The Cheese Monkeys: A Novel in Two Semesters

by Chip Kidd

  SCRIBNER 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2001 by Charles Kidd. Yes, Charles. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SCRIBNER and design are registered trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon and Schuster, the publisher of this work. The author is deeply grateful to the Bogliasco Foundation for its generous support. Book design by Chip Kidd, who wrote it in Quark 3.2. Text is set in Apollo and then, at a certain point, Bodoni. Cheese Monkeys logo designed by Mr. F. C. Ware. Manufactured in the United States of America. 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 • Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-1755-2

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-1755-1

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  For L.S., B.K., and S.C.

  CO N T .

  P R E L U D E

  FA L L S E M E S T E R,1 9 5 7

  i. REGISTRATION

  ii. ART 101: INTRODUCTION TO DRAWING.

  iii. ART 101: INTRODUCTION TO DRAWING. (cont'd)

  iv. WINTER BREAK

  SP R I N G S E M E S T E R, 1 9 5 8

  i. ART 127: INTRODUCTION TO COMMERCIAL ART.

  ii. THE FIRST CRITIQUE.

  iii. THE SECOND CRITIQUE.

  iv. THE THIRD CRITIQUE.

  v. THE FOURTH CRITIQUE.

  vi. THE FINAL EXAM.

  “God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for this food.”

  —trad. Am. prayer

  “America is great because America is good.”

  —Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America

  “Good is dead.”

  — W. Sorbeck

  1 9 5 8

  P R E L U D E

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, behold: The Enemy:”

  He raised the blinds, and there was the street below. Townies going up and down upon the land. Greased, efficient gears in the Village engine. Harmless.

  “Relentless. Unstoppable. You cannot hope to defeat them. Nor, as a matter of fact, would you want to. Their defeat also means yours. When a host dies, he takes his virus with him. Viruses are fools—they work toward their own extinction. Not you. You will sustain the enemy as long as possible, and flourish.

  “So why are they the enemy? Because they are bent on destroying you. They did it yesterday. They'll do it tomorrow. They're curing themselves of you as I speak—their serum is Indifference. Your job is to infect them, to elude the antidote, and to thrive. To make your thoughts into their obsessions, your whims into their rapacious desires. And I will show you how to do it. If this isn't what you had in mind, leave now to join them and become our food and save me considerable trouble. My job is to give you courage, cunning, power. To make you strong. To make you smarter. To make you ruthless. Because when you leave here, you are not just going to work.

  “You are going to war.”

  F A L L S E M E S T E R

  1 9 5 7

  i .

  R E G I S T R AT I O N

  During which we construct our course of study.

  “So, what are you taking?”

  At that point I could have said a lot of things—I could have said, “If I don't get the classes I need after waiting five hours in this line, I am taking that clipboard out of your sausage-fingered hands, breaking it into ten thick splinters, and slowly introducing each one of them beneath your cuticles as a way of saying Thanks for herding us like a flock of three thousand Guatemalan dirt pigs into a ventilation-free hall built for three hundred in order to ask us questions we've already answered so many times our minds are jelly and our jaws squeak—an act which has to be covered somewhere in the Bible as punishable by any manner we, in His righteous stead, see fit.”

  But I didn't.

  I mumbled for the umpteenth time that yearlong day of that first awful month, my tongue thick with shame,

  “Me? Art.”

  • • •

  Majoring in Art at the state university appealed to me because I have always hated Art, and I had a hunch if any school would treat the subject with the proper disdain, it would be one that was run by the government. Of course I was right. My suspicions were confirmed the minute I entered the Visual Arts building on arrival my freshmen year and took in the faculty show in its gallery. I beheld: melting lop-sided Umbrian? hillsides, nudes run over by the Cubist Express, suburban-surrealist flower ladies going about their daily tasks weeping blood tears the size of water balloons, and kittens. Yes, kittens. I thought, “Now these people hate Art a lot. This is where I belong. Perfect.”

  So what did I like? Well, that spring of senior year at Upper Wissahicken High I was quite pleased with a drawing in green pencil I did on the margin of a page in my dreary Civics textbook of Mickey Mouse (from the Steamboat Willy era— when he really looked like something you'd set out a trap for and cross your fingers) ritually eviscerating Olive Oyl with an oyster fork, because it marked the first time I finally got the proportion of his eyes to his mouth and nose absolutely right without any reference material. I was also rather partial to the scoreboard I'd made in April out of aubergine sequins and six shirt cardboards for Skizzy Bickfield's Wingless Fly Races. Even then I knew these sorts of things and the many others like them were NOT Art. They were too much fun. Real artists—the ones I'd read about, anyway—lopped off their ears and starved themselves, twitching with demented fits in drafty attics of unredeemed squalor, only to be dragged in the dead of night to the Vatican and murdered by the pope.

  Thank you, no.

  But at the end of the day, you can't major in Making Stuff, so it was Art by default.

