Potatoes Are Cheaper

by Max Shulman

“Shut up and go make the little things,” said Ma.

  “The hors d’oeuvres?” said Libbie. “Of course, Mother.”

  She went into the kitchen.

  “Sit down, Kaplan,” said Ma. “You too, Morris.”

  We sat.

  “To put you in the picture, Morris,” said Jonathan Kaplan to me, “so far I’ve told your mother I’m from Cleveland, I came to St. Paul to start a new business, and I intend to marry Libbie.”

  “Did she believe any of it?” I said.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Do you?”

  “Hell, no,” I said.

  “You will,” he said. “Next question, Mrs. Katz.”

  “How old are you?” said Ma.

  “How old is Libbie?” he said.

  “Nineteen,” said Ma.

  “In that case I’m twenty-one,” he said.

  “I’d hate to hang since you were thirty-five,” said Ma but she had to grin for a second. She wasn’t having too bad a time with Jonathan. It wasn’t often anybody was brave enough to give her a workout.

  “You still got family in Cleveland?” Ma said.

  “Unfortunately no,” said Jonathan. “My mother and father are both dead.”

  “From what?” said Ma. “Bullets?”

  “Mrs. Katz,” said Jonathan, “if you’re so sure I’m a crook, tell me this: what have you got to steal?”

  “Nothing,” said Ma.

  “Aha,” said Jonathan.

  “Never mind aha,” said Ma. “You’re after something, Kaplan. What?”

  “Could you call me Jonathan?” said Jonathan.

  “Never,” said Ma. “Answer the question.”

  “What am I after?” said Jonathan. “To marry Libbie, of course.”

  “For what?” said Ma.

  “For love,” said Jonathan.

  “You know something, Ma?” I said. “It’s just crazy enough to be true.”

  “Love?” said Ma.

  “Love,” said I. “Believe me, it’s a mysterious business, love.”

  “What do you know?” said Ma.

  “Nothing,” said I.

  “That’s right,” said Ma, and turned to Jonathan. “Come on, Kaplan, what do you want from me?”

  “Your mazeltov, that’s all,” said Jonathan. “So how’s about it?”

  “Not so fast, Baron Munchausen,” said Ma. “One thing you got to satisfy me first, and don’t get cute. If you marry Libbie, which maybe I’ll say yes and maybe not, how you gonna support her?”

  “No problem,” said Jonathan, and reached in his pocket and pulled out about three feet of red rubber tubing, a quarter inch in diameter. “Believe it or not, this is what I make my living with,” he said. “Can you figure out how?”

  “Well,” said Ma, “it got to be one of two things: either you siphon gas or you give enemas.”

  “Wrong,” said Jonathan. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I must ask you never to repeat what I’m gonna tell you,” he said. “That’s what happened in Cleveland. I had a real nice business going but too many people found out and that was the end. So far in St. Paul nobody knows but me. Please, I’m trusting you.”

  “So trust already,” said Ma.

  “Listen,” said Jonathan. “There’s over two hundred beer joints in St. Paul that serve beer on draft. Now, how do you chill draft beer? Here’s how: between the keg and the tap there’s a narrow coil that the beer runs through and that’s what makes it cold. Okay? So by the end of the week this coil gets pretty well sludged up naturally and it got to be cleaned out. So what most beer joint owners do on Sunday morning when the joint is closed, they come down and take their taps apart and wash out the coil, a messy job nobody likes. So here’s where I come in.

  “Where?” said Ma.

  “Just listen,” said Jonathan. “A pal of mine back in Cleveland who’s in the bar supply game showed me a little trick a few years ago. You don’t need to take the whole tap apart to clean the coil. You just loosen the bottom of the coil and stick this tube on”—he held up one end of his little rubber tube—“and you blow”—he stuck the other end of the tube in his mouth and blew—“and in a couple seconds you got all the sludge blown out and the coil is clean like brand-new.”

  “So this is your professon?” said Ma. “Blowing dreck from beer coils?”

  “Don’t knock it,” said Jonathan. “Every Sunday I go out and make the rounds of the beer joints. I don’t charge much—two bits apiece, four bits if I can get it. For a price like that the boss is tickled to death to give me the job. And for me it’s a breeze: one-two-three, blow, and good-by. I can cover a hundred places in a day. So for one easy day’s work I bring home twenty-five, thirty, maybe forty bucks.”

  Suddenly a strange voice spoke up which we couldn’t figure out for a second, then we looked over and saw it was Pa talking. “Pearl,” he said to Ma, “this is a wonderful man. What you got against him?”

  “Shut up. I’m thinking,” said Ma. She sat and drummed her fingers on the table, never taking her beady eyes off Jonathan. I got to say it didn’t bother him. He just sat with a cool grin and looked right back at her. Once he even tipped her a wink.

  “Foie gras, anyone?” said Libbie, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of chopped liver on Triscuits.

  “Libbie,” said Jonathan, “Mother Katz has something to tell you.”

  “Who?” said Libbie.

  “Nu?” said Jonathan, grinning at Ma.

  “Momser,” said Ma, “what kind of hipky-dripky are you making?”

  “A fine way to talk to a son-in-law,” said Jonathan.

  “What?” hollered Libbie, getting frantic. “What? What? What?”

  “Libbie, give me the liver you shouldn’t drop it,” said Ma.

  “What?” Libbie kept hollering. “What?”

  Ma took the liver. “Mazeltov, dearie,” she said to Libbie.

  Well of course it took twenty minutes to make Libbie stop crying, and then Ma sent Pa out to get a bottle of cream soda to celebrate. But Jonathan said never mind the cream soda. He came prepared with a bottle of champagne in his overcoat pocket. So he went and got it—imported French champagne. Even Ma said, “Hoo-ha!”

  Oh, he was a lulu, that Jonathan Kaplan. You’d have thought the whole Orpheum circuit was in our living room. First he popped open the champagne and made a bunch of funny toasts. Then he sang “Cuban Pete” and danced the rhumba with Libbie and then he sang “Ut a Zoy” and danced the kazatsky with Ma. Then he did card tricks, bird calls, and imitations of Kay Kyser and Warner Oland, and for the grand finale he gave a demonstration of graphology, which is telling a person’s character from their handwriting. He had us all write our signatures on a piece of paper (except Ma naturally who said she couldn’t find her glasses but the truth is she can’t write just like she can’t read). By looking at our signatures Jonathan told us what kind of personalities we had, which he insisted was a real science and not a parlor trick, but I say bullshit. Anyone who looks at a signature and says it shows strength, wit, and ambition, and the signature is my father’s, is not practicing any science I ever heard of.

  But what the hell, Pa hadn’t been so happy since his last pay check, and Libbie practically came unglued between laughing and crying, and Ma went the whole night without giving one single whammy to anybody. And me—well, of course I could see by this time that Jonathan was some kind of an arch-criminal and I knew that somehow he was going to give us all a terrible hosing, especially Libbie, but just the same I hollered and enjoyed and kept hoping the party would never end.

  So I wasn’t too pleased when all of a sudden my cousin Albert came busting in with his face all black and scowly. He headed right for me, but Libbie got to him first. “Albert darling,” she said and kissed him. That stopped him, you can bet. “Albert,” she said, “may I present Jonathan Kaplan, my fiancé?”

  “What are you giving me?” said Albert.

  “No, honest,” said Libbie.

  “True, A
unt Pearl?” said Albert, looking at Ma.

  She shrugged.

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch,” said Albert, shaking his head.

  “Thank you for your kind wishes,” said Jonathan, and took Albert’s hand.

  “Don’t I know you from someplace?” said Albert.

  “Maybe you saw his picture in the post office,” said Ma.

  “Write your name, Albert,” said Libbie. “Jonathan will analyze your character.”

  “I got no time to bullshit,” said Albert. “Morris, come outside.”

  He grabbed a hold of me so naturally I came outside.

  “So how do you like my new brother-in-law-to-be?” I said.

  “Shut up,” said Albert. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “You didn’t give me the subject yet,” I said.

  “Bruce Albright called,” said Albert.

