The Cheese Monkeys: A Novel in Two Semesters

by Chip Kidd

  I raised my hand again. “Er, excuse me, but isn't at least the basic concept true to the assignment? I mean, except it sort of does both—it makes you do something by not doing it.”

  “Nice try, Hap.” Winter snapped, “She's got you on a short leash, doesn't she?”

  Now wait a minute.

  “Alright, enough of this. Girleen, go back to the Armory Show.” He motioned for her to sit. “One more. Maybelleen?”

  Hims flounced back to her seat, fuming.

  Maybelle walked to the front of the room as if the floor might give way any second and send her plummeting to the basement.

  Up went her poster. She'd had it printed by a local carnival show-print letter press shop. Big black wood-type letters were set against a rainbow split font background that was yellow at the top and faded to orange, red, purple, and finally blue, at the bottom.

  It said:

  WHATEVER

  YOU DO,

  DON'T

  THINK OF

  ELEPHANTS!

  Oh, no.

  “It's something my grandfather used to say,” she offered, meekly. “It always made me . . . think of . . .” she trailed off and looked to her feet. I thought she might launch into some idiotic story rife with needless detail about Grandpa Lee and his short but triumphant years with Ringling Bros., but she wisely clammed up. Maybe she was starting to learn something.

  Winter squinted and went up to the poster. He lowered his head and shook it slightly. Then he lifted his left leg up to his chest and brought his foot down with a thud onto the desk in front of Maybelle. She jumped. He slowly untied his shoe, removed it, and took off his sock. He did the same with his right foot. Weird.

  We all held our breath. Frankly, I wasn't in the mood to hear Winter chew Maybelle out again— it was a little too much like watching someone smack a puppy that just didn't know when to stop barking. Really: wasn't Mike and Margaret's blood enough for one crit?

  Mabes, who in this room was never far from tears anyway, started to tremble and . . .

  “Here,” he put his socks into her hands, “these are for you.” He forced her fingers into fists, made her claim them. “Darlin', do you know why?” She brought herself to look at him, and made ready for the next scathing tirade.

  “Because those pachyderms . . .” he said, softly, with reverence, “. . . that you let loose in my head,” he became so sweet, so beautiful, “just knocked 'em right off.”

  And she fell into him, and she cried.

  Her shock: realizing she had never, ever in her life, lost herself to tears because she was happy. It really was possible to cry because she had done something right. Because she didn't screw it all up. It was all, in her own words from last semester, so new. “God, it will never happen again,” she must have thought as she drained her ducts into Winter's argyles.

  Oh, what I wouldn't have done to be crying into those socks.

  Anyway, he gently propped Maybelle's quivering form against the wall, ripped off her poster, and went to the window. Energized, he threw it open and barked at some hapless passerby, “Hey!”

  We heard a muffled “What?”—an older man's voice. Winter thrust the poster out into space.

  “Look at this!”

  A beat, then Sorbeck asked, “So? What does it make you think of?”

  “Uh, elephants?”

  “RIGHT! Hah! Go AWAY!”

  He pulled it back in and faced us. Intoxicated.

  “You SEE? POWER!”

  He reflexively beat his fist against the window, cracking the pane. He did it again. We heard a shower of glass hit the pavement.

  “Do you SEE?”

  • • •

  Thank you, God: I wasn't called on to show mine. Winter would have used it for toilet paper, and rightly so. I won't even go into what it was. I destroyed it as soon as I got out of the room.

  • • •

  “What a load of crap. You'd think we were taking Drama. Like, like rehearsing act three of some bozo Arthur Miller play—one that waves the flag it's pissing on.” Hims was on the boil like I'd never seen, as we walked at a good clip down the mall after class, on the way to town.

  I gently antagonized her. “You're just sore because he handed you your head.” And made Maybelle Queen for a Day—who could have seen that coming?

