Tepper Isn't Going Out: A Novel

by Calvin Trillin

  “Well,” Tepper replied. “As you say, the person who came to that conclusion would have to be very cynical.”

  “True,” Fannon said. “And also very embarrassed if he also happened to be the person who wrote with great assurance in a column that Murray Tepper, unlike all the strivers and hustlers in this town, simply wanted to be left alone.”

  “Well, it may be immodest of me, but I admired that column you wrote about me, Mr. Fannon,” Tepper said.

  “And I admire you, Mr. Tepper,” Fannon said. “Either way. Have a safe trip.”

  33. Flight

  THEY WERE SITTING AT ONE OF THE TABLES NEAR A snack bar at JFK, an hour before the morning flight to London was scheduled to take off. Murray and Ruth Tepper were having coffee. Linda was eating a bagel with cream cheese. Max was taking occasional sips of apple juice through a straw.

  “Grandma, look at my new teeth,” Max said, pulling at Ruth’s sleeve but looking conspiratorially at Murray Tepper as he talked.

  “Maxie, Grandma’s not eating anything,” Tepper said, in a loud whisper.

  “Eat something, Grandma,” Max said. “So you’ll grow up strong.”

  Ruth pulled over Linda’s plate and had a bite of the bagel. Then she looked at Max, who had his mouth wide open. “I don’t see any new teeth,” she said.

  Tepper pulled out his extendable fork, reached over to stab half of the bagel, and lifted it from the plate. Max started giggling.

  “Didn’t you always used to take the overnight flight?” Linda said.

  “I decided that I like to see where I’m going,” Tepper said.

  “Daddy, I think the pilot’s the one who has to see where he’s going.”

  “If we’re both keeping an eye out, what does it hurt?” Tepper said.

  After Linda and Max had said their good-byes, Tepper brought the Daily News out of his carry-on bag and started to look through it. The front-page headline was ANOTHER CHORUS FROM BILL. The headline was superimposed on a nearly life-size picture of Bill Carmody, the Woodside Wacko, from the neck up. He was wearing a baseball cap decorated with the 4-H Club logo and the legend PIGS FOR KIDS—MORTON’S CORNER, IOWA. He appeared to be singing. Carmody had formally announced that he would be in the race for City Hall. In his announcement, he had not mentioned Frank Ducavelli by name, but he had said that the voters could count on Bill Carmody to be a servant of the public rather than the sort of authoritarian who would drive a lifelong New Yorker like Murray Tepper out of the city.

  The News also carried a column by Ray Fannon. It talked about the dread of facing a mayoral campaign between the two candidates who had announced so far. “It’s like standing out in the playground in sixth grade and suddenly realizing that the class bully is approaching you from one side and the class weirdo from the other,” Fannon wrote. “All you can hope for is that the bell rings and recess ends before they arrive. In this case, though, after the bell rings one of them is going to be in charge of the city.” There was a brief reference to the mayor’s confrontation with Murray Tepper (“There is nothing more satisfying than seeing one of the quieter kids respond to the class bully’s taunts by knocking him on his keister”) but no mention of the theory that Murray Tepper might have engineered the entire affair.

  “Well, I suppose we should get going,” Tepper said to Ruth.

  They stood and gathered up their carry-ons. “Do you want to stop at the newsstand and pick up the Post for the plane?” Ruth asked.

  “The Post?”

  “By the time we get there, it’ll be afternoon,” Ruth said. “In fact, in England, it’s afternoon already.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Tepper said. “By all means. Let’s get the Post.”

  They stopped at the newsstand, and then headed for international departures.

  Read on for an excerpt from Calvin Trillin’s

  Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin

  Chubby

  It’s common these days for memoirs of childhood to concentrate on some dark secret within the author’s ostensibly happy family. It’s not just common; it’s pretty much mandatory. Memoir in America is an atrocity arms race. A memoir that reveals incest is trumped by one that reveals bestiality, and that, in turn, is driven from the bestseller list by one that reveals incestuous bestiality.

  When I went into the memoir game, I knew I was working at a horrific disadvantage: As much as I would hate this getting around in literary circles in New York, the fact is that I had a happy childhood. At times, I’ve imagined how embarrassing this background would be if I found myself discussing childhoods with other memoirists late at night at some memoirist hangout.

  After talking about their own upbringings for a while—the gluesniffing and sporadically violent grandmother, for instance, or the family tapeworm—they look toward me. Their looks are not totally respectful. They are aware that I’ve admitted in print that I never heard my parents raise their voices to each other. They have reason to suspect, from bits of information I’ve let drop from time to time, that I was happy in high school. I try desperately to think of a dark secret in my upbringing. All I can think of is Chubby, the collie dog.

