The Cheese Monkeys: A Novel in Two Semesters

by Chip Kidd

  “Shit.”

  I feared she was taking it personally.

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh well, so much for that.” She put her cigarette out of its misery.

  The food arrived.

  “Pardon me for asking,” I tried to be the soul of discretion “but, do you really have a . . .” I didn't really want to say it. She looked at me sideways.

  “What.”

  “A. Yeast, problem.”

  “What? Jesus, no. I needed an exit line. No one ever questions it—what are they going to do, prop up my skirt and dig around?” She picked up the burger. More than half her head disappeared behind it.

  The sandwich was gone in under two minutes. She made short work of the milkshake too.

  “What,” I started, once the plates were cleared, “what do you think of Dottie?”

  “What . . .” she lit up again, “do I think . . .?” She didn't bother to finish the question. Obviously she didn't think of Dottie at all. “I think,” she sent a cloud of smoke to the ceiling fan, “that she couldn't teach a piece of shit how to stink.” Another drag. “I also think she gets her decorating tips from Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not, and . . . if I don't squeeze an A out of that lousy meatbag, I can kiss what's left of my grade point average goodbye, so Daddy can finally yank me out of here like a festering tooth.”

  “An A? For talking an octogenarian out of his underpants?”

  “That was an aesthetic decision.”

  “Aesthetic?! Whose? Boris Karloff's?”

  “Please. And he's only fifty-nine, for Chrissakes.”

  “But you drew his head. Half of his head.”

  “Exactly. Think about it.”

  “What did you say to him, anyway?”

  “Don't change the subject.”

  “Okay.” I leaned back, thinking out loud. “You were going to draw half his head. So naturally he needed to air out his what's-it to get the desired effect.”

  “Yes.” Aiming her face at me. “Now, why?”

  I hated to admit it—I was stumped.

  She sighed. “If you were shoved up in front of the class in your bvds, you'd have a certain look in your eye—maybe interesting, maybe not. Take your undies away and it would, at least, be more interesting. No?”

  Aha. “Alright, maybe. But drawing on everyone else's? You can't just do that. It's . . . sacrilege.” And you didn't exactly appreciate it yourself, dear.

  “No. Clogging the hallways with pukey drawings— that's sacrilege.” She leaned in again. “Look. I was unable not to. Hey—you're driving down the highway. Someone runs up towards your car screaming ‘Help me!,’ what are you going to do? You stop. You help.”

  “Or speed up . . . ”

  She laughed—her thoughts exactly. “It was a kick. And it's not as if I ran amok through the Prado with a hacksaw, or that those talentless clods in 101 would be any the wiser. People never notice anything.” She took another drag. “What tipped you off?”

  “You kidding? ‘Vive la Danse’?”

  “Oh, I know. Isn't it terrible? I never know when to stop. I would have put new arms on the Venus de Milo.”

  “And nail polish, and bracelets, and elbow guards . . .”

  “And sparkly breast pasties and rouge!” She was delighted. “And a fox stole, with a little freezedried head, and toothpick legs! “She leaned back. ”Oh, why can't the world be interesting?”

  The waiter brought her coffee and sticky bun, which leaked steam and looked like a wet gerbil hugging its knees. She let four pats of butter slowly die on it before insinuating her fork.

  “But seriously,” she said between mouthfuls, “there's a good example—about alteration.”

  “What.”

  “The Venus de Milo. Do you really think anyone would give a good whoop about it if it was intact? Okay, maybe it would still be stuffed away in some museum, but we wouldn't know about it, I wouldn't be talking about it right now. It— she's in our heads because she has personality.” She sipped her coffee, her eyes darting from side to side. “What she's missing intensifies the effect of what she's got. It's a symbol. . .” She was figuring something out. Her face darkened. “She's a woman as men want her: a nice set of knockers and no fists or fingernails to defend them. You're all pigs.”

  “Now, wait a min—”

  “You . . . you just want her at your mercy.”

  “And you just want to put tassels on her . . . you know. That wasn't my idea.”

  “That was in the spirit of fun!” She eased up and smiled. “I just want her to live a little, poor thing. Stuck in the Louvre all day.”