  “Horse hockey! I think he actually buys that genius schmenius line.” I watched the dusk fall on her face. “He can go pound sand! How often has history heard that story? It's a joke. Graphic Design is going to save the goddamn world just as soon as Christianity, penicillin, and democracy do. Superman saved the US of A? Gee, that'll be news to my Uncle Osborne. He was at D day.” She was really hitting stride, all the rejoinders she either didn't think of in class—or didn't quite have the nerve to voice—pouring out of her. God, I loved it. A good Himillsy rant was like a Callas aria without the restraint. “Lady Day got a free ride cause she's a canary? I guess that's why Carnegie Hall just welcomed her with open goddamn doors! Jesus Jehosephat! Sawbuck wants to trade one Levittown for another—of his own liking. He trots out the pantheon of disenfranchised genius so he can add his own goddam name to the list—the next two-bit wizard from the sticks. It's just another cliché about America, and maybe it's the worst one of all, because people like him—in Power, still believe in it.” She caught her breath. “Besides—Joe Louis is cuter, and knows how to kiss.”

  “You sucked face with Joe Louis?”

  “Don't change the subject.”

  “Sorry. So . . . you liked Mike's poster, then.”

  We stopped. Main Street buzzed behind her like gnats around a licorice whip as she grimaced, weary of my idiocy. Of everybody's.

  “Christ, of course not.”

  • • •

  My Black Thursday, that day of days, started innocently enough. Eggs Benedict at the dining hall. A-minus on a Geo Sci quiz. Booster burger at the Caf with Thenson for lunch.

  Then, that afternoon, in the middle of GD, when we were going over the history and use of Futura and bracing ourselves for the fourth critique assignment, I attempted to enjoy a stick of gum.

  Mistake of the century.

  The irony in this, and what followed, is: I hate gum. If David David thought mere last names turned us all into cows, he had nothing on gum. Anyway, Maybelle had offered me a piece and I thought it would be impolite not to accept. As I began to pop it into my mouth, Winter stopped in midsentence.

  “Happy, what are you doing?”

  Shit. “H-having a piece of gum.” This was supposed to be College after all, were we not finally free to—

  “Really. What brand?”

  Didn't even remember. I smoothed out the wrapper. “Um, Wrigley's Doublemint.”

  “You were going to throw the wrapper away, weren't you?”

  Oh no. Out for blood. Why? “Not. Necessarily.”

  “Then why did you crumple it up?”

  Shitshitshit. Hot. Pulse gaining. “Because I—”

  “DON'T bother, Happy.” All eyes were on me, the new sacrifice. Winter sharpened his knives. “I guess you just don't think it's beautiful enough for your refined taste.”

  “I hadn't even thought—”

  “No, you hadn't. Take a look at it.”

  The familiar green background, the black double arrow, the simple red sans-serif type, the laurel crown of mint leaves. I guess it was kind of beautiful. I'd just never thought to regard it. And why should I have to? Why was I being singled out?

  “Happy, who designed it?”

  “I . . . don't know.”

  “Hey kiddies!” Winter was asea in his own squall, taking us all along for the ride and making me walk the plank. “There's something Happy doesn't know! Aren't we excited ?”

  What, in God's own hell, brought this on?

  “Well, Happy, your mission, if you ever want to set foot in this room again, is to find out, and report from the field. You see fit to chew the gum, but couldn't give a tinker's damn about the poor so
n of a bitch who has to figure out what it looks like, only so you can cast his efforts onto the trash heap.”

  “I don't even chew—”

  “IF I WANT YOUR OPINION, I'LL BEAT IT OUT OF YOU!”

  Horror, in my heart. I won't cry. I will. Not. Cry.

  He stomped over to Mike, picked up the small paper bag on the desk in front of him. He dumped the pencils in it onto the table and threw the bag, empty, at me.

  “Here! Design your way out of THAT!”

  Didn't cry. Honest.

  Until I picked up the bag.

  • • •

  When the air cleared, we got the assignment for the fourth crit—the weirdest yet. He was careful not to look at me as he issued our orders, an un-gesture that hurt more than a piercing stare ever would. We had to show Winter “something that I've never seen before and will never be able to forget. Because that should always be your goal. If you can do that, you can do anything—never attempt anything less.”

