Barefoot Boy with Cheek

by Max Shulman

  I ran blindly to my room.

  CHAPTER IX

  Ouvrez la fenêtre. —ZOLA

  I decided to go to the Beta Thigh song-title party as “Tea for Two.” It took a great deal of practice to master my costume, which was a tea service for two balanced on my head, but when I finally walked up to the door of the Beta Thigh house on Saturday night I carried myself with all the aplomb of an African laundress.

  I rang the bell. A gray-haired, matronly woman opened the door. “How do you do?” I said. “I’m Asa Hearthrug, and I’ve come to the party. I am the guest of Noblesse Oblige.”

  “Come right in, Asa. I’m Mother Bloor, the house mother. You sit right down here on the sofa and I’ll go call Noblesse.”

  Mother Bloor was back in a few minutes. “She’ll be down right away. She’s fixing her costume. Well, Asa, you look like a nice boy,” she said, putting her hand on my knee.

  I smiled modestly.

  “You got any older brothers?”

  “No ma’am,” I said.

  “Your father ain’t a widower, is he?”

  “Not when I left him, he wasn’t.”

  “Uh. You thought any about getting married?”

  “Some,” I admitted.

  “Well, let me tell you, boy, you could do a lot worse than marrying some nice mature woman that knows how to cook and take care of a house and what a man likes. Get me?” She nudged me and winked.

  “Madam!” I cried.

  “I tell you, these young puss ain’t got any idea of how to treat a man. Oh, sure, they’re pretty to look at, but you mark my words, you’ll soon get sick of looking at ’em. A man needs a nice mature woman. Well, here comes Noblesse now. You think over what I said. I’m home all the time.”

  A slender girl in a two-piece gown with an exposed midriff approached. I could not see her face because it was enveloped in a cloud of black smoke that rose from a smudge pot that was cunningly hinged to her navel.

  “This is Asa Hearthrug, Noblesse Oblige,” said Mother Bloor.

  “How do you do?” I said.

  “Oh, Asa,” she cried in an enchanting little voice like the tinkle of a silver bell, “I think your costume is simply marvy, I mean actually. I mean it’s so clever, after all, it’s just grand I mean. ‘Tea for Two.’ How did you ever think of it, I mean really?”

  “Shucks,” I said, “it’s not half as clever as yours. ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,’ isn’t it?”

  “Oh, you guessed!” she cried, making a little moue.

  “Why don’t you children go in and dance?” Mother Bloor suggested.

  Noblesse took my arm and we went into the amusement room of the house where several couples were dancing to the music of an automatic phonograph. “Isn’t Mother Bloor keen?” asked Noblesse as we walked. “I mean after all, she’s just like a real mother to us girls.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We got on the dance floor just as a Benny Goodman record started to play. “Oh, B.G.!” cried Noblesse. “Next to T.D. I like him best. He carves me. I mean he carves me. Does he carve you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “he carves me.”

  “Me too,” she breathed. “Man, he’s murder, Jack.”

  The next record was a Glenn Miller. “G.M!” whooped Noblesse. “Man, what solid jive, I mean he’s reet. Have you heard his disc of ‘Fell Me, Woodsman, with a Snag-Toothed Saw?’”

  “No,” I said.

  “Awful fine slush pump, I mean awful fine. You ought to dig that.”

  The next record was a Guy Lombardo waltz. Noblesse stopped dancing. “That G.L.,” she said, “strictly a square, I mean after all, he’s an Ed. Let’s go out on the porch and sit down.”

  I was quite willing because my groin was a mass of first-degree burns from pressing against her smudge pot.

  On the veranda, which had been imaginatively decorated with Japanese lanterns and festoons of crepe paper, young couples sat around and smoked and chatted pleasantly. Noblesse spied some friends over in a corner. “Let’s go sit with those kids. They’re loads of fun,” she said.

  When we reached them Noblesse introduced me. “This is Asa Hearthrug—Bob Scream and Peggy Orifice.”

  “How do you do?” I said.

  “Hi, Asa, what do you sasa?” Bob yelled jovially. We chuckled appreciatively.

