The Cheese Monkeys: A Novel in Two Semesters

by Chip Kidd

  “Two things surprised me,” he said. “It had heat. And it had weight.”

  I practically fainted again.

  And so it was actually to carry Himillsy, whom I'd never so much as dared touch. Her mantle may have provided the illusion of a bloodless invertebrate, but not so—actual physical warmth rose from her rag doll frame.

  I was darting across the grass, from the chaotic back drop. Towards the car. Where did we park?

  “Himillsy! Wake up!”

  “Whuuuu . . . ”

  Finally found it. I propped her gently against the door.

  “Wake up! We've got to get out of here! Now!” I rattled her.

  “G-Garnett?”

  “No, it's me! Himillsy, listen! You've been drugged. I don't know where your car keys are!”

  She shook her head as if she'd just surfaced from a dive. Started laughing.

  Then stopped, angry. Realized it was me. “What the Hell are YOU doing?”

  What? “Getting us the hell out of Dodge, if that's all right. Didn't think you wanted to be raped just now, sorry.”

  “I was having FUN! You had no right to stop it! What're you, my chaperone?” She sneered. “My hero?”

  How DARE she? “I thought I was your friend! Jesus Goddamned Christ! Do you have any idea what kind of a spot I just got you out of ?” I was in burning disbelief. “At least Winter seemed grateful.”

  “Winter?” She was totally disgusted. “Jesus, if you could only see yourself in class, sitting there staring at him . . .”

  “Stop it.”

  “. . . hanging on every word . . . with your mouth wide open. Sickening.”

  How could she? I backed away. “At least . . .” I grasped for it, “he has something to say.” This got what I wanted—her hurt and fury. God, how did it all collapse into this, so quickly?

  She ran up to me, still unsteady from her Mickey Finn. “You mean someone to fire at!” She lost herself to hysterics, “You don't get it! We are the fish! In his barrel!”

  I replied, with sick calm, “No. You are the cat, in his bag.” She shouldn't have known what that meant, but she obviously did—it must have been the way I said it. I'd clearly crossed the line.

  Ballistic. “And you! Love him!”

  Please . . . please don't become my enemy. “Enough.” Because I will destroy you.

  “You . . . LOVE him.” She was figuring it out, as always. No . . . “You love him THAT! WAY!”

  Had we been in a movie, this would be where I'd have slapped her. I didn't dare, because it wouldn't have been just a slap—I'd have kept going until she was a red, wet spot on the grass. So I did something else.

  I'd become pretty good at figuring things out too.

  I looked over, towards the car. “And who do you love? Anyone?”

  “No!—”

  I was there in a single motion. Hand in the glove compartment. Pulled him out.

  “Any . . . thing?”

  She was powerless to move.

  Aloft, my sacrifice. My hands on the head and shoulders, poised to open him like a fleshy bottle of Crush. I started twisting, testing. Wouldn't be easy.

  That was okay, I had all night.

  Polyurethane is strong. My human terror, and longing, and tortured frustration and my heart— full of the worst kind of love—were stronger. I yanked and strained and regripped and pulled again.

  She stared—petrified, incredulous.

  And then it wasn't Baby Laveen anymore, it was me: the spawn of Himillsy and Winter who can only watch and admire with eyes wide open, who polishes the apples only to have them cored and quartered, consumed and . . . disposed of. This was a mirror I couldn't bear to look into anymore. And I would dispose of it.

  Finally a crack in the rubber neck and a little plea popped from the rear of the upper mezzanine in my head.

  “Please, don ' t. ”

  Too late. The last pink strand stretched and gave with a recoiling SNAP!

  His head in my left fist.

  I wound up and sent it into space. Landed somewhere with a small leaf splash in the Fiji hedges. Tossed the body into the passenger seat of the car.

  Then something much more than a scream and much less than human flew out of her and before I knew it she was gunning the engine.

  The car leapt onto the sidewalk, did a doughnut on the lawn, hesitated, and shot to the road.

  Yes, go. Good. I'm . . . good.

  And I am dead.

