Potatoes Are Cheaper

by Max Shulman

  “Because I can’t get the sonofabitch to fit inside,” he said.

  “That still don’t answer my question,” I said.

  “I got good news,” said Albert, looking all gleamy-eyed like he does when he gets excited. “Hold the hind legs and I’ll tell you.”

  So I did and he told me the good news: he’d been hanging around Di Palma’s produce house yesterday and he happened to hear about this farmer up near Brainerd, Minnesota, who had a big farm and a lots of kids and he was in the market for a Shetland pony. So that’s where Albert was taking the horse.

  “Well, Albert, I’m very happy for you,” I said. “How far is Brainerd?”

  “A hundred and twenty miles,” he said.

  “So you’ll be back tonight?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “You want to come along for the ride?”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “But I need to borrow your car when we get back.”

  “Nothing doing,” he said. “You’re after this Bridget cooz again, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, and I better get her this time,” I said and told him why.

  “Well, Morris,” he said when I finished, “if that’s how it is, then that’s how it is. How you gonna break it to your mother?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “Telegram probably.”

  “Yes, that’s the best,” he said and finished tying the horse to the fender and off we drove.

  The trip passed very nicely with good conversation and friendly laughing. Then we got to Brainerd and the laughing ended for the day. In fact, in Albert’s case, it ended for twenty days, still another bad break for this truly unfortunate human being.

  What happened was we drove into Brainerd and Albert pulled up to this cop who was standing on the corner. “Officer,” said Albert, “would you know a farmer around here called Holmquist?”

  “Why, sure,” said the cop.

  “Great,” said Albert. “Would you know if he’s in the market for a Shetland pony?”

  “That there is true,” said the cop.

  “Great,” said Albert again. “Would you know how I get to his farm?”

  “Is that there the animal you want to sell?” said the cop, pointing at Albert’s fender.

  “Ain’t he a pip?” said Albert.

  “Son,” said the cop, “that there animal is froze.”

  “To death?” said Albert.

  “That there is my diagnosis,” said the cop.

  “No, it can’t be,” said Albert and he hopped out of the car and tried artificial respiration for fifteen or twenty minutes. But the cop was right.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. Here’s the worst of it: “Was that there late animal ever vaccinated for hoof-and-mouth?” said the cop.

  “How the fuck would I know?” said Albert.

  “Then according to Ordinance 22b he got to be buried before sundown on the day of his deceasal,” said the cop.

  So he showed us this field outside of town, and Albert and me started digging with all our might—and I don’t have to tell you what Albert’s might is like—but it didn’t help. All afternoon we hacked away and didn’t make a dent in that frozen ground, not even with a crowbar.

  Meanwhile it was getting on toward sunset so the cop finally sent for a steam shovel. That did the trick all right, but then the cop handed Albert the bill—twenty dollars for Christ sakes!

  “I ain’t got twenty dollars!” Albert hollered. “I ain’t got twenty cents.”

  “You got twenty days?” said the cop.

  “You gonna stick me in the workhouse?” said Albert.

  “Not me,” said the cop. “The judge.”

  “Listen, Officer,” I said to the cop, “how’s about making it ten days and we’ll both go to the workhouse?”

  “No, Morris, I can’t let you,” said Albert.

  “Okay,” I said because I wasn’t all that crazy to do it anyhow.

  “Take good care of my car,” Albert said to me.

  “I will,” I said to him. “Keep smiling, kid.”

  Then I drove back to St. Paul wondering what tragedy would strike poor Albert next. I mean besides getting buggered in the Brainerd workhouse: with his luck that was the least that could happen.

  Chapter Twenty

  To tell you the truth, I wasn’t specially in the mood to take Bridget out when I got back to St. Paul, what with being so depressed about Albert and still pissed off at Celeste. Still and all, Bridget was a marvelous girl who I loved and she’d been patient all these weeks and it really wouldn’t be fair to make her keep on waiting. Besides the thing to do was get this business over with. The sooner my mother got told, the sooner she’d recover. If she was going to, that is.

