Potatoes Are Cheaper Read online

  “Me neither,” said Albert. “Let’s flip a coin. Heads I get Zimmerman, tails you get Zimmerman.”

  He took out a nickel and flipped it: tails.

  So when class was over Albert went chasing after Zucker and I walked up to the other meatball and hit her with my very best smile. “Hi, there,” I said. “Didn’t we meet at the Cotillion last year?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I wasn’t there.”

  “How come?” I said. “Couldn’t you afford it?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, “but I was touring Europe.”

  “Well, well,” I said and rubbed my hands a little. “My name is Morris Katz,” I said.

  “Celeste Zimmerman,” she said.

  “How do you do?” I said. “You’re not by chance any relation to A. M. Zimmerman?”

  “He’s my Daddy,” she said.

  “Well, well,” I said again. It was getting better and better. A. M. Zimmerman just happened to own two dozen movie theatres in the Twin Cities, all of them jammed every night. I knew this for a fact because at one time or another I had snuck into every one of them and I never saw an empty seat.

  “You got any brothers and sisters?” I said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Well, well,” I said for the third time. A sole heiress yet.

  I took another look at her and to tell the truth, she didn’t look half bad. She had fine teeth, very white and even. True, they were buck teeth, but white and even buck teeth. Also, her eyes were a pretty shade of blue-not big, of course, but the glasses gave them a little extra size. Her skin was nice, no pimples and very few bristles, and her hair was okay. It wasn’t any particular color, but at least you could see she didn’t set it at home.

  As for her figure, let’s not go into it. Let’s just say she had the regular number of parts and they all seemed to be in working order and her father owned twenty-four theaters and what the hell.

  “Don’t you just love library science?” I said.

  “No,” she said, “I hate it, but I’m too dumb to take anything else.”

  “Oh, come now,” I said. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Wait till you know me better,” she said.

  “There now is something I would like very much,” I said. “Are you free tonight?”

  “I’m free every night,” she said. “Why?”

  “If I can borrow my cousin’s car would you like to go to the movies?” I said.

  “Sure,” she said. “But you don’t need to bother your cousin. I have a car.”

  “Of your own?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Well, well,” I said for the fourth time. Even her figure was beginning to look good.

  “What time shall I pick you up?” she said.

  “After supper,” I said. “Six-thirty.”

  She was there right on the dot. I was waiting for her out in front of the house. I didn’t want to introduce her to my family quite yet. I’m not ashamed of them, mind you. It’s just that Ma has a habit of looking people over like she was picking out a chicken at a crooked butcher’s, and I didn’t want her scaring off Celeste before I had her firmly hooked.

  “Hi, there,” I said, getting into Celeste’s car, a brand-new Oldsmobile, no less. “What movie would you like to see?”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “What would you like?”

  I had memorized the movies playing at all twenty-four of her father’s theaters, figuring we could walk in free at any of them. “How about The Petrified Forest with Leslie Howard, Bette Davis, and introducing Humphrey Bogart?” I said.

  “Saw it,” she said.

  “How about My Man Godfrey with William Powell and Carole Lombard?” I said.

  “Saw it,” she said.

  And the same with the next twenty-two I named. We ended up at the Paramount, which A. M. Zimmerman did not own, seeing Jan Kiepura in Give Us This Night—fifty cents a ticket to hear a Polack sing, not to mention twenty cents for popcorn.

  This meant I had to revise my schedule. I had planned to take it slow and easy with Celeste—first a couple of dates with just kissing, then a couple with kissing plus grabbing, and finally a poem from Crip and bye-bye cherry. But of course this plan was based on free movies. If I was going to have to buy theater tickets—and that’s how it looked—I couldn’t afford any such long courtship. I had to make my move tonight.

  So right after Jan Kiepura I drove to the Grotto Lookout and parked the car. “Celeste,” I said, wasting no time, “I love you.”

  “Why, for God sakes?” Celeste hollered.

