A Fistful of Fig Newtons

by Jean Shepherd

“… why yes, Mr. Cooke, the unique talent and attitude bred on the frontier of barbarian America were the result of many factors. Chief among them, I must say, was cosmic Boredom, and …”

  I struggled to my feet. Umbaugh, you son of a bitch! Tell ’em, you bastard, tell ’em!

  I threw a pair of ice cubes into my glass, eager to listen to the words of the most talented, fiercely, nay, ferociously courageous man I had ever known.

  Doctor Umbaugh. Of course. That was inevitable, at the very least. Umbaugh was one of those to whom the academic atmosphere was akin to milk and honey, the Promised Land. He fed on academia the way a whale inhales plankton, whereas I and most of my comrades back in those days when my life briefly impinged on Umbaugh’s struggled ceaselessly against it, alternating between the stark terror of imminent failure and crashing, utter boredom, boredom of a mind-numbing nature so palpable and real that you could almost see it growing up the walls of our poured-concrete prison.

  The midwestern university that I had recklessly elected to attend on the GI Bill of Rights, a charitable outpouring of public monies which has led to the psychic downfall of multitudes of erstwhile worthy garage mechanics and plumber’s helpers, had been designed by one of those architects of the French school known, in translation, as: Art is Truth, Ugliness is always honest; hence Art is ugly, and there are few materials in the world as ugly as poured concrete. Attending the university was much like living in a vast, glass-enclosed concrete viaduct. It was the concrete more than anything else, I suspect now, that set the wheels in motion which catapulted Umbaugh into the realm of Legend.

  It was 2 A.M. of a rainy, dreary fall night that it happened, a Friday in fact. I paced restlessly about my poured-concrete cell in a dormitory ironically named after one of America’s more sickeningly romantic early poets. We, the inmates, referred to it as “U. S. Gypsum Hall.” The twin dormitory next to us was called “The Portland Cement Arms” by its natives. The rain splashed against the pitted aluminum window casement forever sealed against outside reality by modern design. Either that, or some prudent administrator had had the windows protected against the threat, always present, of suicide. I paced as much as an eight-by-six-foot room would allow, a room with its poured-concrete desk, its poured-concrete bureau with its endearing little poured-concrete knobs. I wore only a pair of sagging Jockey shorts, my Fruit of the Looms being at the laundry. I had $2.82 between me and the bottom of my financial tank. I was running on the fumes. It was ten days before my next GI check was due from Uncle Sugar. Any student who could get up the scratch had long since fled this vast concrete carbuncle in the midst of the cornfields for weekend solace in the nearest big city. Not me. Not with $2.82 in my Levi’s and an Organic Chemistry exam coming up first period Monday morning. The only citizens left on campus were the destitute, the about-to-be-failed, and the truly zealous.

  I peered out of the window into the sleety rain. Far below, a coed struggled against the storm, dimly lit by one of the “colorful” fake turn-of-the-century gas lamps that had been installed in the Quad to counteract, theoretically, the plastic ivy which was attached to the exterior walls of our dorm. Real ivy does not grow in that climate, so the alumni of an earlier class had contributed the plastic variety to our well-being. It came from Montgomery Ward and was the best quality plastic ivy obtainable. It, at least, enabled the university to legally get away with the line: The restful, ivy-covered walls of tradition-laden …

  The starlings loved it, yelling and honking amid the rattling leaves at all hours of the night, carrying on the obscene activities that set starlings apart from the rest of the more civilized bird world. The coed moved through the dim light below. I listlessly peered down at her. About five feet tall, going maybe a hundred and eighty pounds, she wore skin-tight toreador pants which showed off her vast hams to best advantage. Her head covered with pink plastic barrels, she was typical of the campus queens the school specialized in: corn-fed, gum-chewing Home Ec majors. No wonder Playboy was passed from sweaty hand to sweaty hand until its pages were limp and ragged. It was the only port in a storm.

  I moodily squatted on the edge of my poured-concrete bed with its meager foam rubber cushion. Mere inches from my nose, Principles of Organic Chemistry, a hated volume of arcane, useless, stupid lore lay open on my desk amid a few scattered notebook pages bearing my pitiful notes. Chemistry was my Moby Dick. I had a brooding, certain knowledge that it would get me in the end. Subsequent events were to bear this out, but that is another story.