  • • •

  She didn't show up for Winter's penultimate class, two days later. I wasn't surprised. I barely made it there myself—the events had been so desolating, I sent them into exile just so I could get out of bed. As we waited for the last assignment, I saw there were nine of us left.

  Ideal.

  Winter didn't comment one way or the other and was especially brusque and subdued as he gave us our instructions. “For the final critique, it's very simple. I want you to look back on the four core projects, and combine them into one— taking into account all you've seen and heard here. It can take any form that you prefer, but remember, as in the ‘word’ problem, examine the content very, very carefully before deciding how it's going to look. Let the one inform the other. And it better . . .” He looked through us, to something impossible, “. . . astonish me.” Didn't even bother to light up.

  “That's all.”

  Himillsy, for all intents and purposes, had vanished. There was no way to directly contact her room, and I wasn't even sure I wanted to— goddamnit, she could make the effort this time.

  But true to form, I started to come around from the whole thing and kidded myself I hadn't done anything too terrible—it was the booze. She'd cool off eventually. She always did.

  All that high drama, over a doll. Ridiculous.

  I at least wanted to get her the final crit assignment, so I loitered across the street from Garnett's apartment that afternoon, hoping to “run in” to her. To kill the time I worked out in my head what my final project would be . . .

  There was an old Vandercook letterpress proofing machine and dozens of wood and lead type trays that ended up in the Belly when a local type foundry folded in the wake of the onset of photolettering technology. The Lithography TA had showed me how to use it. And now I would—to make a series of six broadsides based on notes I had taken all semester. Using just large type and stark backgrounds, they would be recruitment posters for the class, using slogans culled from Winter—the course name and number would appear, small, at the bottom of each one.

  From the first day:

  THAT WAS LOUSY. DO IT AGAIN.

  From the first critique:

  THIS ISN'T A CLASSROOM,

  IT'S AN ARENA.

  From the second:

  LIMITS ARE POSSIBILITIES.

  From the third:

  GOOD IS DEAD.

  From the fourth:

  DON'T LOOK NOW!

  And finally,

  ASTONISH ME.

  I'd construct a cloth-bound portfolio case for them, with a label. What to call it? What would Himillsy call it? Something weird, enigmatic . . . like Barnum's “This Way to the Egress.” Of course:

  THE CHEESE MONKEYS

  By dusk I'd had no luck and couldn't afford to wait any longer. I trudged over to her dormitory. I left the final's instructions—in an envelope, Himillsy's name scrawled on it—with the building's desk monitor.

  • • •

  Friday morning. Mike, Maybelle, and I set up camp in the Belly of the VA building, figuring we could pool our resources, even if they just amounted to peerage coaxing. We had until Tuesday afternoon to distill twelve weeks of work into a single heady dram, a coherent whole—in addition to preparing for our other finals. I felt cheated that Himillsy had deserted us (or more specifically, me), and was furious with her anew while simultaneously hoping she'd burst in on us any minute and stake her claim, so all could be forgiven.

  Crenck and Mabes discussed their plans, but I stayed vague about mine.
Mike's approach was to do the word “volatile” in matches, make an identity look like a hitchhiking sign, and paint a “Keep America Beautiful” poster using smoke stacks which somehow become the stripes in the American flag. I finally decided to flat-out tell him.

  “Look. That's not going to cut it.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, for one thing, it's three separate projects, not one.”

  “Oh.”

  “You have to consolidate them. Weren't you listening?” You worm.

  “Oh. How?”

  “That's the question, exactly, we all have to figure it out.”

  Maybelle was claiming an entire table with her art supplies. “Mine's going to be a big jigsaw puzzle, and when you put it together, it'll make a calligraphied sign that sends out an SOS using carnival colors.”

  For her, that was an atomic mental breakthrough.

  “Good for you.”

  I'd already pulled an “all-nighter” or two last semester, but this was going to be different. I sat down and made a list of everything that had to get done by Tuesday afternoon, and figured I could just finish it all in time.

  Provided I didn't sleep. I mean really—not a wink.

  Mike and Maybelle came to the same conclusion. Had we any idea what we were in for, we'd never have tried it.