  • • •

  Maybelle, who felt responsible for my plight (because she was, thanks) insisted on tagging along with us to the Diner. Hims let her, for my sake—a giant sacrifice, I knew—and they both, in their own way, tried to console me. Kind of sweet, actually, though it only brought the threat of more tears.

  “I am so, so sorry. I'll never chew it again,” Mabes cooed. “He doesn't mean it. He's just upset. Of course you can come to the next class.” As if it were up to her. Ridiculous.

  “Not without finding out who designed the bloody Doublemint wrapper,” I moped.

  “Can you?”

  “I'll try. Jesus, whoever it was is probably dead and gone. Who'll even know? Why is he doing this to me?”

  Hims chimed in. “Wrong place, wrong time. It's his whole unsung invisible architects of the modern world routine, it's not you.” She opened the door to the Diner. “And what are you so worked up about? God, you're free! I'd pay for my walking papers from that zipperhead.”

  Once we were in a booth, Mills continued to try and cheer me up, using Maybelle as bait.

  “So dear,” she asked her, “what do you have in mind for the next crit? Sounds like a hard one.”

  “Goodness,” Mabes responded, “haven't even thought about it, what with all the upset.”

  “Well, this idea is free: you should do what I was going to do. I was going to stand on the table, lift up my dress, and release a flock of rose-colored doves from my vagina. They'd circle, form the words ‘GO STATE!’ in midair, and fly back in. But Erbie's just didn't stock enough pink dye. Maybe you could pull some strings I couldn't. Or use blue—they had plenty. Goes with your coloring. S'cuse.” And she was off to the ladies'.

  “Everything she says,” Maybelle's eyes went into her coffee, another trust broken, “has a pin in it. Even the nice things.” Then she looked at me. “She was trying to be nice, wasn't she?”

  When Mills came back to the booth, we'd changed the subject to Mike, who, I'd be the first to admit, had troubles in GD that I'd not ever had to face.

  “Thick as a brick, sorry,” said Hims. “That boy is the distance between two points.”

  Maybelle took up his cause. “Well, I admire him. We talked some, that day on the bus. He's from Boalsburgh. Used to be a commercial sign painter, and decided he wanted more out of life. Scrimped and saved for years to come here. He's thirty-one, can you imagine? And Winter treats him so shabbily . . .”

  “Darling, here's one thing I've heard, and I believe it: After age twenty-five, you're not a victim anymore—you're a volunteer.”

  “I still think it's inspiring. And why not? Look at Grandma Moses—she was well into her sixties before she started painting.”

  Himillsy was practically rutzing. “Sorry, dear, but I've seen the work. She never started painting.”

  • • •

  After an hour's wait in line, my call from the dorm's hall pay phone to the Wrigley office, in Chicago, was yielding the foreseen dead results. I tried to ignore the hot stares of the guys behind me as I got handed on the other line from department to department, and finally reached someone in Package Production.

  “Yes? What can I do for you?”

  “I need to find out who originally designed the label for Doublemint gum. I need a name.”

  “Wow. Now there's a question. Hold please?”

  “Sure.”

  Five minutes passed like kidney stones. I read up for my Geo Sci final. Fed fifty cents to the machine.

  “Hi. Sorry.” “

  'S okay.”

  “It was handled by a firm outside the company. A good twenty-plus years ago it seems, sorry to say.”

  “And, the name of the company?”

  “Gee. Got me there. Hold again?”

  “Yep.”

  Six minutes this time, onto Ab Psych, more nickels, more hostility.

  “Hi. You there?”

  “I am.”

  “Just wanted to get everything straight before I got back on.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It seems it was an agency in Connecticut. New Haven. Outfit name of Spear, Rakoff, and Ware. They're still around. Here's the number—”

  At least it was something. “Just one more call . . . ” I said meekly, and it was ringing.

  “Dear, slack off your cares.”

  “Excuse me?” Was I hearing things? A muffled guffaw in the background? Then, seriously,

  “Spear, Rakoff, and Ware. How may I deflect your call?”

