Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker (31 page)

Mr. Kaplan smiled back and answered promptly, “Vell, I’ll talk ’bot Prazidents United States. Fife Prazidents United States is Abram Lincohen, he was freeing the neegers; Hodding, Coolitch, Judge Vashington, an’ Banjamien Frenklin.”

Further encouragement revealed that in Mr. Kaplan’s literary Valhalla the “most famous three American writers” were Jeck Laundon, Valt Vitterman, and the author of “Hawk L. Barry-Feen,” one Mocktvain. Mr. Kaplan took pains to point out that he did not mention Relfvaldo Amerson because “He is a poyet, an’ I’m talkink ’bot riders.”

Mr. Parkhill diagnosed the case as one of “inability to distinguish between ‘a’ and ‘e.’ ” He concluded that Mr. Kaplan
would
need special attention. He was, frankly, a little distressed.

Mr. Kaplan’s English showed no improvement during the next hard weeks. The originality of his spelling and pronunciation, however, flourished like a sturdy flower in the good, rich earth. A man to whom “Katz” is the plural of “cat” soon soars into higher and more ambitious endeavor. As a one-paragraph “Exercise in Composition,” Mr. Kaplan submitted:

When people is meating on the boulvard, on going away one is saying “I am glad I mat you” and the other is giving answer, “Mutual.”

Mr. Parkhill felt that perhaps Mr. Kaplan had overreached himself, and should be confined to the simpler exercises.

Mr. Kaplan was an earnest student. He worked hard; knit his brows regularly, albeit with that smile; did all his homework; and never missed a class. Only once did Mr. Parkhill feel that Mr. Kaplan might, perhaps, be a little more serious about his work. That was when he asked Mr. Kaplan to “give a noun.”

“Door,” said Mr. Kaplan, smiling.

It seemed to Mr. Parkhill that “door” had been given only a moment earlier, by Miss Mitnick.

“Y-es,” said Mr. Parkhill. “Er—and another noun?”

“Another door,” Mr. Kaplan said promptly.

Mr. Parkhill put him down as a doubtful “C.” Everything pointed to the fact that Mr. Kaplan might have to be kept on an extra three months before he was ready for promotion to Composition, Grammar, and Civics, with Miss Higby.

ONE night Mrs. Moskowitz read a sentence, from “English for Beginners,” in which “the vast deserts of America” were referred to. Mr. Parkhill soon discovered that poor Mrs. Moskowitz did not know the meaning of “vast.” “Who can tell us the meaning of ‘vast’?” asked Mr. Parkhill, lightly.

Mr. Kaplan’s hand shot up, volunteering wisdom. He was all proud grins. Mr. Parkhill, in the rashness of the moment, nodded to him.

“ ‘Vast’!” began Mr. Kaplan, impressively. “It’s comming fromm ‘diraction.’ Ve have four diractions: de naut, de sot, de heast, and de vast.”

Mr. Parkhill shook his head and explained that that was “west.” He wrote “vast” and “west” on the blackboard. To the class he added, tolerantly, that Mr. Kaplan was apparently thinking of “west,” whereas it was “vast” which was under discussion.

This seemed to bring a great light into Mr. Kaplan’s inner world. “So is ‘vast’ what you esking?” he queried, knowingly.

Mr. Parkhill admitted that it was “vast” for which he was
ask
ing.

“Aha!” cried Mr. Kaplan. “You minn ‘vast,’ not”—with scorn—“ ‘vast.’ ”

“Yes,” said Mr. Parkhill, faintly.

“Hau Kay!” said Mr. Kaplan, essaying the vernacular. “Ven I’m buyink a suit clothes, I’m gattink de cawt, de pents, an’ de vast.”

Mr. Parkhill shook his head, very sadly. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that you’ve used still another word, Mr. Kaplan.”

Oddly enough, this seemed to please Mr. Kaplan considerably.

Several nights later Mr. Kaplan took advantage of Open Question period. This ten-minute period was Mr. Parkhill’s special innovation in the American Night Preparatory School for Adults. It was devoted to answering any questions which the students might care to raise about any difficulties of pronunciation or idiom which they might have encountered during the course of their adventures with the language. Mr. Parkhill enjoyed Open Questions. He liked to clear up
practical
problems. He felt he was being ever so much more constructive that way. Miss Higby had once told him that he was a born Open Questions teacher.

“Please, Mr. Pockheel,” asked Mr. Kaplan as soon as the period opened. “Vat’s de meanink fromm—” It sounded, in Mr. Kaplan’s rendering, like “a big department.”

“ ‘A big department,’ Mr. Kaplan?” asked Mr. Parkhill, to make sure.

“Yas—in de stritt, ven I’m valkink, I’m hearink like ‘I big depottment.’ ”

It was definitely a pedagogical opportunity. “Well, class,” Mr. Parkhill said.