  “What darling costumes you kids have on,” said Peggy.

  “Thank you,” Noblesse replied. “But I don’t see yours.”

  Peggy opened her mouth. A cuckoo, cunningly attached to a pivot tooth, came out and crowed three times.

  “‘Three O’clock in the Morning!’” cried Noblesse. “How clever, I mean how utterly.”

  “Wait’ll you see mine,” Bob boomed. “Hey, c’mere,” he called to a figure that stood in the shadows. An elderly man dressed in a shirt of wide, vertical black-and-white stripes, a pair of white knickers, and athletic shoes, with a whistle on a string hung around his neck, came over to Bob. “‘My Reverie,’” Bob screamed. “Get it? Referee—reverie. Get it? Referee—reverie.”

  After our laughter had subsided Noblesse whispered to me, “That Bob, he’s terribly clever. I mean he writes all the varsity shows on the campus. I mean I don’t know where he thinks up all those gags year after year, I mean after all. He’s thinking of enrolling in the University next year.”

  “I’m glad you kids came,” said Peggy, tucking the cuckoo back in her cheek. “We were just having a serious discussion, and we’d like to ask the opinion of you kids about something. I had a coke date with Harvey Vacillate—he’s a Sigma Phlegm—this afternoon, and he asked my advice about something. Harvey and I are platonic like that. We just go out on coke dates and ask each other’s advice about our problems, and we have helped each other a good deal in the past. But this afternoon he asked me a question, and I mean, I just didn’t know what to answer.”

  “I went on a coke date with him yesterday,” said Noblesse. “I’m platonic with him that way, too, I mean. He’s platonic with Sally Gelt and Wilma Urbane in our sorority too. Then he’s platonic with some Chi Havoc girls too. But what was it he asked you?”

  “Well,” Peggy said, “he asked me if I thought that intelligent young women should observe the double standard.”

  “Did you hear about the girl who thought the double standard was two filling stations?” roared Bob.

  “Now, Bob,” chided Peggy gently, “the double standard is not a subject to joke about. It’s a very burning issue of our times.”

  “Yes,” agreed Noblesse. “I mean it’s very important. After all, why shouldn’t intelligent young people get together and discuss this problem? I mean this is the twentieth century, and women are supposed to be liberated; why shouldn’t they have all the freedom that a man has?

  “I don’t mean that people should be promiscuous, I mean with just anybody. I mean after all there is a limit. And of course I mean all women shouldn’t be allowed all this freedom—not until they’ve had certain advantages and shown themselves to be capable of freedom, I mean.

  “I mean that sort of thing has to be done with a certain amount of savoir faire, and I say when a woman has been educated and has had advantages, after all she should be allowed to do what she wants.”

  “A woman like you, for instance,” Bob shrieked slyly.

  “Well, yes,” said Noblesse. “I mean I think I’m intelligent enough not to have my conduct governed by what people did hundreds of years ago.”

  “Oh, you are, Noblesse, you are,” I said.

  “Everybody down to the dance floor,” called a voice from the end of the porch. “The prize for the best costumes is going to be awarded.”

  We went back to the dance floor and marched in a line past the judge’s stand. Mother Bloor was the judge. When the last couple had gone by Mother Bloor looked over the notes she had been taking and at length announced the winner.

  “Noblesse Oblige and Asa Hearthrug.”

  Suddenly I was up at the front of the room with Nobles
se, and all around us was a sea of smiling faces, blurred through my tears. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” I kept repeating to Noblesse.

  “We’ve won, Asa,” she said, taking my hand. “I mean we’ve won.”

  Then Mother Bloor, smiling broadly, was putting a silver cup in my hand. “Don’t forget it what I told you before,” she whispered in my ear.

  Now everyone was about us shouting cheery greetings, extending congratulations. I could only mouth brokenly, but Noblesse, cool and serene, spoke graciously for both of us until, at length, the well-wishers had gone.

  “Whew,” said Noblesse. “I mean I’m glad that’s over. Let’s take off our costumes and go get some air.”

