by Max Shulman
Miranda was serene and untroubled when our visit to the zoo was over. No longer did she carry on about sororities. Instead we talked of trivial and pleasant things, and looked at each other with something warmer than friendship. At dusk I took her to her dormitory, gave her a firm handshake (I don’t believe in kissing on the first date), arranged to meet her when I finished work that night, and then went off to the Alpha Rho sorority house to serve dinner.
The Alpha Rho house is at all times an impressive place with its leaded windows, its parquet floors, its fumed-oak beams, its big fieldstone hearth, its twenty-four beautiful members draped artfully over the furniture. But this night it was more impressive than ever. There was a special glitter, a special air of festivity, over everything. The silver was shinier, the napery snowier, the girls more attractively arranged than I had ever seen them.
Betty Kleinhans, president of the sorority, spoke to me as soon as I arrived. “Gillis,” she said in her cool, patrician way, “tonight is something of an occasion. Please take particular care how you serve.”
“Of course,” I said. “May I ask what the occasion is?”
“Celeste Schwartz is coming to dinner,” she replied, not without pride.
“Who?” I said.
“Surely you’ve heard of Celeste Schwartz, the most desirable freshman on campus?”
“Can’t say that I have,” I confessed.
“Oh, but she’s got everything—poise, breeding, wealth, beauty, position! Every sorority on campus is dying to pledge her.”
“Aha,” I said, comprehending. “And you’re trying to impress her so she’ll pledge Alpha Rho.”
“What could be more fitting than that the most desirable freshman should join the most desirable sorority?” asked Betty Kleinhans. “Now into the kitchen with you, Gillis, and be sure to wear a clean dickey.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Just a minute,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Do you have any ideas for a Homecoming decoration?”
“You mean for the Homecoming football game on Saturday? I haven’t even thought about it.”
“Well,” said Betty Kleinhans, “as you know, we are playing Randolph Tech. Their team is called the Wildcats. The Homecoming slogan is ‘Cage the Wildcats!’”
“That’s clever,” I said.
“Each sorority and fraternity is going to put up a decoration in front of its house. The decoration will be based on the slogan ‘Cage the Wildcats.’ The house with the best decoration will win a silver cup.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Do you have any ideas?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “How about building a big cage out of cardboard and putting a big cardboard wildcat inside of it?”
“Everybody is building a big cardboard cage with a big cardboard wildcat inside,” she said.
“Well, how about rigging up a little motor that makes the wildcat move?”
“Everybody is rigging up a little motor that makes the wildcat move,” she said.
“Well, how about fixing some kind of sound system to make the wildcat roar?”
“Everybody is fixing some kind of sound system to make the wildcat roar,” she said. “Can’t you think of something new?”
“I’ll try,” I promised.
“Please do,” she said. “This is the most important event of the year, and if you should come up with a winning idea for us, you’d be a B.M.O.C.”
“A what?”
“A Big Man on Campus.”
“Oh, boy!” I said.
“So bear it in mind, Gillis. Now into the kitchen with you, for I hear Celeste Schwartz coming now.”
Into the kitchen I went and put on a clean dickey and brushed my cowlick until a bell summoned me to begin serving. Out I came with a tray of fruit cups and went to the head of the table to start with Betty Kleinhans. And there, sitting on her right, I saw a girl of such wondrous beauty that my knees grew soft with rapture. Had there not been an empty chair next to her, I should have fallen to the floor, fruit cups and all.
“You are beautiful!” I breathed. “You are beautiful beyond the saying of it!”
“Thanks, hey,” she replied.
“Are you Celeste Schwartz?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” she said.
“No wonder they call you the most desirable freshman on campus,” I said, gazing with undisguised ecstasy upon her radiant hair, her eyes of pure aquamarine, her piquantly upturned nose, her moist red lips, her dry white chin, her stately throat, her well-tempered clavicles, her gently rolling curves, her perfectly matched legs. (To see the last I had to bob my head under the table.) “I am through here at eight o’clock,” I said, removing my head from under the table. “Will you go walking with me?”