  Suddenly, out of the blue, a happy thought struck me. “Yeah,” I muttered, leaped to my feet and dove into the minute niche in the concrete wall that the college handbook called: Spacious, walk-in closets. I pawed through the pile of accumulated junk: my old combat boots, a pair of galoshes my mother had sent me, four pairs of mismatched Japanese shower clogs, limp-stringed tennis racquets, clothes hangers. Aha!

  Weeks before I had hidden away from the avid, hungry eyes of my dorm mates a two-pound Family Size Parti-Pak of Fig Newtons. I retrieved my treasure from amid the rubble and sat happily on the bed, contemplating the virgin, pristine beauty of the unopened package. I freely admit that I am a depraved Fig Newton freak. There aren’t many of us, but there is a bond between the lovers of the noble Fig Newton that transcends all. The Fig Newton itself is one of the most glorious creations of Man, its subtle, soft, sand-hued crust of a sensual shade, its dark, rich, tart filling of the ancient figs from the sun-drenched shores of Greece redolent of the earth’s bounties. There are those who actually enjoy such obscenities as cherry Fig Newtons, strawberry Fig Newtons, and even, God forbid, chocolate Fig Newtons.

  What blasphemy! The very name Fig Newton describes beautifully this classic pearl of the baker’s art. Legend has it that Isaac Newton himself concocted this paragon while contemplating the laws of motion. There are those who maintain that his discovery of the Fig Newton was vastly more important than that business about gravity, which any fool could have come up with.

  I hefted the package in my hand, with its provocative invitation: Cut along dotted line. The rain drummed monotonously. The dormitory was deathly still, except for the occasional shuddering moan of distant plumbing. With my right thumbnail, I carefully split the dotted line, savoring every moment to the full.

  Believe me, any break in the soft, muzzy, stifling boredom is manna to the prisoner. I have always felt that it was no coincidence that Hitler wrote Mein Kampf while in the slammer. If he had had a couple of pounds of Fig Newtons to play with, maybe the world would have been spared WWII.

  Carefully, I eased the flap upward and outward, laying bare the two compact rows of magnificent beauties. Immediately the musty concrete smell of my room was drowned in the incomparable fragrance, the subtle, haunting perfume that is characteristic of vintage Fig Newtons. I breathed deeply. Beads of perspiration covered my nose, the sweat of sensual anticipation. I placed the package carefully on my desk and arose, to steady my nerves.

  I stepped to the window to prolong this moment of ecstasy. Down below, a solitary cyclist splashed through the puddles, his soggy field jacket identifying him as another ex-GI in pursuit of government-funded knowledge. He still wore the patches of his old division, the 9th Infantry.

  I turned, and carefully extracted a Fig Newton from the company of its fellows. The drama was about to begin, although naturally I was not aware of it at the time. Umbaugh was about to become Legend.

  I sniffed the full-packed beauty and took a tentative nibble, savoring the rich yet somehow poignant flavor, hinting as it does of the overtones of Greek tragedy; the fig of Elektra, Orestes, and even Oedipus himself. A few crumbs trickled down my wrist. I finished off the first with lip-smacking gusto; a second, a third. As I settled down to my fourth Fig Newton, I became aware of a heavy clumping outside my door.

  “Christ Almighty, God dammit!” I muttered, frantically attempting to hide my treasure under the pillow. Our dormitory was peopled entirely by beings whose sense of smell surpassed that of the
timber wolf’s. Any hint of food, anywhere, was sure to bring the ravenous parasites.

  My door slammed open and there stood Goldberg, his hulking blubbery form almost filling the room, clad in the standard sagging Jockeys and shapeless T-shirt. He wore pink, rubber-thonged sandals and a two-day growth of smarmy beard.

  “Fig Newtons! I smell Fig Newtons. Y’got Fig Newtons!” he wheezed hoarsely.

  What a kick in the ass, I thought. Goldberg, whose appetite was rivaled only by the giant garbage disposal trucks which lurched daily about the campus, gobbling up anything in their paths, was the last one I wanted to see this night. Known as “Pig-out” to his friends and “the Slob” to all others, Goldberg was born to eat.

  “Hey, Pig-out, I thought you went to town.” I struggled to appear civil and welcoming.

  “Nah. I’m broke. Gimme a Fig Newton.”