  The loove? “If it's any consolation,” I offered, “she's got it made, next to Renaldo the headless kiwi.” This tickled her. She picked up her mug of coffee with her pinky extended and spoke in the manner of a catty English lady at tea.

  “Is that his name? I've often wondered across a crowded room. I suppose his features are rather Latin— bathed in mystery. We must put him on all the lists!”

  “Haven't you heard?” I responded, doing my Laurence Olivier and not missing a beat, “he's spoken for. Engaged to Miss Wingtip. The romance with the Stilton girl crumbled and soured. Lady Spang is just destroyed.”

  Howls of laughter. Then she took a last gulp and said, “Come on. Let's blow this dump. Let's head to the Skeller.”

  Egads.

  “It's three in the afternoon. It's Wednesday.” I had Art History at four. I just didn't do things like this. I was too young.

  “Good. We can still get nickel jars.”

  • • •

  I couldn't picture Himillsy Dodd at the Rathskeller anymore than I could see her candy striping in a leper colony. Its reputation was scalding. If State were on the water, the Skeller would have been a greasy drain under a rotten pier at the end of the wharf. Townies only—students entered at their own risk. A common fraternity hazing ritual sent pimply pledges into the place clad in nothing but pink and green, with orders to stay until closing. Few emerged intact. For me it was still a legend.

  “Hey, Joey,” she said to the hulk propping up the doorjamb, throwing her head my way, “he's okay. No sweat.” We slid past his slow eyes and descended steps into the greasy murk. My Art History slide lecture was nicknamed Darkness at Noon, but it had nothing on this place. Something crunched under our feet—it could have been peanut shells, but it also could have been bacteria the size of poker chips. A wet film coated the stone walls and returned through a haze the dim glow of four no-watt bulbs dangling from long cords.

  Everywhere smoke, smoke, smoke.

  Several shadowy patrons in plaid flannel and worn denim lurked along the edges of the bar. They ignored us and went about the business of forgetting yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

  I won't go into the smell.

  We sat across an oaken slab chewed crazy with knife marks. I was afraid to touch anything, so I set my elbows on the table and kept my hands in the air, like a surgeon waiting for rubber gloves.

  A tall, thick, bullet-headed man with a dark hole where his left ear used to be sauntered up to us, pointed his face at Himillsy, and said, “Hello, little missy.” I was about to seize her by the wrist and run for our lives when I recognized the phrase—it was the way Punjab referred to Little Orphan Annie.

  “Hey, Greck.” She was cool as a cuke. Took out a fresh pack of PMs. “What's the temp?”

  “High in the sixties, baby.”

  “I hear ya. Two slurp 'n' burps.”

  “You baby-sittin' or what?” He was looking at her but nodding at me.

  “He's alright. He's on safari.”

  Greck pulled his mouth into a smile.“Spark?”

  “Swell.”

  He took the match from his teeth, struck it against his left temple, and offered it to her: Me Greck—girl take gift of fire.

  She leaned into it. “Thanks, G.” He went to the bar.

  I started to breathe again. “I can't believe I'm sitting here.”

  Sh
e broke her icy facade, bubbling. “Isn't this place the end? God, I love it!” Then a pause. “I never bring anyone here.” Startled, eyes pleading and suspicious, as if this wasn't her idea in the first place. “Why did I take you here?” Stumped by her own question. We sat. Finally I broke the silence.

  “Because tomorrow someone has to explain what happened to the police. “This did not amuse. I fumbled. “Say—tell the bulldozer that if he doesn't hurt us, I'll make a new ear for him out of salt dough.”

  She gave her ash a flick. “Don't be mean. Greck adores me. He's a lamb.”

  “No, he's a side of beef. With a Van Gogh complex.”

  She betrayed a smile. “Oh, dry up.” Thank God—she was shifting into second, then third gear. Fourth couldn't be far away. “Tell me it's not a relief to be in the only place within twenty miles where someone isn't waving pom-poms in your face.”

  “True.” I squinted at her. “A slurp 'n' burp?”

  “My little name for the house special—a boilermaker. Trust me.”