He began by telling them that they had all probably done some shopping in the large downtown stores. (Mr. Kaplan nodded.) In these large stores, he said, if they wanted to buy a pair of shoes, for example, they went to a special
part
of the store, where only shoes were sold—a
shoe
department. (Mr. Kaplan nodded.) If they wanted a table, they went to a different
part
of the store, where
tables
were sold. (Mr. Kaplan nodded.) If they wanted to buy, say, a goldfish, they went to still another
part
of the store, where goldfish . . . (Mr. Kaplan frowned; it was clear that he had never bought a goldfish.)

“Well, then,” Mr. Parkhill summed up hastily, “each article is sold in a different
place.
These different and special places are called
departments.
” He wrote “D-E-P-A-R-T-M-E-N-T” on the board in large, clear capitals. “And a
big
department, Mr. Kaplan, is merely such a department which is large
—big!
”

He put the chalk down and wiped his fingers.

“Is that clear now, class?” he asked, with a modest smile. (It was rather an ingenious explanation, he thought; it might be worth repeating to Miss Higby during the recess.)

It
was
clear. There were forty nods of approval. Mr. Kaplan alone looked uncertain. It was obvious that Mr. Kaplan did
not
find it clear.

“Is that clear now, Mr. Kaplan?” asked Mr. Parkhill, anxiously.

Mr. Kaplan pursed his lips in thought. “It’s a fine haxplination, Titcher. But I don’ unnistand vy I’m hearink de voids de vay I do. Simms to me it’s used in annodder meanink.”

“There’s really only one meaning for ‘a big department,’ ” said Mr. Parkhill. “
If
that’s the phrase you mean.”

Mr. Kaplan shook his head. “Sounds like dat—or maybe more like ‘
I
big de pottment.’ ”

Mr. Parkhill took up the chalk. (‘
I
big department’ was obviously a case of Mr. Kaplan’s curious audition.) He repeated the explanation carefully, this time embellishing the illustrations with a shirt department, a victrola section, and “a separate part of the store where, for example, you buy canaries, or other birds.”

Mr. Kaplan followed it all politely, even the part about “canaries, or other birds.” He smiled throughout with consummate reassurance.

Mr. Parkhill assumed, in his folly, that the smiles were a testimony to his exposition. But when he had finished, Mr. Kaplan shook his head once more, this time with a new firmness.

“Is the explanation still not clear?” Mr. Parkhill asked. He was genuinely concerned by this time.

“Is de haxplination clear!” cried Mr. Kaplan with enthusiasm. “Ha! I should live so! Soitinly! Clear like gold! So clear! And nacheral, too! But, Mr. Pockheel—”

“Go on, Mr. Kaplan,” said Mr. Parkhill, studying the white dust on his fingers. There was, after all, nothing more to be done.
(Domine, dirige nos.)

“Vell! It’s more like ‘
I
big de pottment!’ ”

“Go on, Mr. Kaplan, go on,” said Mr. Parkhill.

“I’m hearink it in de stritt. Sometimes I’m stendink in de stritt, talkink to a frand, or my vife, mine brodder, or maybe only stendink. An’ somevun is pessing aroun’ me. An’ by hexident he’s giving me a bump. He says, ‘Axcuse me!’ No? But sometimes, an’ dis is vat I minn, he’s sayink, ‘I big de pottment’!”

Mr. Parkhill studied the picture of “Abram Lincohen” on the back wall, and wondered whether he could reconcile it with his conscience if he were to promote Mr. Kaplan to Composition, Grammar, and Civics, with Miss Higby. Another three months of Recitation and Speech might, after all, be nothing but a waste of Mr. K♦
A
♦
P
♦
L
♦
A
♦
N
’s valuable time.

1936

JAMES THURBER

THE NOTEBOOKS OF JAMES THURBER

I
EXPLAINED
in the pages of this journal of biography about ten years ago why my letters will probably never be collected and published under the title “I Saw It Coming,” or under any other title. If you read the piece in question, you have no doubt forgotten what I had to say, so I will briefly summarize its contents. I came back from Europe in 1938 (it says in this piece) to discover that my friends had not saved my letters—or “preserved the correspondence,” to use the formal phrase. Oh, they had preserved it in a manner of speaking, but they “couldn’t put their hands on it at the moment.” That is, they didn’t have the vaguest idea where it was. I knew where it was then, and I know where it is now. Letters have a way of ending up in attics and warehouses, along with polychrome bookends, masquerade costumes, copies of the
American Mercury
for 1930, and Aunt Martha’s water colors of Blois and Chenonceaux. If my friends ever set out to locate my letters, they will come upon old college yearbooks, dance programs, snapshot albums, and the works of John Fox, Jr., and probably lose interest in the original object of their search.