  There was no way around it. The iron-clad law of the dormitory mandated that we share and share alike; a stupid law, but there it was.

  I extended the package to Goldberg. He scooped up three at one swoop, the poor little Fig Newtons hopelessly clinging to each other for companionship in their last moments on earth. He stuffed all three into his garbage chute.

  “Mmmmff, mmmffffph,” he grunted like a rooting hippo.

  What the hell, I thought, it’s every man for himself now. I grabbed a couple of Fig Newtons, barely avoiding his grasp, and chewed happily. A feeling of comradeship filled the room; peace, tranquillity. It would not last long.

  The silence of the room was broken only by the sound of our steadily chomping jaws and occasional grunts of animal pleasure.

  “Been saving these,” I said between chomps.

  “What for?”

  “A night like this, Goldberg. A night like this.”

  The rain drummed relentlessly outside. The faint red glow of a distant neon sign transformed the drops rolling down the pane into rubies. Off and on the sign went. It was a distant neon arrow pointing down through the night to JACK’S GOLDEN DOME TURNPIKE DINER. EAT … EAT … EAT … EAT … it endlessly intoned, beckoning the drivers of K-Whoppers, Macks, and Peter-bilts to come and graze at the all-night trough.

  EAT … EAT … EAT … And so we did, for a few blissful moments. Again, the steady clomp of shower clogs approaching my door. Goldberg glanced up, his chin dribbling crumbs.

  “Whozzat?”

  “Hide ’em!” I muttered.

  Too late. Blotting out the light entirely from the outside hallway was the immense, looming, mountainous form of Big Al Dagellio, the recognized terror of the Big Ten gridirons for the past three seasons. Football players in that neck of the woods are not students, or even human beings, in the ordinary meaning of the term. They are bred for the purpose. It is rumored that there is a Lineman Stud Farm hidden in the remote fastnesses of the state where these monsters are carefully nurtured from birth, destined only to execute bone-crushing tackles and shattering blocks on their way to the Rose Bowl. Rarely seen outside the confines of their special athletes compound, these killers can be dangerous when loose. What Big Al, known familiarly to sportswriters as “Old 76,” was doing in our dorm, I’ll never know.

  Naturally, we were both awed and flattered to be in the presence of such a demigod; two hundred and eighty-seven pounds, six feet five and a quarter, with a size twenty-two neck and a thirty-inch waistline, Big Al was wedge-shaped; pure sinew, gristle, and covered with a thick, bristly mat of primitive fur. Numerous broken noses had reduced his nostrils to blow-holes. Enveloping him was a distinctive animal aroma, the scent that great snuffling dinosaurs of the Reptile Age must have carried, redolent of primal swamps and ancient fens. He was as imposing as a bull rhino in heat, and about as lovable.

  He extended his immense paw toward me. I had the fleeting impression that his palms were covered with hair.

  “Gimme cookie,” he grunted.

  There’s nothing a Fig Newton aficionado loathes more than hearing a Fig Newton called a “cookie,” but I let it pass.

  “Of course. Heh heh, of course. Have all you want, Big Al.”

  “T’anks.”

  And Old 76 joined me and Goldberg in our contented chomping. My tiny cell was getting crowded, but the evening was yet young and the pieces were falling into place of a historical event that is still recounted on the campus these many years later. At least three folk songs have been written about it.

  About half the box of Fig Newtons had gone to that Great Cookie Jar in the Sky when the star of the evening made his entrance. I, personally, believe that he had somehow set the whole thing up. But we’ll never know. A light tapping was heard; polite, discreet. I creaked to my feet and opened the door. There stood the tall, lanky figure of one of the least-known members of our dormitory clan. He had the clammy sluglike pallor of the true scholar, one obviously born to live only for footnotes, cross references, and bibliographies, a natural writer of treatises.

  “Hi.” His voice was soft and diffident. “I’m Umbaugh. Schuyler Umbaugh from the first floor, and it is rumored that there are Fig Newtons available. I could scarcely credit my senses when I heard of it, but …”

  Big Al, glancing up from his fistful of Fig Newtons, rasped, “Give ’im some.”

  “My name’s Dave, and this is Goldberg, and …”

  Umbaugh, with a casual wave of his long, thin, cello player’s hand, said, “Of course. Everyone knows Mr. Big Al. Indeed.”