  So at eight o’clock I picked up Bridget in the lobby of the women’s dorm and walked her out to the Maytag.

  “Oh, Morris, look! A lover’s moon!” said Bridget.

  “Watch out for the manure on the running board,” I said.

  “How in the world did that get there?” she said.

  “I just bought some gas from the Flying Red Horse,” I said and started for the River Bank.

  “Ah, my eaglet is joking,” she said, giving a laugh. “Shall you be L’Allegro tonight, Morris?”

  “Maybe yes,” I said, “and maybe no.”

  “Or shall you be Il Penseroso?” she said.

  “Who can tell?” I said, wishing we’d get to the River Bank already and stop this Choctaw.

  “Be L’Allegro” she said.

  “Whatever you say,” I said.

  “For this is a night of joy,” she said. “What could be more joyful than to hold one another again at long last under a lover’s moon?”

  “Provided we find a place to park,” I said because now we were at the River Bank and it was jammed with cars. Spring always brings out the humpers, even when it’s cold enough to kill a horse as you know.

  But I finally found a spot between two cars and parked and cut the motor and put my arm around Bridget and pulled her to me gently like I used to and smelled her hair. One thing about Bridget: I never hope to meet a girl with a better smelling head.

  “How brightly she shines, Morris,” said Bridget, pointing at the sky. Then she quoted some poetry, a habit I hoped to break her of before too long. “The orbèd maiden with white fire laden,” she quoted, “whom mortals call the moon.”

  But I wasn’t looking at any orbèd maiden, I’ll tell you that. I was looking at the car on my left. It was an Oldsmobile—like Celeste’s—1936 model—like Celeste’s—green colored—like Celeste’s—with a squirrel tail on the antenna—like Celeste’s—and there were two people screwing in the back seat.

  I can’t explain what came over me. It was like I turned into a mad, savage beast all of a sudden, I gave a roar and flang Bridget aside and jerked open my door and leapt out and raced to the Olds and jerked open its door. And, mind you, I was roaring all the time. Not words, just roaring.

  But, believe me, I stopped roaring in a hurry once I opened up the Olds. Because it wasn’t who I thought or anywheres near it. Actually it was Mr. Harwood banging the Homecoming Queen.

  Well, in situations like this there’s really nothing you can say that will put people at their ease, so I just mumbled a little small talk—I don’t even remember what—something like, “Well, folks, is it cold enough for you?” Then I smiled and closed their door and went back to Bridget.

  “A mistake,” I told her. “I thought it was my Uncle Nochim from Duluth.”

  It took a little while to calm Bridget down because I’d made her pretty jumpy, but finally I got it done. Actually it was a lot harder to calm myself down, but finally I did that too. Meanwhile Mr. Harwood started the Olds and drove away, shaking his fist at me.

  So Bridget and I sat for a half hour or so, calming down and waiting for the old feeling to take a hold. It got a hold on Bridget before me. “Eaglet, eaglet!” she kept saying and nuzzling me. “Oh, enter me, eaglet!”

  And
I’d have done it too because I was building a nice lump in my pants by now, but all of a sudden I saw another Oldsmobile pulling into the River Bank. This one parked a couple rows down, too far away to see the color, but I could tell it was a ’36. And there was a squirrel tail hanging on the antenna, no question.

  But this time I wasn’t going to tear around like my ass was on fire. “Excuse me, Bridget,” I said calmly. “I think I see my Uncle Nochim again.”

  “Eaglet, don’t go!” she hollered. “Not now for God’s love!”

  “I shan’t be a minute,” I said.

  Then I walked, not ran, to the Oldsmobile and I gently opened, not jerked, the back door.

  Well, if you think I was sore the first time, you should have seen me now. Berserk is the closest word, and that isn’t even close. I won’t try to describe how it was because, to be honest, I hate to think about it even now. All I’ll tell you is there was only one word in my mind—only one: KILL.

  It was Celeste all right. And you know who was with her? Henry Leibowitz! Can you imagine such a thing? Henry Leibowitz!

  “Morris, Morris, for God sakes, don’t hit!” he hollered. “Look how little I am!”