  I shrugged. “Go figure love,” I said.

  “But I’m not pretty and I’m not bright and I got a rotten shape,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “I love you anyhow.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?” she said.

  “Not right away,” I said, “but let’s kiss for a while and see how you feel.”

  “Well, that seems worth a try,” she said.

  So we kissed for a while till she got the hang of it, and then I took a hold of her tit. She didn’t push me away so after a couple minutes I started sliding my hand under her skirt. She jumped like I’d stabbed her.

  “Morris,” she hollered, “what’s the matter with you? I’m a Jewish girl.”

  “You didn’t mind when I grabbed your tit,” I said.

  “That’s different,” she said.

  “Why?” I said.

  “That’s rubber,” she said.

  “I love you,” I said, and tried under the skirt again, but it was the same thing. She hollered she was Jewish and pushed me away. In fact, that’s how it went all night—me yelling “I love you!” and digging for that crotch, her yelling she was Jewish and pushing me away. By midnight we were so sweaty and exhausted that both of us were glad to go home.

  But still and all, I was satisfied with the night’s work. Getting laid wasn’t important. What was important was to convince her I loved her, or at least that such a weird thing might be possible. That I accomplished, I don’t say she believed it, but she wanted to, it was obvious.

  “Will I see you tomorrow night?” I said when we were parked in front of my house.

  For a long time she didn’t answer. She just sat and looked at me with a puzzled frown, trying to figure out if I could possibly be on the level. I didn’t talk either. All I did was grab her hand and press my lips against her fingers.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “But remember, I don’t put out.”

  “Good night,” I said. “I love you.”

  I got out of the car and walked backwards into my house, throwing kisses every couple of feet. Celeste just sat and stared at me with her mouth open.

  When I got inside the house everybody was asleep except my mother. She was exactly where I expected she’d be: in her nightgown peeking through the living room curtains. “Well, Morris,” said Ma, looking out at Celeste who was still sitting glassy-eyed in her car, “nobody can say she ain’t ugly.”

  “She is A. M. Zimmerman’s daughter,” I said, letting it drop kind of casual.

  “Hoo-ha!” said Ma. She gave me the kind of look I don’t see too much of—respect—and went back to peeking through the curtains.

  Celeste still hadn’t moved.

  “She ain’t paralyzed, is she?” asked Ma. “It don’t matter, you understand. I’m just asking.”

  “No, she’s thinking,” I said.

  “A slow thinker,” said Ma. “Good.”

  After about ten minutes Celeste finally stirred, put the car in gear, and drove away.

  “Well, sonny,” said Ma, giving me another respectful look, “I got to hand it to you. That is a meatball.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “So where do I sleep tonight?”

  This was a question I had to ask every night which I’ll explain.

  There were two bedrooms in my house. One had a double bed, and that was where Ma and Pa usually slept. The other had twin
beds, and that was where my sister Libbie usually slept. A long time ago when Libbie and I were little we both slept in that room but now of course we were too old for that, so on the nights when Ma and Pa were in their room and Libbie was in her room, I slept on the davenport in the living room.

  But a lot of nights it didn’t work that way. When Ma got real mad at Pa—not ordinary mad like every day, but extra mad—she wouldn’t let him sleep in the double bed. So where could he sleep? Not with Libbie of course, and not with me either because the davenport wasn’t even big enough for one. So here’s what we did: Libbie went into the double bed with Ma, and Pa went to Libbie’s room. This meant there was no need for me to use that narrow davenport because I could sleep on the other twin bed in Libbie’s room.

  So, as you see, we could never be sure about the sleeping arrangements till just before bedtime. It depended how mad Ma was.

  “You’re sleeping on the davenport tonight,” said Ma.

  “Okay,” I said. “Good night.”

  “Listen,” she said, “if you’d be more comfortable in Libbie’s room, I’ll be glad to throw Pa out of bed.”

  “No, no,” I said. “I don’t want you waking Pa.”