“Okey-dokey,” she said, and I felt my heart take wings. Joy such as I had never dreamed existed was upon me. I chuckled to myself; only an hour ago I had fancied that I was in love with Miranda McCreedy. But now I knew—really knew—what love—real love—was.
“Gillis,” said Betty Kleinhans with some asperity, “would you be good enough to get out of that chair and serve the fruit cups?”
“Certainly,” I murmured. I rose. Smiling and blinking affectionately at Celeste all the while, I distributed fruit cups to the assembled girls.
Only through iron self-control was I able to finish serving dinner. I wanted to laugh, to shout, to skip, to leap, to fling the lamb patties up in the air, to hurl the doughnuts out like quoits, to splash the cocoa and smash the crockery and bellow to the world the goat-song of my love for Celeste. But prudence forbade. Quietly I served the meal and contented myself with blowing an occasional kiss to Celeste and arranging the peas on her plate to spell “I LOVE YOU.”
At eight o’clock I met Celeste in front of the sorority house. I took her arm, and we walked together along the elm-lined street, through the crisp and bracing air of early autumn.
“Are you going to join Alpha Rho?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I mean it’s a marvy sorority.”
“And you,” I said, “are a marvy girl.”
“Thanks, hey,” she said. “You’re kind of marvy yourself.”
“I, marvy?” I said with a wry chuckle. “But I am a nobody—just a drab, nondescript nobody.”
“True,” she said. “But you’re marvy too—not real marvy, of course, but marvy.”
“What a great generous heart you have,” said I. “If I hadn’t made a rule about not kissing on the first date, I believe I’d kiss you.”
“Rules,” she said with a maidenly blush, “are made to be broken.”
“Oh, Celeste!” I cried, dragging her behind an elm and raining kisses on her mouth, jaw and skull.
“My goodness,” she said, “you are a marvy kisser.”
“It is because I am filled with love,” I said.
“Me too, hey,” she confessed.
There followed another lively exchange of kisses. Then I said, “Celeste, let us go to the zoo.”
“Whatever for?” she asked, looking at me askance.
“Why, to see the animals, of course. Surely you love animals.”
“Binkies, no!” she declared. “They smell terrible.”
“Hmm,” I said, feeling a sharp, sudden stab of doubt. I have always been suspicious of people who do not love animals. It shows a want of feeling, a meanness of soul.
I peered closely, with troubled eyes, at Celeste. Could her beauty be just an empty shell containing nothing? Was it all façade? All surface?
But, no, it could not be! Such beauty could only come from within. Inside she was fine and pure and loved animals. She just didn’t know it yet. But before long, under my careful guidance, she would. I was sure of it.
“All right, Celeste, snookie baby,” I said. “We’ll go to the zoo some other time. What would you like to do tonight?”
“Eat,” she answered. “Kissing always makes me just simply ravenous.”
So we went to the Kozy Kampus Kafe and had two Atomic Sundaes—three scoops of vanilla, three scoops tangerine ice garnished with caraway seed and bits of wild duck—and we looked deep into each other’s eyes and declared our undying love, and then I took her back to her dormitory and kissed her in a peppy manner, and she thanked me for a marvy evening, and I went back to my dormitory like a man on a fleecy cloud.
I had quite forgotten my date with Miranda McCreedy. She hadn’t. I found her in front of my dormitory, tapping her foot like a Spanish dancer.
“Well?” she demanded, fixing me with her flashing eyes.
There was nothing for it but to tell her the truth.
“You fool!” she snarled. “You complete fool! What do you think you’re doing? She’s the prize pledge of the prize sorority, the prize snob of the campus! And you a waiter, a nobody!”
“Maybe so,” I said with dignity, “but she thinks I’m marvy.”
“She’ll throw you over, that little snob. Wait and see. Just wait and see!”
“Very well, I’ll wait and see,” I said with a confident smile. “And now, my dear, good night.”
I went into the dormitory while Miranda stood outside yelling, “Wait and see!”
I did not have long to wait and see. A letter was waiting in my post-office box in the morning. It said:
DEAR DOBIE:
I will not go out with you any more.