  Winter would have wanted me to tell it this way: The first day, the hard realities are just theory—the deadline is still abstract and you're not in a rush. You laugh, you're at ease, you work slowly—as if extra time can be delivered on demand at some point, like a pizza. You stay calm.

  And later you will regret it, deeply.

  But for now, one day turns into the next, and you don't notice too much out of the ordinary. You've got a job to do, and the weight of the requirements begins to tug accordingly. But hey—no windows, mercifully, in the Belly. Just a long night's journey into day. What time is it?

  At forty-eight hours, it's the hardest—the clock has decided who's the rodent in its wheel and you're not running fast enough. You fret, you're going to collapse, and . . . you don't quit. It's weird. You keep thinking, “I really have to shut down, any minute,” and you're going to, just as soon as you have the second page up and running. Though after that, oh shit, ink the press up for the third, before stopping, and then it's . . .

  The third day. You're under the rainbow and the spotlight of the Divine Tragic Absurd shines its black light everywhere and helps you grow like a mushroom. You sharpen a pencil and it's just the saddest thing since the Creation. You verge on weeping—in silent isolation—for five minutes. Then the point snaps against your work top and it puts you into fits of hysteria. Wipe your eyes and proceed. You foolishly take a break and emerge to street level. Mars. Make it to the Caf, to refuel, and you're seeing it for the first time because you realize everyone acts as if they have no idea you've been awake for over seventy-two hours, but they've known all along and can barely contain their horror and admiration. You are fortified and ashamed. You have three helpings of mashed potatoes (so easy to chew! ) and a half a glass of Coke. You take an apple and a banana for later, leave them on your tray, and toss them into the garbage as you leave.

  When you realize this, halfway back to the VA building, you find the nearest curb and sit. Eyes moist. Innocent fruit—they deserved better.

  So alone.

  • • •

  After ninety-six hours, it's not a pencil anymore, it's a yellow pointypointy that makes marks for you when you give it brain signals and frankly it's bored and wants a life of its own. Can you blame it? Of course you can. Someone made it. How did they get the hard blackyblack in there? Was it Space Beings? The pointypointy drops yellow to the floor. The floor is fifty feet down. You'll drown if you go after it. No more pointypointy. A pen, yes, get a pen. Yes. It would feel clean and good in your hand, if your fingers weren't numb. No blackyblack in it. Bluesygoo.

  How'd bluesygoo get in there?

  Then your mother bursts through the door in a giant silver wig and a see-thru muumuu, carrying the biggest beach ball you've ever seen. It's decorated to look like the world and she just keeps bouncing it and bouncing it, singing, “Una paloma blanca . . .”

  “Stop that,” you say, and she vanishes.

  “Stop what?” Maybelle at the table behind me, startled awake, puzzle pieces stuck to her hair. She was even closer to completion than I was—her “artwork” was done and all she had to do was finish cutting it all up. I still had to glue the portfolio binding and trim my pages. At least they came out half decent.

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “Must have dozed. Back to work . . .”

  The most cruelly ironic thing about all of it is that your faculties deplete inversely to the rate you need them most. One small slip—a renegade elbow to an open ink pot, a letterpress-printed label (four hours of work) trimmed to the wrong size, spells doom. As your project nears completion, it is becoming more coherent and realized, while you are deteriorating.

  Mike, by the way, bore none of the scars of this marathon—he didn't look unshaven because he already had a beard (to cover up the salami skin pallor of his cheeks), and his uncluttered mind was on autopilot. He was a little ripe from where I sat, but that was it. Working away.

  I thought: “Someone ought to take the key out of his back.” He'd slipped out to get more Cokes when—huh?

  Something small, warm, and wet on the back of my neck. Were the pipes leaking? Christ, all we need. Didn't have time to move my tools. Did my tools love me? Wiped it away and looked at my hand. Red ink on my fingers. Red ink? I turned around to ask Mabes if she—

  Good. God.

  She hadn't even noticed. Eyes barely open. Awake. For a week—the feeling gone from her hands. She was working. She was cutting up all the pieces. So He could put them all back together. Had to get it done.