  “Get out of the car, you sonofabitch!” I said.

  “It’s not my fault, Morris,” he hollered. “I’ll prove it to you. Where’s my pants?”

  “Stand up and fight, you sneaky traitor,” I said.

  “Celeste, you seen my pants?” he said.

  “Here,” she said.

  “Oh, thank God,” he said and while I was trying to yank him out of the car, he managed to stick his hand in his pants pocket and fish out a note. “Look, Morris. It’s not my fault, see?” he said, shoving me the note. “This was in my P.O. box this morning. Read it.”

  “After I kill you,” I said.

  “Now, please,” he begged.

  “Okay, but then I’ll kill you,” I said.

  So I read the note and I quote:

  Dear Henry,

  I am the girl who sits behind you in Psych I, not too pretty maybe but very well dressed. Would you like to go to the movies tonight? I get in free and I have my own car.

  Sincerely,

  Celeste Zimmerman

  P.S. I put out.

  “You see?” said Henry. “Not my fault. So don’t hit, okay, Morris?”

  “Okay,” I said. “But get out of the car. I want to talk to Celeste private.”

  “I’ll freeze my balls off out there,” hollered Henry, but I pulled him out anyhow, got in myself, and closed the door.

  “Well, Miss Zimmerman,” I said, “I have heard of some pretty low tricks in my time.”

  “Me too,” she said. “Like sending a girl to look up Lance Berman and Claude Applebaum.”

  “You went?” I said.

  “Stop grinning, you cockaroach,” she said.

  “Serves you right,” I said. “Now shut up. I’ll do the talking.”

  “Who you telling shut up?” she said.

  “You, satchel-ass. And I’ll tell you somthing else too,” I said. “The next time I catch you with another guy, I’ll put the both of you in the hospital.”

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Killer Katz, the Fighting Doorman,” she said.

  “I said shut up,” I said. “From now on there’s gonna be respect and consideration. Let’s get that straight right now before we’re married.”

  “Before who’s married?” she said.

  “You heard me,” I said. “You’re gonna marry me and the discussion is closed.”

  “You’re out of your head,” she said.

  “That would explain it,” I said.

  “What about your other girl?” she said.

  “I’m glad you reminded me,” I said and opened the car door. “Henry,” I said, “come with me for a minute.”

  “Without pants?” said Henry.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Here you are.”

  So Henry put on the pants.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Celeste.

  “I won’t be here,” she said.

  “I think you will,” I said and took the car keys. “Come, Henry,” I said and walked him over to the Maytag and opened the door.

  “Bridget,” I said, “I’m terrible sorry but we live in two different worlds and it never would have worked. Try and forgive me. This is Henry Leibowitz who will drive you home.”

  “How do you do?” said Henry.

  “No, eaglet, no!” hollered Bridget.

  “I’m not an eaglet, I’m a kosher chicken,” I said. “And I can’t write poetry either. I steal it. Also I lie practically every minute. Believe me, you couldn’t have done worse.”

  “He’s right, lady,” said Henry.

  “But try and remember that I did do one nice thing for you,” I said. “I kept you from banning that schmuck Bruce Albright.”

  Then I gave her a little pat on the shoulder and went back to Celeste.

  “Morris, I don’t want you in my car,” said Celeste.

  “Shut up. I give the orders around here,” I said.

  “One more shut up and you’re getting a hatpin in the eye,” she said.

  “Kiss me,” I said.

  “Like fun,” she said.

  So I grabbed her and we wrestled for a while but experience always tells in the end. In under five minutes I had her pinned and got my kiss and then naturally the you-know was on. It was the best one we ever had, a genuine axle-bender.

  Celeste really appreciated it. “I’m glad you talked me into it, Morris,” she said. “Frankly, Henry was terrible.”

  “Well, you won’t be bothered with him any more,” I said. “Or anybody else either, get me?”

  “Oh, stop acting like a Jewish cave man,” she said. “Tell me you love me. I want to hear how it sounds.”

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Still sounds like a whopper,” she said.