You are beneath my station.
I am a girl of poise, breeding, wealth, beauty and position. I should be going with a B.M.O.C., not with a waiter.
Thank you for a marvy time last night.
Very truly yours,
CELESTE SCHWAHTZ
P.S. If you ever get to be a B.M.O.C., let me know.
I could not believe it. I was staggered, flabbergasted, even stunned. A numbness descended on me that made me incapable of thought or motion. Then the numbness passed and anguish set in. My poor heart was rent asunder. Pain and fever racked my poor body. And then came anger—anger at Celeste for being such a hateful snob, anger at myself for being such an utter fool. I should have known that anybody who didn’t love animals was rotten on the inside.
For a long time I sat hunched on a bench, a mound of misery. At length I stirred myself and went to seek Miranda McCreedy. My only chance for happiness now was with her. I had to persuade her to take me back. We were alike, we two—common, underprivileged and devoted to animals. Out of our mutual low estate we could derive sympathy and understanding and, finally, perhaps even love. Some day, in the fullness of time, Miranda would make me forget Celeste, and once again the roses would return to my cheeks.
I found Miranda on the campus. “Can you forgive me?” I said. “You were right and I was wrong. Will you have me back?”
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Miranda,” I said.
“Dobie,” she said.
“Come,” I said, “let us go to the zoo.”
Away we went. Mr. Minafee, the kindly zoo keeper, had just received a new impala and two slow lorises, which I was mighty pleased to see. The rest of the zoo, too, was balm for my tortured soul. At the end of the visit, though I was still far from festive, my spirits had brightened considerably.
But whatever good the zoo might have done me was utterly undone that night when I went to work at the sorority house. The sight of Celeste at the dinner table was like the thrust of a hot poker into my heart. Studiously she kept her eyes away from mine, but I could not keep mine from hers, and I knew, knew with my blood and with my bones, that whether she was a snob or not, animal hater or not, I could never let her go. Miranda was no substitute at all. It was Celeste, only Celeste, whom I loved. Somehow, by some miracle, I had to become a B.M.O.C. and win her back.
But how could I become a B.M.O.C.? I was not rich, not handsome, not brilliant, not athletic. I was poor, ugly, dense and puny. How could one so meagerly endowed make a big name for himself? How?
Then, all at once, in a scrap of overheard conversation, the answer came to me. The key to fame, to success, to Celeste, was suddenly placed in my hand.
As I was serving the mutton hash, Betty Kleinhans was saying to her sorority sisters, “Girls, what are we going to do about our Homecoming decoration?”
The girls sat silently, with averted eyes.
“Hasn’t anybody got an idea?” asked Betty Kleinhans, glaring about her.
There was no reply.
“It’s Friday night,” said Betty Kleinhans. “Tomorrow is Homecoming.”
The girls nodded sadly.
“What’s it to be then?” asked Betty Kleinhans bitterly. “A cardboard cage with a cardboard wildcat?”
“We could fix a little motor to make the wildcat move,” said one girl.
“We could fix a sound system to make the wildcat roar,” said another.
“Bah,” said Betty Kleinhans. “Every house is doing that. Hasn’t anybody got an original idea?”
“I have,” I cried, putting down the mutton hash.
They looked at me curiously.
“Listen,” I said. “Instead of a cardboard wildcat in a cardboard cage, how would you like a real wildcat in a real cage?”
“You mean a real wildcat?” they said, gazing at me in wonder.
“I mean a real wildcat,” I said. “A snarling, clawing, spitting, roaring, real live wildcat! That’ll make all the cardboard contraptions look pretty silly, won’t it?”
“Yeah,” they breathed.
“Mr. Minafee, the zoo keeper, is a good friend of mine,” I said. “I will borrow a wildcat from him.”
“Oh, grand!” they said.
“And when you win the prize tomorrow, I’ll be a B.M.O.C., won’t I?” I asked.
“The biggest,” they said.
I gave Celeste a big loving, golden smile. “Ah,” I said.