  Greck brought the drinks—two pint mason jars of rusty liquid. Each held a submerged shotglass filled with something dark brown—I wouldn't have poured it down a drain for fear of ruining the pipes. Himillsy gave hers a hoist and pointed it in my direction. “Down the hatch, natch!” She snorted and took a mouthful big enough to float a goldfish.

  “Right.” I lifted my jar. I probably don't have to tell you that I was not a drinker. Not then.

  But I had to try it—I didn't want to be impolite. I jerked back my head, braced myself, and took a gulp. A malted cotton glove of beer slipped onto my tongue. Within seconds it had become a soda on fire, laying a trail of gasoline down the asphalt of my throat. The whiskey's match ignited it. The pain flared and thrilled. I tried to talk through the wall of flame, but it came out a whisper.

  “Nice,” I managed.

  “It gives me such perspective. Don't things seem more clear to you already?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “See!” The blinds were lifted between us. “So . . . you and that Dixie chicken seem to be pretty tight.”

  “What, Maybelle?” I sputtered, “We're just friends. Not even that, really. I met her at registration and we both ended up taking Dottie's class. She's nice enough. Little windy, though.”

  “She's a birthday cake with legs.” Himillsy made her left eye a slit. “May bell?”

  “Maybelle Lee.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Right hand to God.”

  “What a riot.” Threw back another swallow.

  “So,” I said, between coughs, “are you a Sculpture major?” This put a wry smile on her face.

  “Was.” A small belch. “Pardon. Or as I called it: ‘Go Shit Nicely in the Corner,’ which was all they ever want you to do. And before that, Painting, or: ‘Pounding the Pigment.’ Preceded by Textiles. And at the beginning, Ceramics—AKA ‘Hi! My Name Is Mud!’ ”

  “And, have you—”

  “Been thrown out of each? Yes. I am—” she paused for effect, “Joan of Art.”

  “Oh. Need a match?” I quipped. “Actually, you should tell Dottie that you keep hearing voices telling you to lead the class to rise up and drive all the English majors out of the building. You should come to class in armor. On horseback. We should get Dottie into our confidence and then convince her that Maybelle is a heretic.” Where was all this coming from? “In league with Renaldo. See if she has any suggestions. Keep her guessing.” By now she was practically choking. She later confessed to me that I was the only person, besides herself, who could make her really laugh. It was the best grade I ever got. “C'mon, really, Mr. Peppie—what did you say to him?”

  She wiped her mouth and cleared her throat. “I told him I wasn't good enough to draw it from memory.” I nearly coughed up my drink.

  Then out of nowhere she became serious and peevish. Not at me, but at an enemy we were united against. “I've just had it with this faux-primitivism in the arts. ‘Abstract’ daubs. Symbolic, bleak little plays. Junk sculpture, nihilistic, ‘avant-garde’ robotic verse. Crude banalities. Is that what we need?” Shrieking. “Is that what feeds the human heart? Is the human heart ABSTRACT?!”

  No one looked at us. Sudden, freakish outbursts seemed welcome here.

  “No. Not mine, anyway.” Not that I knew what she was talking about.

  My longing for someone fun to talk to made Himillsy the lightning bug in my honey jar. I punched holes in the lid so she could breathe. “The subtitle of your sculpture—who are the Cheese Monkeys?”

  And then the roles traded places.

  She snickered through her nose, crossed her eyes, and did a frighteningly accurate imitation of my voice. “So, just who are these cheese monkeys? And what do they want?” She gave herself to giggles. I knew better than to ask again.

  “Actually,” she straightened out, “that's sacred— strictly off limits. But I'll give you a hint, as a trade.”

  “For what?”

  “An explanation.”

  Uh-oh. That's what I was afraid of. Whether she realized it or not, this was why she'd brought me here.

  “I gave the class oeuvre a face-lift at about three this morning. VA doesn't open till eight-thirty, class started at nine, and crit at ten-thirty.” She sipped, “So when the hell did you get a chance to wave your magic wand without anyone seeing?”

  I considered this carefully. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Good. So can I.”

  Fierce stare. “Bastard.”

  “Sorry.” As if it weren't up to me. I took another furry swallow. Her glass was nearly empty, and she sent her peepers on a trip around the room in search of Greck, found him, and nodded. Billie Holiday's buttermilk voice poured in from somewhere: “Good Morning, Heartache.” Himillsy shut her eyes against the raptures. “God. Anyone who doesn't dig the Lady is just down here on a visit . . .”