  “Mmmaybelle.”

  It was all over her.

  “What.”

  “Give. Me, the.”

  “Ten more minutes, at most.” She wiped her brow, she wiped it all over her forehead. “Dear, I need a, a shower.”

  “X-Acto knife. Put it down.” So close, so. Too good. To be true. Of course this happens. This had to happen.

  “Why?” Finally looked up. At herself. “Oh. Oh.” A vein. Must have hit a vein. I stood for the first time in hours, to go to her. Wading through lava: at least my legs had slept.

  She was too tired to cry. Just stared. Waved her left hand away from her in a wide, lazy arc to banish it from her sight and sent a crescent spray of blood across the tables.

  Any on my project, Miss Lee, and I'll kill kill kill you.

  The X-Acto leapt from her right hand, missed my foot by less than an inch, and landed blade first into the linoleum. Sagged with a sigh to the floor. “No . . .”

  “It's alright.” I was . . . trying to get to her hand. God, her hand. I spotted . . . a small dome of red clay on the table in front of her. Clay?

  “No . . .”

  Her thumb. Tip of her thumb. That she'd sliced off. I needed to get that. She'd want that. Someone get some ice. I'll get that, I thought, just a sec.

  Clutched the arm. “Keep it up. I'll get a . . . ”

  Spinning.

  “Hold it up.” A backwards waltz, she shaking towards me. No, I lead. Dip. Up again. No, up. Losing our—onto the floor. Laughing. Funniest thing in the world. Tears. Ride it out. Catch breath. Okay. Up, we, go.

  “HUHhuhHUHhuhHUHhuh—”

  Sat her down. Clean rags in her bag. Picked up the, urrgh, thumb piece . . . a gum drop ( Aplus for D Squared!). Wrapped it, and into my shirt pocket. Wrapped her finger in tissue. Rubber bands. Mike nowhere in sight, Son of a Bitch.

  Had to get it reattached, pronto, she ever wanted it back. Simply no other option. God, God, damn. I made myself say it. “Let's . . . get to the infirmary.”

  “It's okay. Go by myself. ” She waved the bloody stump at me. “Get yours done.”

  Yes: Mine. Done. All I
wanted. So close. I was so . . . happy (heh) with how it was . . . going. Another hour and a half, two, tops. I'd just make it. With time for a shower. Show him.

  Show her. Wherever she was.

  Offer again. Have to. “Non. Sense. Let's go.”

  “No, I . . .” And she was into my arms, blubbering. Twenty-seventh catharsis in the last five days. The blood, the tears, the despair, the smell, the glue, the utter chasm of talent, the preposterous hair.

  I hated her more than I had ever hated anyone or thing that had dared draw breath.

  “Let's. Go.”

  • • •

  Took hours. Forms. Permissions. Liabilities. Insurance papers. More insurance papers (could I hand these in as my final project? Oh God, I needed sleep). Handing over the exiled thumb tip. Was I sure it was hers? Was there foul play involved?

  “Not the kind you're thinking of.”

  I'd left a quick note in the Belly to Mike, telling him what happened. Now I wondered what it said. Mabelle was led away through swinging white doors, while I handled the paperwork.

  I parked myself in the waiting room and between filling in the blanks I tortured myself every two seconds with thoughts like: “I could be gluing on the label right now. I could be doing the final page trimming. I could be wrapping it in acetate to keep it clean . . . ”

  “Sign here, please.”

  Scariest of all, I heard my voice say to the head nurse, as I moved the pen up and down: “We have a two-twenty-five final. Mandatory attendance.”

  I handed in the papers and actually thought of just fleeing, but she made sure I would be escorting Miss Lee home.

  “Ssssure.”

  Home? Not exactly.

  I went back to the waiting room, defeated. The torturing recommenced—not from myself, but from a unseen, ugly jury.

  Who are you kidding? You wanted, NEEDED this to happen and you know it—you can't believe your luck! You can't bear to finish anything—it's death! If she hadn't done it to herself, you would have had to—