  She disengaged the smudge pot from her navel. I saw her face for the first time. She was incredibly lovely. Her crisp brown hair was worn in a jaunty feather bob. Her blue eyes were pools of innocence. Her little nose was pert and saucy. Her mouth, adorned with fashionably dark lipstick, could only be described as kissable. I took the tea tray off my head and followed her into the garden.

  We sat on a bench under a spreading banyan tree and lit cigarettes. “Are you having a good time, Asa?” she asked.

  “Good!” I cried. “Say, better, marvelous.”

  “Isn’t Bob funny?”

  “Devastating,” I said.

  “You should see him when he puts a lampshade on his head. I mean you could die.”

  “I can imagine,” I said, chuckling.

  We smoked silently for a moment. “Noblesse,” I said slowly, “all this, these people, this trophy we won, this social grace, I never believed such things existed outside of storybooks.”

  She laughed silverly. “Yes, it’s all true. And it’s all the more enjoyable because”—her voice grew more serious—“because we know how to enjoy it. I mean we are the people who belong. After all, there are belongers and non-belongers. We are the belongers.”

  “Belongers and non-belongers,” I said thoughtfully. “Yes, you’ve hit it, Noblesse. I want to belong to all of this, and—and most particularly I want to belong to you.” I took her cool white hand in mine.

  She allowed me to hold it for a moment, and then withdrew it. “Do you like football, Asa? I mean I’m crazy about it, I mean simply mad.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The season opens next Saturday, and I’m just dying to go, I mean actually. But nobody can get a ticket. I mean you really have to rate to get a ticket.”

  A thought struck me. “Noblesse, will you come to the game with me next Saturday?”

  “With you? But where will you get a ticket, Asa?”

  “Eino Fflliikkiinnenn is a fraternity brother of mine,” I said simply.

  “Eino Fflliikkiinnenn!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” I said modestly.

  “Oh, Asa, I’d love to.”

  Her hand stole back into mine. “Noblesse,” I said, “I don’t know quite how to say this, and I know I shouldn’t, but I must speak. Am I then made of stone? Noblesse, I shall not bandy words. I—I love you.”

  “Asa!” she cried. “I mean after all.”

  “Stay,” I said. “Hear me out. I know we have met only this night, but what does love know of time? My heart is my clock and my calendar, and it ticks inexorably that I love you. If I had known you a million years I should only know what I know now: that you are beautiful and as wise as beautiful and gracious and pure and strong and good. Do not speak to me of time, for time is but a picayune in our world, yours and mine. Noblesse, say that you are mine.”

  “I mean you mean go steady?”

  “Yes,” I said simply, and I saw the answer in her eyes. Then she was in my arms, my mouth drinking the ambrosia of her lips.

  “But we mustn’t tell anybody. I mean we must keep it a secret,” she said.

  “Our secret,” I breathed.

  “How fun!” she cried, and clapped her hands. She extended her palm toward me. “The pin.”

  “The pin? Oh. Oh yes, the pin. I—I left it at the jeweler’s to have some more diamonds put in. I’ll have it for you Saturday.”

  “You sure?” she said, frowning.

  “As sure, Noblesse, as my love for you.”

  She smiled. We kissed.

  “I am so happy,” I said. “Now I can be one of you and join your fun and your serious discussions too.”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re very important. We had some very nice serious discussions tonight, didn’t we, Asa?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “That was very interesting about the double standard. Tell me, Noblesse, did you mean all you said about the double standard?”

  She drew herself up. “Of course. I mean I meant every word of it. I mean after all, I don’t just talk to hear myself talk, I mean.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” I said. I started to divest myself of encumbering garments.

  She screamed and ran into the house.

  Mother Bloor emerged from behind the banyan tree. “It’s like I told you,” she said. “You ought to get yourself a nice mature woman.”

  CHAPTER X

  Donnez-moi le fromage. —CELINE

  I next saw Yetta Samovar in a psychology class. The instructor was lecturing on learning. “Learning,” he said, “is the explanation for many of the things we erroneously call instincts. Even our most fundamental reactions are often not instinctive, but learned. I wish I could demonstrate this fact to you, but unfortunately we are not allowed to because of an untoward occurrence a few years ago.