  He edged into the room, he too dressed in the uniform of the day, T-shirt, shorts, and shower clogs.

  “Yes, sir, the Fig Newton is one of my favorite vices, and I have brought with me something which makes the Fig Newton truly sing.”

  He produced a heavy, pregnant twelve-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. He went on in his soft, precise voice:

  “Fig Newtons and Pabst, a combination rivaled only by vodka and caviar. Here, have a brew.”

  We quickly dove in. Within seconds, all four of us were inhaling cooling suds, washing down the Fig Newtons, creating a taste combination that is truly indescribable. At first thought it sounds grotesque, but no, there is something about the fermented hops mingled with the crushed fig that is dynamite.

  “You guys are awright,” Old 76 muttered as he unleashed a shuddering burp that rattled the casements. Goldberg punctuated the conversation with an appreciative fart. Dormitory life was being lived to the fullest in Room 303.

  Goldberg suddenly lurched to his feet, a can of beer in one hand and a Fig Newton in the other, and announced:

  “What the hell … I’ll be right back.”

  His room was two doors down the hall, and seconds later he reappeared, the Fig Newton gone but still bearing his beer. In his now empty hand he carried, its string encircling his index finger, a three-foot-long, magnificent, richly gleaming salami.

  “My aunt Bella sent it to me for my birthday. I been savin’ it for a celebration.”

  Goldberg handed the salami to 76, who promptly bit four inches off the end. He passed it to me. I bit off a luscious, garlic-laden mouthful and on it went to Umbaugh.

  “The history of salami is an interesting one …” He addressed us in the well-modulated tones of a born teacher. “The name derives from the tiny island of Salama off the southern coast of Sicily. The early eighth century saw the emergence of the first sausage of this type. Its fame quickly spread. The sausage took its name from its homeland, salami being the plural of Salama, which is the more proper—”

  “Fer Chrissake, gimme another beer.”

  Big Al was clearly not interested in theory, being purely a man of action.

  Umbaugh continued: “St. Pietro Salami, one of the early Christian martyrs, according to legend added the garlic as the result of a Divine revelation. His subsequent canonization in nine hundred and thirty-two led to … Oh yes, of course. Have a beer, Mr. Seventy-six.”

  And so a happy hour was spent in my yeasty, fetid concrete room. Worries of carbon compounds and the halogen series had been banished for the moment.
The gray wolves of boredom were held at bay and they skulked uneasily in the rainy outside world. A huge bite of garlicky salami, a quick slug of beer, and a nibble of Fig Newton, in that order, was the routine.

  Salami, Fig Newtons, and beer passed from hand to hand. Occasionally low, gurgling stomach rumbles added a fitting obbligato to our debauch.

  Umbaugh, his mind ranging widely over the whole panoply of human experience, entertained us with arcane facts.

  “Are you gentlemen aware that the fig stands unique in the tangled world of nature’s flora? It has a deep-throated blossom which must be fertilized by a tiny insect which, flying from male blossom to female blossom, carries the minute fertilization cell which makes this luscious Fig Newton possible.”

  “No kiddin’?” Goldberg, always eager for more Sex news, listened intently.

  “Yes, Goldberg, but it is essentially a sad story, since this tiny insect, Latin name Blastophaga psenes, dies the very instant the eggs are laid. The blossom closes over it, and each fig absorbs the tiny body of a departed insect heroine. The Great Fig Blight, which struck Turkey in eighteen-oh-seven, due to …”

  “Y’ mean there’s goddamn dead BUGS in these things?” Old 76 looked up from his Pabst, his eyes glowing with menace.

  “Yeggkk!” Goldberg glanced nervously at his half-eaten Fig Newton.

  “I wouldn’t put it exactly that way, Mr. Seventy-six. However, in a manner of speaking that is true, but …”

  At the time I thought that under the influence of the beer and the bonhomie of the moment, Umbaugh was putting us on. Later, I was astounded to find that he was telling the truth. There is a tiny dead insect in every fig in the world.

  But by then it was too late. The Fig Newtons had disappeared and we were on our last beer, with only maybe six inches of salami left to go. It was close to 4 A.M. and, if anything, the rain was drumming down harder than ever. At this moment Umbaugh began to spring his trap. Big Al, who later went on to glory in the NFL after a spectacular career in the Big Ten, was about to learn a lesson.