“Just a minute,” said Betty Kleinhans. “We’d better have a look at this beast before we decide. Gillis, take my car and bring him here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, and went forthwith to see Mr. Minafee, the nice young curator at the zoo. I explained my mission and promised that I would guarantee the health and safety of the animal. Thus reassured, Mr. Minafee, a fine fellow, handed over to me a cage containing a male wildcat named Sam, who had been born at the zoo the previous year. Sam was a beautiful buff, bobtail specimen, about twenty-five pounds in weight, and as ferocious as anyone could ask.
I rushed him back to the sorority house. “Behold!” I said, placing the cage in the living room.
The girls ohed and ahed and shrieked and gasped and clutched one another. Sam spat, caterwauled, slashed, clawed, snarled, roared, hurled himself about with maniacal fury. “Isn’t he cool!” exclaimed the girls. “Isn’t he endsville! Isn’t he the fiercest little pussycat you ever did see!”
“Gillis, my congratulations,” said Betty Kleinhans. “Thanks to you, we’ll surely win the cup tomorrow.”
“It’s nothing that any B.M.O.C. couldn’t have done,” I murmured modestly.
“Take him down to the basement,” said Betty Kleinhans. “You’ll spend the night with him. Naturally I’ll have to lock you up. The rules are quite strict about men staying overnight in sorority houses.”
I concealed my disappointment. It had not been my intention to spend the night locked in the cellar with Sam. Now on the verge of B.M.O.C.-hood, I had hoped to resume my suit of Celeste that very night. But I shrugged philosophically and carried Sam below. After tomorrow’s triumph there would be plenty of nights with Celeste.
We lay in darkness, Sam and I, he in his cage, cursing and complaining, I on my pallet, thinking sweet thoughts of Celeste. Sam fell asleep first, and soon I, a soft smile playing on my lips, joined him in slumber.
I dreamed of icebergs and Eskimos, of polar bears, snowshoes and igloos. When I woke in the morning, my teeth were chattering with cold. I looked at Sam. He was huddled in the corner of his cage, curled in a tight ball for warmth. I climbed up on some old boxes and
looked out the basement window. A cruel wind was howling outdoors, bending trees, banging shutters, whirling leaves and papers along the street.
I raced to the head of the basement stairs and pounded on the door. “Let me out!” I called. “Let me out!”
After a moment the door was unlocked by Betty Kleinhans, dressed in pajamas and robe. Behind, similarly dressed, pressed a crowd of curious girls.
“Where’s your morning paper?” I demanded.
“Still on the porch, I guess,” said Betty Kleinhans. “What’s wrong?”
I did not reply but rushed to the front porch. A rolled-up newspaper lay there. I whipped it open and searched for the weather report. I did not have to search far. It was right in the headline:
COLD WAVE HITS TOWN
Rapidly Falling Temperatures
Expected to Dip below Zero
A moan escaped my lips. Celeste would not be mine after all. Now, on the verge of success, an ironic fate had taken her away from me again, lost this time beyond retrieving. Oh, ironic fate! Oh, heartless destiny! Oh, lost, lost, lost!
“Gillis, what is it?” asked Betty Kleinhans. “Why are you whimpering?”
I looked at her, at the girls gathered around me on the porch, at Celeste—beautiful, frozen, lost Celeste. A great sigh shook my whole body. Then a calm descended on me—more a numbness than a calm. A resignation. A clammy certainty that my race was run and I had lost it.
“Come inside, girls,” I said quietly. “I have something to tell you.”
We went indoors. They faced me with anxious eyes. “Girls,” I said, “I have some bad news. You cannot use Sam for your Homecoming decoration.”
“What?” they screamed.
“It is too cold to put him outdoors,” I said.
“Are you nuts?” asked Betty Kleinhans, prodding me with an angry forefinger. “Where are all the other wildcats today—in a Turkish bath?”
“The other wildcats were born in the woods,” I pointed out. “Sam was born in a zoo and is not accustomed to the elements.”
“You can’t do this to us,” cried Betty Kleinhans.
“No, Betty Kleinhans,” I said, “I can’t do it to Sam. I must not risk the health of this poor dumb brute. It is unkind.”