  “Well, there’s Chubby, the collie dog,” I say, tentatively.

  “Chubby, the collie dog?” they repeat.

  There really was a collie named Chubby. I wouldn’t claim that the secret about him qualifies as certifiably traumatic, but maybe it explains an otherwise mysterious loyalty I had as a boy to the collie stories of Albert Payson Terhune. We owned Chubby when I was two or three years old. He was sickly. One day Chubby disappeared. My parents told my sister, Sukey, and me that he had been given to some friends who lived on a farm, so that he could thrive in the healthy country air. Many years later—as I remember, I was home on vacation from college—Chubby’s name came up while my parents and Sukey and I were having dinner. I asked why we’d never gone to visit him on the farm. Sukey looked at me as if I had suddenly announced that I was thinking about eating the mashed potatoes with my hands for a while, just for a change of pace.

  “There wasn’t any farm,” she said. “That was just what they told us. Chubby had to be put to sleep.”

  “Put to sleep!” I said. “Chubby’s gone?”

  Somebody—my mother, I think—pointed out that Chubby would have been gone in any case, since collies didn’t ordinarily live to the age of eighteen.

  “Isn’t it sort of late for me to be finding this out?” I said.

  “It’s not our fault if you’re slow on the uptake,” my father said.

  I never found myself in a memoirist gathering that required me to tell the story of Chubby, but, as it happened, I did relate the story in a book. A week or so later, I got a phone call from Sukey.

  “The collie was not called Chubby,” she said. “The collie was called George. You were called Chubby.”

  1998

  Geography

  Geography was my best subject. You can imagine how I feel when I read that the average American high school student is likely to identify Alabama as the capital of Chicago. I knew all the state capitals. I knew major mineral resources. Missouri: lead and zinc. (That’s just an example.) I learned so many geographical facts that I’ve had to spend a lot of time in recent years trying to forget them so I’ll have room in my brain for some things that may be more useful. I don’t hold with the theory that everyone is just using a little bit of his gray matter. I think we’re all going flat out.

  For instance, I’ve worked hard to forget the longest word in the English language, which I had to learn for a high school club. Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. It isn’t a word that’s easy to work into conversations. There are only so many times you can say, “Speaking of diseases usually contracted through the inhalation of quartz dust …” I finally managed to forget how to spell it, and I was able to remember my Army serial number.

  I think my interest in geography grew from the long automobile trips across the country I used to take with m
y family as a child. I grew up in Kansas City, which is what the real estate people would call equally convenient to either coast. We usually went west. My father would be in the front seat, pointing out buttes and mesas, and my sister, Sukey, and I would be in the back, protecting our territory. We had an invisible line in the center of the seat. At least, Sukey said it was in the center.

  There were constant border tensions. It was sort of like the border between Finland and the old Soviet Union. I played Finland. Sukey played the Soviet Union. Then my father did something that we now know was politically retrograde and maybe antifeminist. He told me, “We do not hit girls. You will never hit your sister again.” Sukey was not visited with a similar injunction. So I became a unilaterally disarmed Finland, while she was a Soviet Union bristling with weaponry. If I hadn’t had to be on constant alert because of Sukey’s expansionist backseat policy, I might now know the difference between a butte and a mesa.

  If I had followed my geographical bent, I would have become a regionalist, a geographer who decides where to draw the lines dividing the regions of the United States, like the Midwest and the South and the New England states. Actually, I do the same sort of thing, without a degree, except I only use two regions—partly because of my math. Math was my worst subject. I was never able to convince the mathematics teacher that many of my answers were meant ironically. Also, I had trouble with pi, as in “pi r squared.” Some years ago, the Texas State Legislature passed a resolution to change pi to an even three. And I was for it.

  The way I divide up the country, the first region is the part of the United States that had major league baseball before the Second World War. That’s the Ancien United States, or the Old Country. The rest of the United States is the rest of the United States—or the Expansion Team United States.

  For those of you who didn’t follow baseball closely in 1948, there’s an easy way to know whether you’re in the Old Country or the Expansion Team United States. In the Old Country, the waiters in an Italian restaurant have names like Sal or Vinnie. If you’re in an Italian restaurant and the waiter’s name is Duane, you’re in the Expansion Team United States.

  1988

  Spelling Yiffniff

  My father used to offer an array of prizes for anyone who could spell yiffniff. That’s not how to spell it, of course—yiffniff. I’m just trying to let you know what it sounds like, in case you’d like to take a crack at it yourself. Don’t get your hopes up: This is a spelling word that once defied some of the finest twelve-year-old minds Kansas City had to offer.