  “Why not?” said Ma. “He needs sleep maybe, your father?”

  “But you’ll have to wake Libbie too,” I said.

  “You’re right,” said Ma, giving me another respectful look, the third in one night, a new record. “What a smart boychik I got, thank God.”

  “Good night, Ma,” I said.

  Ma slapped her hand against her forehead. “What’s the matter with me?” she said. “I don’t have to wake Libbie. I’ll wake Pa. He’ll sleep on the davenport, I’ll sleep in Libbie’s room, and you’ll sleep on the double bed.”

  “Please, Ma, the davenport is fine,” I said.

  “Shut up,” said Ma, so I did because I knew if I kept arguing there’d be no sleep at all. So Ma went and rousted Pa. He was so confused for a minute that he started walking downtown to the library in his pajamas, but Ma finally shoved him onto the davenport and me into the double bed.

  “Good night, my smart boychik,” she said, tucking me in. “Good night, my last best hope.”

  Chapter Three

  Here’s what happened the next day.

  Celeste was due to pick me up at six-thirty in the evening for our second date, so I got to my cousin Crip’s house at four-thirty in the afternoon so he’d have plenty of time to write the poem. And it was a good thing I allowed the extra time because Crip had visitors when I arrived—two men in suits who were sitting in the living room with Crip and Aunt Ida and naturally a bowl of fruit in the middle. Aunt Ida believes a person will keel over dead if he goes as long as eight hours without fruit.

  Crip gave me a wave and Aunt Ida said, “Hello, Morris. I want you should meet Dr. Sloan and Dr. Barnhart from the Mayo Clinic in Rochester.”

  The doctors put down their tangerines and shook hands. Then they went back to arguing with Aunt Ida. What they were doing was trying to persuade her to send Crip to Mayo because they had something new they wanted to try on him.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Aunt Ida. “He’s been already four times to Mayo. So what good did it do?”

  “Yes, I admit we’ve had no luck so far,” said Dr. Sloan. “But this is an entirely new procedure.”

  “And it looks extremely promising,” said Dr. Barnhart. “I do wish you’d let him come.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Aunt Ida again.

  “Why don’t we ask Walter what he thinks?” said Dr. Sloan.

  “Who’s Walter?” said Aunt Ida.

  “That’s me, Ma,” said Crip.

  “So what do you think, dolly?” said Aunt Ida.

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Crip.

  “See?” said Aunt Ida. “He don’t know and I don’t know and you don’t know. So why shlep him around?”

  “Will you at least think it over?” said Dr. Barnhart.

  “All right, I’ll think it over,” said Aunt Ida.

  “And you too, Walter,” said Dr. Sloan to Crip.

  “All right,” said Crip. “Have you got any literature on this new procedure?”

  Dr. Sloan’s eyebrows went up. “Well, yes, but it’s highly technical, Walter,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. “If it’s writing, he’ll understand it.”

  “Thanks, Morris,” said Crip.

  “You’re welcome, Crip,” I said.

  “Very well,” said Dr. Sloan, “we’ll send the literature. And now we must be getting back.”

  They stood up.

  “Take a few plums,” said Aunt Ida. “It’s a long trip to Rochester.”

  So the two doctors went back to Rochester, and Aunt Ida refilled the fruit bowl and left me alone with Crip. It’s not a myth, incidentally, this myth about how Jews love fruit. They will kill for fruit. But here’s a curious fact you might not know: they have no interest at all in green vegetables. I’ll give you an example.

  When I was in the second grade at Webster Elementary School the school nurse once gave us a lecture about the terrible diseases you get if you don’t eat a green vegetable every single day. This panicked me pretty good, I want to tell you, because in my whole life I’d never even seen a green vegetable. So when I came home that afternoon I said, “Ma, I got to have a green vegetable every single day.”

  Ma gave me a look. “Who says?” she asked.

  “The school nurse,” I answered.