Now, the seventy-one letters written from abroad in 1937–38 were intended as a section of the collected correspondence to be called “Part III: The European Phase,” and their unavailability is regarded by my publishers as a “major deterrent.” As for “Part I: The Youthful Years” and “Part II: Sturm und Drang (1915–1935),” God only knows what has become of the letters written during those so important formative periods. There remain the letters written since 1938, and while they are “as available as hell,” to quote one of my attorneys, their publication would not constitute “an act of wisdom,” to quote him further. These letters repose in the files of producers, publishers, editors, and agents, and their monotony is another major deterrent, since they all begin with “As God is my judge” or “I would rather die than” and trail off into vague hints or open threats of legal action. After reading my carbons of this correspondence, Mr. Jordan, of the Charteriss Publishing Company, wrote me as follows: “I am afraid that we are all of one mind here in feeling that what had every sign of a swell performance has now turned into a rather dark picture. Mr. Steckley, of our legal department, is especially distressed, but he is perhaps a bit intemperate in estimating that defamation suits in the amount of $3,000,000 would result from the publication of ‘Part IV: The Challenging Years.’ We hope you may have a jolly fairy tale up your sleeve—something about giants and little princesses.”

The middle-aged, or, as he prefers to be called, mature, writer who realizes that his “Collected Letters” (Charteriss, 2 vols., $8) are never going to be brought out sooner or later hits on the idea of gathering together his notes—memoranda, plot outlines, descriptions of characters, and fragments of philosophy—and seeing if he can’t do something with them. He is now treading on ground hallowed by the important notebooks of the great masters, from da Vinci to Henry James, but if his invention is running low and his taxes high, he will go brashly ahead with his ill-advised project. This instantly marks him as a minor author. The notebooks of a major author are always brought out after his death, by a literary executor. If you are a major author, the literary executor will hang around your house, known as “the estate,” for at least a year, mousing through voluminous papers, collating and annotating, drinking your Scotch with your widow, and sometimes, in the end, marrying your daughter.

There is also the disturbing chance that your executor, while mousing around in your literary remains, may stumble on the Figure in the Carpet, or what he conceives to be the Figure in the Carpet. That is, he may adduce from the notebooks dubious internal evidence supporting the theory that you were homosexual, impotent, or secretly in love with your radio agent’s wife. It will be up to your daughter, then, to marry your executor and shut him up, but if she is a Vassar graduate, she may collaborate with him on a sequel to the notebooks—“The Real John Marcher,” an honest, courageous, and best-selling examination, on behalf of the enrichment of American letters—that will strip you of every last posthumous pride and privacy. If you are a major author, and all this has frightened you, I suggest that you remove from your notebooks everything that might be regarded as evidence of “the scar”; that is, the early trauma, illness, maladjustment, or inadequacy that led you to become a writer in the first place. Or it might be simpler just to send your daughter to Cornell.

The minor author, known in New York merely as “a writer” and in Hollywood as “a word man,” comes to his typewriter with few, if any, notes to guide him. He may jot down a phrase or two on the back of an envelope in a taxi or on a bus, but such notes are usually thrown away as soon as a piece is finished. Even if they were preserved, an accumulation of them over a period of years would scarcely occupy one afternoon of a serious literary executor, who would classify them as “unr.,” which means “unrewarding” and suitable only as mementos for hotel maids, assistant gardeners, and third cousins. The deceased writer’s aunt could distribute this kind of thing during the services at the church, or just after the services, but I don’t know why anyone should save or cherish an envelope on which is written, “Talking-dog story twist. Man suddenly begins bark,” or “Check if this idea used by Bench, or Perl.”

IF only to justify the title of this essay, I began to poke around one day to see what I could find in the way of memoranda and memorabilia of my own. What I came up with presents, as Mr. Jordan of Charteriss would put it, a very dark picture indeed, complete with at least seven major deterrents: persistent illegibility, paucity of material, triviality of content, ambiguity of meaning, facetious approach, preponderance of juvenilia, and exasperating abbreviation. There is actually only one notebook, and since it is the solidest, or at any rate the heaviest, item in the collection, we should perhaps glance at it first. It is a notebook I kept, or was supposed to keep, in Professor Weiss’s psychology class at Ohio State University in 1913. (My God, Bergie,
^*1
has it been that long?) The first few pages are given over to a description of the medulla oblongata, a listing of the primary colors, the score of the Western Reserve–Ohio State football game that season, and the words “Noozum, Noozum, Noozum.” (I figured out this last entry after some thought. There was a young woman in the class named Newsome, whom Dr. Weiss always called Noozum.) The rest of the pages contain a caricature of Professor Weiss; one hundred and thirteen swastikas; the word “Noozum” in block letters; the notation “No William James in library”; an address, 1374 Summit Street; a memo: “drill cap, white gloves, gym suit. See G. Packer. Get locker”; a scrawl that seems to read “Orgol lab nor fot Thurs”; and a number of horrible two-line jokes, which I later contributed to the
Sundial,
the university monthly magazine. Two of these will more than suffice: