore was this new stunt Nettie and Gittel thought up lately: they’d go around stealing clotheslines which they’d cut into six-foot jump ropes and then trade them to the kids at Webster Elementary School for their lunch. So everybody was bitching—the former clothesline owners and the kids’ mothers too.
Well, finally came March 21, the first day of spring no matter what the thermometer said—it said eight below—but in my heart it was green and sunny because for me the eleven weeks were finally over at last. Tonight I was going to give Celeste her walking papers, and tomorrow would start a wonderful new life: no more Celeste, no more A. M. Zimmerman, no more Nettie and Gittel. Instead there’d be me and Bridget and true happiness at last, except of course my mother.
So I never stopped grinning and smiling the whole day long, right up until 11 P.M. when Celeste parked her Olds in front of the Fine Arts Theatre to pick me up as usual. That’s when I stopped grinning and smiling because to tell you the truth it made me a little sad all of a sudden, knowing I was about to give Celeste her walking papers. Not sad because this crotch-busting affair was finally over thank God, but sad because when you came right down to it, Celeste was not a bad person, just piggy and ruthless, and I really didn’t have any grudges against her. So I made up my mind to let her down as easy as I could, even throw in a farewell hump if she wasn’t crying too hard.
I started to get in the Olds but something was funny: Celeste didn’t slide over to let me drive like she always did. She stayed behind the wheel. “Get in the other side,” she said.
I did. “How come you’re driving?” I said.
“Nobody’s driving. We’re staying right here,” she said.
“We can’t you-know here,” I said. “A streetcar goes by every twenty minutes.”
“Morris, I got something to tell you,” she said.
“Isn’t that funny? I got something to tell you too,” I said.
“Ladies first,” she said.
“Okay, shoot,” I said.
“I love you, Morris,” she said.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch!” I said, giving a jump. “When did you find out?”
“This afternoon,” she said.
“I didn’t see you this afternoon,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “I kept ducking behind statues.”
“You followed me?” I hollered.
“Stop hollering,” she said. “I know you got another girl. I just wanted to take a look.”
“She’s only a casual acquaintance, is all,” I said. (You see how a person gets into habits? Why was I still lying to Celeste?)
“You know what I was going to do tonight, Morris?” said Celeste.
“What?” I said.
“I was going to ask you to take a look at my front tire and then run you over,” she said.
“I’m glad you changed your mind,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s no kind of a way to hold a boy.”
“I agree a hundred per cent,” I said.
“The best thing is to dump you,” she said. “So this is it, Morris. You’re all washed up.”
“Now just a minute!” I hollered. “Just a darn minute! Are you gonna dump the man you love just because you got a little jealous?” (Now you go figure that one! What was I arguing for? Wasn’t the whole idea to finish up this thing with Celeste? And wasn’t it getting finished? So what did it matter who dumped who? But it did matter. Don’t ask me why.)
“You’re wrong, Morris,” she said. “I didn’t get a little jealous. I got a lot jealous. In fact, my first idea was to run her over.”
“Celeste!” I said, giving a gasp.
“It’s the truth,” she said. “That’s why I got to dump you, Morris, before I kill somebody. This is making me very nervous, these big emotions. I mean what’s the use of money if you can’t behave with refined quietness?”
“I hope you realize you’re never gonna find another guy,” I said. (You see? Still arguing.)
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Luckily there’s a Depression, thank God, so there’s got to be more fortune hunters around.”
“Maybe so, but you won’t find one you love,” I said. (Why couldn’t I stop arguing, for Christ sakes?)
“That suits me fine,” she said. “Who wants to love somebody who don’t love them back? What kind of a bargaining position is that?”
“What
if he does love you back?” I said.
“Ho-ho-ho,” she said. “Well, good-by, Morris. You want to shake?”
I didn’t but I did anyhow.
“Hey, I nearly forgot. Don’t you have something to tell me too?” she said.
“Not any more,” I said.
“Well, good-by then,” she said. “Oh, listen, you wouldn’t happen to know of any boys I might look into?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “Lance Berman and Claude Applebaum.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, by the way, Daddy says to tell you you’re fired. Good-by, Morris.”
“Good-by, Celeste,” I said and went home to get all the sleep I could because tomorrow I was starting this wonderful new life.
Chapter Nineteen
I didn’t sleep at all, not one wink, and it wasn’t Nettie and Gittel’s fault this time. You know what kept me awake? I couldn’t stop thinking about Celeste. How do you like that? I wanted her back. Really; I’m not kidding. I wanted her back not to keep her, God forbid. I wanted her back so this time I could do the dumping. That’s what was puckering my ass: that she should have handed out the walking papers, not me. So the whole night long I kept trying to think up schemes to trap her again.
Did you ever hear anything so stupid? If I couldn’t sleep why didn’t I at least lay there and kvell about how glorious things were going to be from now on with my beautiful, tender-hearted, sweet-natured Bridget? Why couldn’t I do anything except brood about how to get back a mean, homely broad whose idea of a lovers’ quarrel was to run you over with a car?
But morning finally came and I got a hold of myself and said, Okay, dummy, enough dumbness, there’s work to be done. The first order of business was to go see my cousin Albert and get him to lend me his car for tonight because that was the next order of business: to have a date with Bridget in the darkness at last, give her a nice boff, and then propose to her so I could get the $158 from Sister Mary Frances and complete the Nettie-Gittel removal fund.
Well, imagine my surprise as I walked up to Albert’s house and there was Albert outside by the curb trying to tie the Shetland pony onto the fender of his car!
“Hey, Morris, hold the sonofabitch’s hind legs, will you?” he said.
“Albert,” I said, “why are you tying the horse on your fender?”