  When I told Mom and Dad I wanted to be an Art major the floor practically came up to greet them. (Mom, near sobs: “Why didn't you tell us before? Maybe we could have done something . . . ”) But they'd sooner see me convert to Catholicism than attend a trade school, so State it was.

  Let me point out here, before you get the wrong impression: causing my mother and father any unearned stress or horror with this plan didn't even occur to me, and wasn't the point. I knew I was supposed to love my parents, and in fact, I was reasonably certain that I did; as one would fondly regard a reliable old sedan (with big soft seats) that started right up, even on frigid winter mornings, and practically never broke down. Or, better—two loyal, ageless farm cows, which besides everything else even let you ride them if you really wanted to. They could be counted on for an endless stream of milk, and should that ever be exhausted . . . well, meat. I should add that I gave them credit for about as much intelligence, a fact I now review with some regret.

  As I do with most.

  College? I was never too crazy about the idea in the first place, but not going didn't seem to be a choice—any more than not going through puberty. And it looked to be about a tenth as fun. Actually, it wasn't hatred of Art that led me to State at all, it was hatred of responsibility. In the face of this distant but charging train of education, I just ran along the tracks and alit onto the platform at the nearest station. Once decided, I put as little thought into it as possible. It was a necessary but potentially disfiguring operation, scheduled for the vague, impending future. At some point it would be over, so no sense in dwelling on it. What's for supper?

  • • •

  “That must be it.” Mom's voice pulled the rug of sleep out from under me. “Dom, start moving over to the right lane, there'll
be an exit soon.” Then, noticing me, “You're up. Just in time. Want some juice?” She was already pouring. My mother was incapable of undertaking any car trip longer than twenty minutes without enough coolers, snacks, napkins, sandwiches, and cups to see us clear to Spokane without stopping. Livingstone took less when he explored the Congo.

  Now she was referring to the complex of buildings that loomed in the valley below as we descended a mountain in the August noon heat.

  “It's certainly big.” She turned to my father. “And you made such good time, Dad. Were you speeding?” The idea—Dad speeding. Imagine Mercury loitering.

  “No. Funny though, we shouldn't have gotten here this quick. Let's see the map, Took.” Mom's nickname was Tookie. Did I mention that?

  “Finish your hoagie first. What do you want to know? You should be in the right lane. Where's the stadium? I don't see the stadium. You're dripping.”

  “I don't think we're supposed to get off I-Eighty until after exit sixty-three. The last was forty-two. Is there anyone behind me? Can't see.”

  I looked out the right side window. “You're clear.” We made our way over to the center lane. Even though I intended to bring only the necessities, somehow the rear of the station wagon was chockablock—clothes, books, blankets, pillows, desk and floor lamps, sweaters, thermos bottles, Dopp kit. My vast and stupendous Kukla, Fran & Ollie collection, which I methodically constructed over a six-and-a-half-year period and would always be tragically underappreciated by anyone but me, stayed at home—with the exception of my Kukla code-whistle nose siren (you never knew).

  The university, from here, was even more imposing than I'd expected. Indeed, stately. My confirming letter from the Housing Authority said I was assigned to Mifflin Hall, room 613, and I tried to imagine its place among the structures now filling the landscape to the right. Nothing about a roommate was mentioned, which I took to mean I wasn't going to have one. This suited me just fine. I was already writing a request in my head to have my meals delivered to my room, so I could avoid the—

  “DOM! It's this exit! You're not over far enough!” Mom's nerve-shattering wail shook the car. She clutched the dashboard for strength. At moments like these—they were not few—it occurred to me that if Job himself had married my mother, he would by now be a widower serving fifty-to-life.

  “I TOLD you!!”

  Or perhaps acquitted.

  “We'll miss it!!”

  A highway sign approached, and soared over head:

  EXIT 43

  STATE PENITENTIARY

  CORRECTIONAL FACILITY

  200 ft. KEEPRIGHT

  Silence in the car. For a good ten minutes.

  • • •

  To give Mom a little credit, the real thing at a distance actually was a dead ringer for the State Pen, only with a stadium. There was a twentyminute wait for the information hut at the entrance gate, and when we got there a stocky little guy who looked like the warden from Stalag 17 gave us a map and barked that Mifflin Hall was at the north corner of the campus. It took another fifteen minutes to reach it as I studied the layout: Campus— God. It was a city, really.

  No—a state.

  My new home was a red brick affair trimmed with white granite and 1947 carved into its cornerstone. Someone had tried to train ivy up one side and had long since forgotten to water it. Eight floors, twenty rooms per, and one elevator. The four dorms faced in on a cement patch dotted with benches called The Quad, our own little Red Square. By my junior year, I would recognize this entire area as the realization of a freshman architecture student's rendering of Cost-Efficient Utopian Housing. Before he added the trees. He must have drawn people instead. Swarms.