  “Maybe he should get a headset,” I said. “He spends so much time on the phone. What did he say?”

  “I said I was gonna break your jaw for you,” said Bruce Albright, getting out of Albert’s Maytag, all six feet four of him.

  “But I talked him out of it,” said Albert.

  “Temporarily,” said Bruce.

  “I told him you’d give him your word never to see this Bridget cooz again,” said Albert. “Would you do that, Morris?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “A couple more weeks and she’s all yours, Bruce.”

  “A couple more weeks?” Albert hollered.

  “That does it,” said Bruce. “Morris, put up your dukes.”

  “No, Bruce,” said Albert. “I agree he got it coming, that schmuck, but all the same I can’t let you do it.”

  “Butt out, Albert,” said Bruce.

  “No, Bruce,” said Albert. “Believe me, I hate him worse than you do, but family is family.”

  “Albert, get out of my way,” said Bruce. “Or are you looking for a broken jaw too?”

  “Not especially,” said Albert. “But if you want Morris you’re gonna have to fight me first.”

  “Suits me,” said Bruce and they squared off.

  To tell you the truth it wasn’t much of a fight. Albert, if you remember, was five feet one and Bruce was six feet four, so only one punch got thrown. Albert gave Bruce a shot in the balls and that was that.

  “Well, Albert,” I said after Bruce hobbled away clutching his parts, “I certainly appreciate this and if you ever need a favor, don’t hesitate.”

  “I hope I never need nothing from you, you selfish, inconsiderate schmuck,” said Albert.

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “I mean those people in there,” he said, pointing at my house. “Your family, Morris, your flesh and blood. Did you think about them when you started up with this Bridget cooz?”

  “Well, not too much,” I said, getting ashamed.

  “Oh, Morris, Morris,” he hollered, grabbing my hands, “are you gonna pull the chain on your own mother? And your father, that poor horse’s ass? And how about Libble, especially now she’s gonna marry that vagrant? What happens to all of them if you blow the Zimmerman money?”

  I gave a big sigh. He was right, of course. I’d been kidding myself about Bridget, I saw that now. I couldn’t keep her, not even temporary, not unless I wanted to risk losing Celeste and putting my whole family on the county. “Albert,” I said, “you’re right. I’ve been a schmuck. Tell me what to do.”

  “You’ve been a schmuck with earlaps,” he said. “So listen carefully.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Dump this Bridget cooz,” he said. “Right now. Tonight. Call her and give her the walking papers.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock,” I said. “They won’t ring anyone in the dorm at this hour.”

  “So leave a message,” said Albert. “That’s better yet. You won’t have to talk to her.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Morris,” he said, giving me a little squeeze on my shoulder, not too painful, “I know you feel crappy now. But think of all the great pussy you can buy after you marry the Zimmerman money.”

  Then he got in his Maytag and drove away and I went back into the house. Jonathan Kaplan was playing “Nola” with a spoon on six glasses of water and I sat down and listened to a few choruses but I wasn’t really concentrating. Instead I was trying to think of a message to leave for Bridget at the women’s dorm. I hated to say anything mean to her, but just the same it had to be strong enough so she’d know where she stood. I picked up a pencil and a piece of paper left over from the graphology demonstration and tried a few different combinations. Finally I got one that seemed about right:

  Dear Bridget,

  It is best to break clean. I love another. Better luck next time.

  Sincerely,

  Morris Katz

  I got up quietly, went into the kitchen where the phone was, and called the women’s dorm.

  “Women’s dorm,” said the operator.

  “Hello,” I said. “I would like to leave a message for Miss Bridget O’Flynn.”

  “Your name?” said the operator.

  “Morris Katz,” I said.

  “The message?” said the operator.

  I looked at the slip of paper in my hand. Then I looked at it some more.

  “Hello,” said the operator. “What is the message, please?”

  “‘I love you,’” I said.

  Chapter Seven

  Okay, so I couldn’t do it. Dump Bridget, I mean. Call me anything you want. I couldn’t leave loose of the woman I loved, and that was that.