  “Without a map,” I said, empowered by drink. Greck brought two fresh jars, though I still had a good third of my first to get through. I drained more of it.

  Soon I no longer cared how filthy everything was, and the most pleasant sensation descended— not just the booze, but . . . it was the first time in two weeks I didn't feel homesick. My mind was putty on a Sunday funnies page, pulling up images and twisting them to my liking. I yanked Greck's sides outward, leaving him a squished, helpless dwarf. I gently coaxed Himillsy taller and let down her hair. I made her eyes a little softer. A little happier.

  “What're you staring at?”

  “Sorry, I. So what, now, for you, then?”

  “What.”

  “I mean, what's your next major? You should've had Intro to Drawing a long time ago.”

  “Put it off. Kept waiting for something really awful to happen to dotty Dottie.” She affected remorse. “No luck. I'll probably end up a Liberal Arts nun. Garnett says I won't know what I want to do till I leave here anyway. Till I'm free of the tyrannie de l'Académie. It's one of the few things we agree on.“

  Garnett. The way she said his name, as if he was a given, something she was born with—Garnett was not just some friend. Of course Himillsy was going steady. People who looked like Himillsy were always going steady, the way people who looked like me always carried something to read. So why did this disappoint me so? The initials on the shirt—his? I wanted to know everything about him, about anyone who might hold her interest. Without trying to sound too nosy, I asked, “What's his calling?”

  She screwed up her eyes again and spat out, “Architecture. He's learning how to take God's green earth and square it off. Man's Inhumanities. For credit.”

  “That must be very—”

  “Geometric. Concrete. Self-important. Reasonbased. A snore.”

  “But Jeez, we gotta have them. I mean . . . there was some architect that built this place, right?”

  “No, there wasn't. That's my point. Whoever built this place wanted to keep the rain off a bunch of juice pigs long enou
gh so their dough wouldn't get soggy before he could poison them and grab it. Period. It's honest. Mies van der Rohe couldn't design a dive—or any other place for human beings —if his crispy life depended on it.”

  “Who?”

  “Skip it.”

  We talked about something else after that, though I couldn't say what, and I think I had at least half of my second drink. Then we were at her car, a smart little white Corvair two-seater, and she must have asked if she could drop me somewhere. I guess I said yes. It was dark and I remember I thought it was very late, but then realized it wasn't at all. She opened the door to let me in and it was just amazing because it was one gigantic ashtray inside—every inch of the floor and dashboard held fistfulls of ashes and butts and gum and candy wrappers and spent matches. She giggled and started the engine. Then we were headed back towards campus, doing sixty at least. I was not feeling well. Sweating—in October. I needed a tissue. I fiddled with the glove compartment.

  “Hey. Hands off. Don't—” The door popped out. I saw it. Oh.

  Oh. Oh. My God. Horrible . . .

  “I warned you . . .” she said, with mild disapproval.

  “Oh. Dear Heav—.” I shut it. That was it. All I needed. I started to heave and wretch. Himillsy stayed calm and issued orders.

  “You can't shlarf in my car. Really. I'm serious.“ She rounded a corner. We were in the middle of Main Street, people everywhere. No place to stop. “There are limits. Roll down the window.” I fumbled for the crank. “Do it. Now! I mean it!” I was a puppet with the strings cut. Unnameable forces guided my hand to the knob and made orbits. The window descended and my head went over. The tragedy in my stomach raced up my gullet and burst out of my mouth—Act I, Act II, Act III. The acid taste scraped over my tongue before it exploded onto the public sector, streaming down the side of the car. Someplace in my powerless mind I worried it might take the paint off the chassis. Suddenly it became imperative to me that we keep moving— forever. Pedestrians, curious, then appalled, sped by to the right. I returned my thoughts to the horror in the glove compartment and offered more out into space—there seemed to be an endless supply. We stopped at a light. Himillsy was in hysterics, waving at everyone and shrieking.“Hi Biff! Hi Midge! It's so great to see you! Spewy says hi!” She gave me a nudge. “Spewy, doesn't Midge look fabulous?”