  Which Ma figured she couldn’t argue with. “Okay,” she said, and since then she has given me a green vegetable every single day: a dill pickle.

  But about Crip. Aunt Ida left us alone and I looked Crip over and was pleased to see what good shape he was in—one small walking cast on his left foot is all.

  “Well, Crip,” I said, “I sure hope those guys from Mayo are on to something good this time because nothing would make me happier than to see you up and around playing sports and screwing.”

  “Thanks, Morris,” he said. “I know you mean it.”

  “I do,” I said, and I did. Friends like Crip don’t come in job lots.

  “Well, Morris,” he said, “I expect you want a poem.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” I said.

  “My pleasure,” he said. “What’s her name?”

  “Celeste,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Plenty of rhymes for Celeste. Not like Rachel or Gladys. How soon do you need it?”

  “No hurry,” I said. “She’s not due till six-thirty.”

  “What does she look like?” he said.

  “She looks like Chicago after the fire,” I said. “But that’s not the point. She’s A. M. Zimmerman’s daughter.”

  “Hoo-ha!” he said.

  “So you can see how important this is,” I said.

  “I didn’t think Jewish girls put out,” he said.

  “We’ll know tonight,” I said.

  “Toss me a pencil,” he said.

  “I’ll hand you a pencil,” I said and did. Then I sat quietly in a corner so I wouldn’t disturb him.

  The poem he wrote is right below, but before you read it I want to point out one thing. I’m not going to praise the poem because there’s nothing I can say that you won’t be saying yourself. All I want to point out is this: this poem, which by any reasonable standard got to be called a masterpiece, was composed by my cousin Crip in exactly 32 minutes. I swear this. Think about it as you read:

  TO CELESTE

  Had I been blessed

  With wishes three

  The first should be,

  O fair Celeste,

  To be a rose

  Upon thy breast.

  Now canst thou name

  My next request?

  It is the same

  I do attest:

  Another rose

  On th’other breast.

  Herewith the third

  (Mayhap the best):

 
; To be a bird

  Within thy nest.

  (Aye, this methinks

  Is splendidest.)

  Hence fairy good,

  Thy flight arrest.

  These wishes three

  Pray grant to me

  For I would be

  In fair Celeste,

  In fair Celeste.

  Well, I’m not going to pretend. I’ll say it flat out. There were tears in my eyes when I read this poem. I’ll admit it: I cried.

  “Cut it out, Morris, will you?” said Crip, but I knew he was pleased all the same.

  But if you think I got emotional, you should have seen Celeste. My God, what an exhibition! First tears, then laughter, then both together with hiccups, then hiccups with hysterics, then combinations of everything. I thought for sure I’d have to wrap her in wet sheets. But finally she calmed down.

  “Okay, Morris,” she said, “have your way with me.”

  I had it.

  “Is it over?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Frankly I don’t see what everybody’s raving about,” she said.

  “It’ll get better,” I said.

  “I certainly hope so,” she said.

  And in fact it did get better, which I’ll tell you about later, but I don’t want to get ahead of my story. All I’ll say now is my cousin Albert was absolutely right about Jewish girls. They are wild for nookie; all you got to do is show them the way.

  Speaking of Albert, let me fill you in quickly on what he was doing. He took out Miss Zucker the same night I took out Celeste, and for a while he thought he was home free. He took her to a movie and afterwards parked by Lake Phalen and began hugging her and she passed out within minutes from lack of oxygen. So far, so good. Then he went to pull her girdle off, and here is where the trouble began. The girdle turned out to be an entire foundation garment, or maybe even a corset, and before Albert could figure out how it worked Miss Zucker came to and started letting out such screams that passing cars were pulling over to the side of the road; they thought it was a fire engine. So of course he had to take her home where Miss Zucker gave the maid instructions to pour hot water on Albert if he ever showed up again.

  “Tough, Albert,” I said when he told me the story.

  “Well, it wasn’t a total loss,” said Albert. “I banged the maid.”