  “Dr. Pavlov, of the psychology department, was performing an experiment to show that so-called instincts are learned. He wheeled a little baby boy out on the lecture platform. ‘This is little Terence, age six months,’ he said. ‘Using little Terence, I am going to prove to you that at six months an infant has not yet learned to be afraid.’

  “One after the other, Dr. Pavlov put rats, snakes, tarantulas, lizards, scorpions, octopi, and dismembered corpses in little Terence’s buggy. Little Terence cooed peacefully throughout the whole demonstration, completely unafraid.

  “When little Terence’s mother later learned what had happened, she stove in Dr. Pavlov’s head with a jack handle. A Hennepin County jury acquitted her in a rising verdict.

  “Learning,” continued the instructor, “is not only the answer to the problems of instincts. Often learning can explain even the most complex conduct. I am in mind of the case of a young woman, Patricia S., a graduate of the University of Minnesota, who was perfectly normal in every respect except one: every twenty-five seconds she yelped, leaped in the air, and screamed ‘C10H13NO2.’

  “Nobody thought anything of it for sveral years, but finally a friend persuaded Patricia to go to a psychoanalyst. After a lengthy, comprehensive examination the psychoanalyst discovered the cause of her peculiar actions. It seems that while she was at the University she took a course in pharmacy. One day, as she was bending over her worktable compounding phenacetin, of which C10H18NO2 is the formula, a playful lab assistant goosed her. It had a profound effect upon her.”

  At the conclusion of the lecture I met Yetta in the hall. We sat down on the steps. “Yetta,” I began slowly, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

  “There’s something I have to tell you, too, comrade,” she said, rolling a cigarette. “I’ve gotten you appointed to our sedition committee.”

  “That’s real nice, Yetta. But now you must listen to me. This isn’t easy for me, believe me. I have been lying awake nights trying to think of another way to do it. But there is only one way—the quick, honest, decisive way. Any other way would be infinitely more painful.”

  “There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” she interrupted. “Now what was it? I’ll think of it in just a minute.”

  “First I want you to know that you are one of the finest girls I have ever met,” I said. “My admiration for you is boundless. I think that the way you work for your cause—which for you is the true cause—is commendable. I b
elieve you to be utterly sincere, and sincerity is a virtue all too rare in these troubled times.”

  “I’ll be damned,” she said, “if I can remember it. It was something important too. Well, I’ll think of it in a minute.”

  “But there are two kinds of people,” I continued, “the belongers and the non-belongers. It is difficult—yea, impossible—to get them to understand one another. The belongers work in one direction and the non-belongers in the opposite. Nor can one be a renegade and desert one’s faction. Yetta, I am a belonger, and you—”

  “I got it,” she exclaimed. “I’ve arranged an audition for you in the Poignancy office this afternoon.”

  “Poignancy!” I cried, for it was my fondest dream.

  “Yes. The editor is listening to contributions this afternoon. Go on home now and get your best manuscript. Meet me at the publications building at one o’clock, and I’ll take you to the Poignancy office, and you can read the manuscript.”

  “Yetta,” I said quietly, a crooked smile on my face, “a moment ago I was going to say something for which I would have been sorry the rest of my life.”

  “You better hurry and get your manuscript. It’s getting late.” She stood up. “I’ve got to distribute some leaflets now. I’ll see you at one.”

  I rushed home and rummaged through a trunk of my manuscripts. At last I decided on a tender story of young love called Men Are Like That. I remembered how Lode-stone had liked that one when I had read it to her the summer before. For a moment I thought of Lodestone. Poor Lodestone. What a world of difference between us now. How quickly I had outgrown Lodestone. Little innocent. She knew nothing of the forces at work in the world, of belonging or not belonging. Hers was an uncomplicated world. It had been my world, too, I admitted to myself, but the University had changed all that. Now I was coming into my own, I was realizing my potentialities, my personality was rounding out. Already it was clear to me that until you knew the world you could not know yourself. I hastened to meet Yetta.

  She arrived at the publications building punctually at one. “Come on,” she said. I followed her into the building where the Minnesota Daily, the Ski-U-Mah, and Poignancy were published.