  Mom stayed with the Ford while Dad and I went to Mifflin Hall to get the room key, whereupon I got my first taste of State Hospitality—the associate housing proctor shuffled through a phone book's worth of documents before telling me I didn't have a room of my own after all. In fact, as it turned out I would be blessed with not just one roommate, but two: Vermont Foy, who was aptly named (rural, all right angles, sparsely populated, and often quite cold) and Thenson Helios (son of Greek immigrants; only one eyebrow, usually shaped like an inverted V in a state of perpetual apology). This was jarring enough, but the real fun began when we got to the room, built for—surprise!—two. All parties arrived within about ten minutes of each other and made uneasy introductions, sharing an irritated amazement at our circumstances.

  Soon the resident assistant for our floor, Bob Burkenstock (prematurely balding, Class of ‘59, Hotel Management, shrill), showed up. He had us load most of our stuff in a storage closet at the end of the hall, put in a request for a cot, and assured us that our little Camp 613 would be thinned out in a couple of days, pending reassignment for one of us.

  “Sorta thing happens all the time!” he said in his fire-alarm voice, as if living like a clump of newborn hamsters in a shoebox was a cherished State tradition. Christ, maybe it was.

  • • •

  “I just hate to leave you this way.” They stood next to the car, nothing left to take out of it. Mom was referring to the room fiasco, but even if that had been square she still would have said it. Or at least thought it. She was a doll with the stuffing falling out, her button eyes hanging by threads. The dark half-moons under Dad's armpits somehow embarrassed me. Weren't these people ever going to leave? Emotional Scenes with underscoring and close-ups were strictly for the movies. This was agony. Why couldn't we have been English and sensibly frosty? I put my weight from foot to foot.

  “I'll be fine, really.” Please, please leave.

  “They seem like nice boys.”

  “Yes.” God, please.

  “I'll miss you,” she said with an unwarranted sadness, as if she was donating me to science against her will, and she gave me a small child's helpless hug and kiss. Dad shook my hand, vigorously—as if we were meeting for the first time and he wanted to make a good impression.

  And then they were gone.

  The back of the station wagon, our station wagon, was shrinking on the horizon, and everything changed. It was just impossible I was not in it. My heart started running for it and my legs almost followed. And like THAT, horribly, it wasn't as if I'd Escaped. I'd been Left Behind.

  • • •

  Eventually, roommates Vermont, Thenson, and I went to the dining hall together. Having originally thought we'd be dispersed quickly, we hadn't bothered to find out much about one another. But it had been going on a week now, with no reprieve in sight (Bob: “It's coming through! Keep hangin' in. You guys are the best. Really.”), and Vermont finally asked what I was majoring in.

  “Me? Art.” Enough of that. “You?”

  “No kidding?” Too late, the curtain was raised. Vermont looked as if I'd just told him I had smallpox. “As a career?” He probably wondered if I was contagious.

  “Well, I just thought that I'd try it out.” Then I offered, to ease his sudden concern: “I mean, I can always change it.”

  His manners kicked in. “No, I think it's great, that . . .” he groped for some positive angle “. . . someone actually does that.” I knew what he meant—it was the way I felt about garbage collectors, veterinarians, and the military. He turned to Thenson and went on, grasping for humility: “I mean, I can't even draw a straight line, can you?”

  Try a ruler and a pencil, you fathead. I changed the line of questioning. “Um, what are you majoring in, Thenson?”

  “I'm undeclared.” It wasn't an apology, just a state of affairs. “I thought I'd see how it goes for a while. I'm thinking about Accounting.” Undeclared. Now why didn't I think of that?

  “How long can you be undeclared?” asked Vermont, wary about this status, this academic atheism.

  “End of sophomore year, if I want, but I'll figure it out before then.” I was shamed—here was someone even more ambivalent about college than me. He asked Vermont, “What are you taking?”

  “Well,” he said, quite pleased, “I'm doubli
ng in Ag Sci and Business. I'm going to take on my dad's golf course after graduation. Believe it or not, State is supposed to have the best turf management program in the country.” He beamed, secure in the faith that training grass to look like carpeting was one of the Commandments. “Did you guys know that you can honest-to-God take golf here as a gym class? I mean, is that great or is that great?”

  Soon the conversation shifted to the next day's main event, registering for classes. I thought it was just a formality, as we preregistered by mail in the summer. Vermont had asked around and didn't think so at all.

  “Preregistration was so they could get a rough idea of who wanted to take what. Tomorrow is the real thing.”

  “Really? I didn't think it was that big a deal.”

  “Well,” he balled up his napkin and lifted his tray, “the word is get there early. It's supposed to be a little nutty.”

  • • •

  The university was divided into colleges; these were subdivided into schools, and the schools were made up of specific majors. Thus: Art was part of the School of Arts and Architecture, which was in the College of Liberal Arts. Registration times and places were different for each of the colleges. Mine was to start at nine in Burser's Hall.