  “I don’t give a damn how it sounds,” I said. “You’re gonna marry me and that’s that.”

  “What if I don’t?” she said.

  “For openers I’ll drive the car into the river,” I said.

  “Morris,” she hollered, “do you know what the temperature is in the river?”

  “Damn right,” I said. “But I’ll do it.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Celeste. “But it’s the thought that counts. Okay, Morris, I guess you got a deal.”

  And that’s how it happened, folks.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Old A. M. Zimmerman kept scrapping right up to the end, I’ll give him that. When Celeste told him we were going to get married, he right away called me over to his house, took me in the library, and showed me the codicil on his will. It was written by a goyish lawyer so it’s pretty fancy language, but you’ll get the idea. I quote:

  “‘In the devoutly hoped-against event that my daughter Celeste should perversely and in defiance of my strenuous wishes marry one Morris Katz, pauper, residing at 701 Selby Avenue, St. Paul, Minnesota, the said Celeste shall forfeit her share of my estate except for One Dollar only, and the balance shall be given to the B’nai Brith after sufficient funds have been set aside to commission a bust of myself in bronze for the lobbies of each of my 24 theatres.’”

  “Well, I guess the wedding’s off, right, Morris?” said Zimmerman.

  “Wrong,” I said. “And I’ll tell you something else. You tried your best and you got nothing to be ashamed of. But you lost. So how’s about being a good sport for a change?”

  “No!” screamed Mrs. Zimmerman. “Fight on, Armand!”

  But Zimmerman only gave a big sigh. “He’s right, Manya,” he said to Mrs. Zimmerman. “I can’t stop ’em from getting married no more. So there’s only one thing to decide: shall I throw the both of ’em in the street, or shall I give ’em a wedding?”

  “Here’s my feeling,” said Celeste. “Give us a wedding. If Morris works out, you’ll change the codicil. If not, we’ll all throw him in the street.”


  “That seems sensible,” I said.

  “But just a small wedding,” said Celeste. “I don’t want a vulgar spectacle like Morris’s mother did.”

  “You’ll have a vulgar spectacle and like it, God damn it!” hollered Zimmerman. “You think I’m gonna let that chicken-flicker Pearl Katz show me up?”

  “Well, that’s settled,” I said. “Now let’s talk about a date. Is next Sunday okay?”

  Mrs. Zimmerman gave such a scream that half the crystals fell off the chandelier.

  “Too soon?” I said. “All right, how’s about a week from Sunday?”

  “No, two weeks from Sunday,” said Zimmerman. “That’s Easter. Business will be horseshit anyways.”

  So that’s when the wedding was set for. Then we cleared up some more details, like where would Celeste and me live (Celeste’s room); did the Zimmermans want my folks to come over and discuss the wedding plans (shit, no); how many people Ma could invite from our side (only twelve and the men all had to wear a necktie); and then I went home to report the good news.

  Well, naturally there was a terrific celebration. Everybody whooped and hollered including Nettie and Gittel who had no idea what was going on but they ran around and whacked their cymbals anyhow. But the best was Ma. I can’t tell you how good it felt to see her acting like the old gut-shooter again—strutting around, lining people up, hollering orders, giving whammies.

  “Libbie, stop crying on your dress,” she said to my sister. “You got to wear it to the wedding.”

  “But, Mother, I thought my blue shantung,” said Libbie.

  “I’m wearing that,” Ma said and turned to Jonathan. “Kaplan,” she said, “I’ll make you a deal. If you can keep from getting arrested till after the wedding, I’ll call you Jonathan.”

  “You got it,” said Jonathan.

  “Nathan,” said Ma to Pa, “don’t forget to take your Dutch Boy sample book to the wedding. Maybe he needs a paint job, Zimmerman.”

  “Nettie and Gittel stole the book,” said Pa.

  “Look in the flue. That’s where they’re hiding everything,” said Ma and then she turned to me. “Morris, my dolly, Morris, my sweet brilliant boychik,” she said, “I got nothing to tell you. How could I tell you anything? Already you’re smarter than your old mother.”