  The prizes were up for grabs any time my father drove us to a Boy Scout meeting. After a while, all he had to say to start the yiffniff attempts was “Well?”

  “Y-i …,” some particularly brave kid like Dogbite Davis would say.

  “Wrong,” my father would say, in a way that somehow made it sound like “Wrong, dummy.”

  “How could I be wrong already?” Dogbite would say.

  “Wrong,” my father would repeat. “Next.”

  Sometimes he would begin the ride by calling out the prizes he was offering: “ … a new Schwinn three-speed, a trip to California, a lifetime pass to Kansas City Blues baseball games, free piano lessons for a year, a new pair of shoes.” No matter what the other prizes were, the list always ended with “a new pair of shoes.”

  Some of the prizes were not tempting to us. We weren’t interested in shoes. We would have done anything to avoid free piano lessons for a year. Still, we were desperate to spell yiffniff.

  “L-l …,” Eddie Williams began one day.

  “Wrong,” my father said when Eddie had finished. “Next.”

  “That’s Spanish,” Eddie said, “the double L that sounds like a y.“

  “This is English,” my father said. “Next.”

  Sometimes someone would ask what yiffniff meant.

  “You don’t have to give the definition to get the prizes,” my father would say. “Just spell it.”

  As far as I could gather, yiffniff didn’t have a definition. It was a word that existed solely to be spelled. My father had invented it for that purpose.

  Occasionally some kid in the car—usually, the contentious Dogbite Davis—would make an issue out of yiffniff’s origins. “But you made it up!” he’d tell my father, in an accusing tone.

  “Of course I made it up,” my father would reply. “That’s why I know how to spell it.”

  “But it could be spelled a million ways.”

  “All of them are wrong except my way,” my father would say. “It’s my word.”

  If you’re thinking that my father, who had never shared the secret of how to spell his word, could have simply called any spelling we came up with wrong and thus avoided handing out the prizes, you never knew my father. His views on honesty made the Boy Scout position on that subject seem wishy-washy. There was no doubt among us that my father knew how to spell yiffniff and would award the prizes to anyone who spelled it that way. But nobody seemed able to do it.

  Finally, we brought in a ringer—my cousin Keith, from Salina, who had reached the finals of the Kansas State Spelling Bee. (Although Keith, who eventually became an English professor, remembers the details of his elimination differently, I’m sure I was saying even then that the word he missed in the finals was “hayseed.”) We told my father that Keith, who was visiting Kansas City, wanted to go to a Scout meeting with us to brush up on some of his knots.

  “Well?” my father said, when the car was loaded.

  “Yiffniff,” my cousin Keith said clearly, announcing the assigned word in the spelling bee style. “Y-y … “

  Y-y! Using y both as a consonant and as a vowel! What a move! We looked at my father for a response. He said nothing. Emboldened, Keith picked up the pace: “Y-y-g-h-k-n-i-p-h.”

  For a few moments the car was silent. Then my father said, “Wrong. Next.”

  Suddenly the car was bedlam as we began arguing about where our plans had gone wrong. “Maybe we should have got the guy who knew how to spell ‘hayseed,’ “ Dogbite said. We argued all the way to the Scout meeting, but it was the sort of argument that erupts on a team that has already lost the game. We knew Keith had been our best shot.

  1986

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Calvin Trillin, a longtime staff writer for The New Yorker, has also been the co-editor (with Gerald Jonas) of a one-issue publication called Beautiful Spot: A Magazine of Parking. He lives in Manhattan with his wife, and now keeps his car in a garage.

  ALSO BY CALVIN TRILLIN

  Family Man

  Messages from My Father

  Too Soon to Tell

  Deadline Poet

  Remembering Denny

  American Stories

  Enough’s Enough

  Travels with Alice

  If You Can’t Say Something Nice

  With All Disrespect

  Killings

  Third Helpings

  Uncivil Liberties

  Floater

  Alice, Let’s Eat

  Runestruck

  American Fried

  U.S. Journal

  Barnett Frummer Is an Unbloomed Flower

  An Education in Georgia

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Calvin Trillin

  Excerpt from Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin copyright © 2011 by Calvin Trillin

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York.

  Random House and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  A version of this book’s opening scene appeared as a short story in The New Yorker.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Trillin, Calvin.

  Teppe
r isn’t going out: a novel/Calvin Trillin.

  p. cm.

  1. Eccentrics and eccentricities—Fiction. 2. Automobile parking—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Celebrities—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3570.R5 T4 2002

  813’.54—dc21 2001031863

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming title Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin by Calvin Trillin. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-1-58836-046-5

  v3.0_r1