  Deflect ? “Um, can I have, what—the Design Department?”

  “God, you certainly can. Hold.” Wiseguy receptionist. Probably blotto.

  “Art Department.”

  “Hi. Please . . . please don't hang up. I'm a design student at State U? I need to find out who designed the Doublemint gum package. For a school project.”

  “Ah,” a blurry exchange in the background, then, “We did?”

  “Well, yes. But who specifically? I need a name, for a paper I'm writing.”

  “That was what—” He checked. “Twentysome years ago? I just started last June. Sketchy Spear'd know. Been here forever.”

  “Can I speak with him?”

  “At lunch. Peppe's. God knows when we'll see 'im.”

  “When's a good time to call back?'

  “He's here late.”

  “How late?”

  • • •

  At eight-thirty, I went to the pay phone in the Baxter building, outside of 207 (kick me: should have done gone there in the first place) with two rolls of nickels. Pulled up a chair. Tried again, and while I waited for someone to pick up, I stared at the door to the classroom, vowing to walk through it again as soon as—

  “Art Department.” Grandpa Kettle voice.

  “Can I have Mr. Spear, please?”

  “Speakin'.”

  Capital. I tried to stay calm. “Er, you don't know me, but I'm a design student. I need your help.”

  “Heh. All ears.”

  “Great. My professor at State U gave me an assignment for a project at school . . . I need to find out who made the original label for Wrigley's Doublemint gum. Who designed it.”

  “Jeez, that's a while back.”

  “I know, I'm sorry. I was told you're the only one could help me.”

  “Heh, well. See, Lars Rakoff, he's dead now. But he was the big cheese at the time. He did it.”

  I didn't believe him. “You sound—doubtful.”

  “Heh, no.”

  I figured it out.

  “It was you, wasn't it?”

  “What's this for? You with the papers?”

  “No, just a student. I think graphic designers just don't get enough credit, and I want to set the record straight.”

  “Heh.” A moment. “I did the green for the background, not exactly a leap. Then I tried— two mint leaves. Didn't fly. But the double arrow, and the type, came from this kid we had here. Not even a year. He really snapped the crackers. Uh, big guy. Football, maybe. Ladies' man, heh. Sm
art as a whip, lotsa ideas, I remember. Wasn't gonna last long. Jeezus Pete, his name was . . . what? Serbock? Winston? . . .

  “ . . . Hello?”

  I caught my breath. “Winter. Sorbeck.”

  “That's him! Say, you know'im? Hadn't thoughta those days in years. Just a kid myself. That whole Doublemint business, we had no idea . . .”

  “You've been, so. So helpful. Can't thank you enough, really. Could you . . . possibly send me your business card? First-class postage? I'll pay.”

  “Heh. Pleasure . . .”

  I gave him the address.

  Supposed to meet Hims at the Skeller, nine sharp. Boy, did I need that beer.

  • • •

  “Son. Of. A. Bitch.” She was very, very impressed. Waving her cig like a magic wand, left and right, over my head, christening me. “ Sherlock, Sunuvabitch, Holmes.”

  “I'm lucky, is what. Can you imagine the odds? The guy still alive, still working there, answering the phone? Remembering?”

  “Outrageous. We should have guessed. Explains everything—no wonder that psycho went bananas. Get him on the couch, ASAP.”

  “I'm just relieved. Seemed like such a personal attack. Couldn't understand it.” I brought up the coming crit, putting myself back in the race. Felt great. “Old guy's sending me his business card—it'll be my piece for the crit. It's had to have changed, at least a little, since Sorbeck was there, so technically he's never seen it before. Ought to shake him up, right?”

  “Brill. Really.”

  “Think? How about you, sans the flock?”

  “Couple ideas. Nothing vocable.”

  “It'll come.”

  “Always does.”

  We ordered another round.

  And another.

  Then, the unthinkable.

  “HapEEE! And GirLEEEEN! My Ideeeeeals!!”

  No, not here. This was our Batcave. The Joker never gets into the Batcave.