  And naturally I couldn’t dump Celeste either, not with all that Zimmerman gold. So I thought long and hard and here’s the solution I came up with: since I couldn’t dump either one, I would just have to hang on to both.

  (Nu, how do you like that for clear thinking? You still got doubts that love can turn a rational human being into a blue-ass baboon?)

  So anyhow I went to Celeste the next day and told her I had to be back on my night watchman’s job at the First National Bank tonight and could I borrow her car again.

  “Oh, poop on you,” she said.

  But I argued for a couple hours and promised I would take her out tomorrow night for sure and finally I wore her down. So at 7 P.M. I picked up Bridget at the women’s dorm.

  “Oh, Morris, Morris, Morris, Morris,” said Bridget and took my arm and looked at me with her eyes all big and melty.

  “Well, I guess you got my message,” I said.

  “Oh, Morris, Morris,” she said again and kept on saying it and rubbing her face against my sleeve all the way to the River Bank.

  I parked and held her gently and sniffed her hair and it was just like last night—great.

  “Sweet eaglet,” she said. “Gentle knight.” She took my hand and pressed it against her cheek.

  I liked that fine.

  “Can it really be true?” she said. “That I am loved by a poet?”

  “You’re darn tootin’,” I said.

  “But not just any poet,” she said. “A Jewish poet!”

  “You deserve it, kiddo,” I said.

  “I shall try to deserve it, Morris,” she said. “I shall try to please and comfort you in every way.”

  “You’re off to a swell start,” I said.

  “I’ll be your woman, yes, but I want to be your companion too,” she said. “I want to go with you to concerts and museums and all the things you love.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said, giving her a look. By me concerts and museums are right up there with root canal.

  “And if you like,” said Bridget, “I’ll come along to your cell meetings too.”

  “What cell?” I said.

  “The Communist Party, of course,” she said.

  “Hey, watch it!” I hollered, rolling up the window fast.

  “It’s all right, Morris,” she said. “I approve, don’t you see? In fact I applaud. If you Jews weren’t in the vanguard, where would social progres
s be?”

  “That’s right,” I said, wondering who put such bees in her bonnet. Me a Communist? For Christ sakes, if I had eight dollars I’d have been a Republican.

  “Well, Bridget,” I said, “I’d certainly like to take you to my cell meetings, but it’s members only.”

  “Couldn’t I join?” she said.

  “Not my cell,” I said. “It’s stag.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Slide over a little closer,” I said.

  “Don’t you want to show it to me first?” she said.

  “Show what to you?” I said.

  “Your new poem,” she said. “You said you’d bring it tonight.”

  “Which I meant to,” I said. “But the thing is, I haven’t been able to finish it. If you ask me, I think I’m having a little writer’s block.”

  “Oh, my poor eaglet,” she said. “What can I do to help?”

  “You can slide over a little closer,” I said.

  “Yes, brave minstrel,” she said and she slid over a little closer and I put my arm around her, just gently, and I sniffed her hair a few more times and that’s how we sat, quiet and still. It was terrific, I’m not kidding. I never had such peacefulness in my life. Somehow I just couldn’t worry about all the things I should have, like (a) I was in love with a shicksa who (b) was not only a shicksa but an Irish Catholic shicksa raised by nuns yet and who (c) had no money and was (d) also a little strange in the head: I mean what else do you call somebody who was convinced that all Jews were either listening to Beethoven or throwing bombs?

  But as I say, I just couldn’t be bothered with such details right now. I was just too happy holding Bridget and sniffing her hair.

  Bridget was happy also, generally speaking, although I think she’d have been happier if I’d done a little intercourse on her. I’m sure of it, in fact. But somehow I didn’t feel like it tonight. Or let me put it another way: I did feel like it tonight. But it seemed to me the conditions were just about one hundred per cent wrong. After all, I wasn’t sitting here with just a piece of ass; this was the woman I loved sweetly and tenderly and with all my heart. To take such a person and ram it into her in a parked car, do you call that nice? No, with such a person it ought to be something special—a field of daisies maybe, or a mountaintop would be good. But not here and not yet.