The Learners: A Novel (No Series) (25 page)

“I got some copy from Preston,” I said. “It’s pretty good, I think, but—”

“Excellent! I knew you could do it.”

“Well, yes, thanks. I will do my best with it. But I wondered if I could try something else, too.”

“Something else?”

“Another idea I had, a direction I’d like to try by myself. At the very least, it would give them another option.” I turned my head shamelessly, just enough to let her eyes get another drink of my tubercles. And boy, did they.

“Hmmm. Does Poop know?”

“No ma’am, he doesn’t.”

She narrowed her eyes and smirked. Our little conspiracy.

“Okay, try it, but not until you’ve finished with Poopy’s.”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

“It won’t cost anything, will it?”

“Not money,” I said, “no.”

It took less than three hours to work up Preston’s ad. I went with a very simple scheme, using 60-point Bodoni Heavy Headline type and pictures silhouetted out of the Buckle catalog and blown up three hundred percent.

One,

I showed one shoe.

Two,

Followed by two shoes,

Buckle my shoe.

…and a pair of hands fastening the buckle.

Pathetic, literal, mindless. It went against everything Winter taught me—he hated captioning things in such an obvious way. But what else could I do?

“Well done,” Preston said, upon inspection.

“Change the period after ‘shoe’ to an exclamation point. Then I’ll write the body copy. It’s capital, kid. Top drawer.”

“Right. Thanks.”

Whoopee.

The new “Participants Wanted” ad—for the potato chip taste test—had been running for only two days and we already had eight volunteers. This time things went far more smoothly, without the threat of firearms or nervous breakdowns, and the results were uniform in their conclusion.

“My shoes? Who cares? I like Brand X.
Braaaaaaaap.
Excuse me.”

This wasn’t working, either. I was wrong—people who want to talk about potato chips talk about potato chips, period. And burp.

I am no Stanley Milgram.

One after another, the boys—all to a one obese and pimply—weighed in on the finer points of grease, salt, crispiness, ridges, bubbles, and horse lard versus beef suet. When Tip asked them about their shoes, they eyed him suspiciously, saying next to nothing. Another bust.

At seven o’clock that Saturday, we decided to throw in the towel. The Buckle presentation was in two days. There was no more time for this. We were just locking up, when,

“Excuse me?”

A pale girl toting a Howdy Doody knapsack padded up the walk, two blonde pigtails sprouting from her skull at unexpected angles, like stalks of spring wheat in a high wind. Heavy black eyeliner gave her the invasive look of a hungry racoon. No lipstick, she didn’t need it. The tails of a boy’s pale blue dress shirt fluttered out beneath her moth-eaten L.L.Bean checked cranberry sweater. She was maybe seventeen, if that. She used a banana yellow-on-black polka-dotted umbrella as a walking stick, though the weather was clear.

Tip scarcely looked at her. He was tired. So was I. This was my stupid idea that didn’t yield anything. And we’d blown our budget.

“Um, is this where the potato chip taste test is?” she chirped.

Tip was polite but firm. “Sorry, sweets, we’re closed.”

“Oh, please?” She brayed with genuine disappointment, jabbing her umbrella in the dirt. “I just
love
new experiences.”

“Try the army, toots—” he started. Then he looked at her feet. And grinned.

Change of plans. “Okay, sunshine, right this way.”

“What’s your name, dear?”

“Petunia. Petty, for short.”

“Now you sit here, Pet.” He arranged the chips in front of her, Krinkles to the right, Utz in the middle, Wise to the left. Labeled brands X, Y, and Z, respectively. “Okay, you just taste each of these and let us know what you think. Whenever you’re ready.” She put her gum behind her ear and plucked two chips from the Wise bowl, chomping away.

Tip cast his eyes downward, again, with quiet discretion. Petty had on a pair of saddle shoes, but they were entirely—soles, eyelets, laces, and all—lime green. It was as if they’d been lethally exposed to kryptonite. “You know, if I do say, those are great shoes.”

She smiled. “Oh, THANK you. I customized them myself. I
love
shoes. I have a zillion of ’em.” She seized a Krinkle and devoured it.

“That so?”

“Yeah. Actually, you know, sometimes I think…” Petty blushed, her mouth full of potato muck.

“What?” he said absentmindedly. “What do you think?”

She swallowed. “Well, I dunno, sometimes I think it’s a shame I only have two feet!” Chortling, she popped an Utz.

Tip’s eyes became saucers. He was almost too startled to write it down. Almost. After two weeks of panning for gold, here it was: the nugget in the sludge. He bathed it with amazement, marveled at its sheen. It was like watching the birth of a butterfly. “That’s. So charming. I. Thank you so much.” He handed her her umbrella and knapsack, started to lead her to the door.

She was puzzled. “Uh, don’t you want to know what chips I liked better?”

“Oh, yes, of course. That’s very important. Which ones?”

“Brand X.”

“Fantaaaaasssssstic.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Was that a tear I saw? “Bless you doll. You’re a love.” He blew his nose. “Your picture is in God’s wallet.”

WINK WINK.

C
ONTENT AS
W
IT
.

Hey, have you heard the one about the difference between me, Wit, and my loutish cousin, Hilarity? No? Okay, so I walk into a bar, you see, very unassuming, and order a martini. Then the bartender, Hilarity, hauls off and squirts me in the face with a seltzer bottle, ruining my nice new camel hair suit, dousing my monocle and my watch fob, soaking my cravat. So, do I let him have what for, and blow my top? I do not. I simply say:

“Sorry, I believe I said ‘very dry.’ ”

And it gets him every time.

Hilarity, or Slapstick or Silliness, or Buffoonery, or whatever that idiot’s calling himself this week, is my nemesis, my diametric opposite.

He grabs you by the neck. I tug at your sleeve. He is frankly conservative, while I’m revolutionary. He bellows into your ear, but I get your attention by whispering. He looks to the body as the source of humor, I look to the mind.

The boisterous comic holds up the fun house mirror and asks us to look at a distorted world. The wit holds up a prism and asks us to see ourselves—our quirks make us who we are.

I am a bon mot tossed off by Oscar Wilde. I am a Cole Porter song. I am “Able was I, ere I saw Elba.”

But visual wit is a little trickier than verbal, because it takes more finesse.

I am
The New Yorker
, with Eustace Tilly. I am Mr. Peanut. I am Nick and Nora. I am a book cover by Paul Rand.

I’m afraid I’m not nearly as popular as my cousin.

And that suits me just fine.

Monday. The big day. At eleven sharp, Doyald Greene, the public relations representative for Buckle Shoes, was seated at the head of our conference table. A stocky man in his mid-fifties, Greene was short and thick, but groomed—in his impeccably tailored rust-colored tweed suit, crisp white dress shirt, and periwinkle blue bowtie with matching four-square. Balding on top, with round wire-rimmed spectacles and short hair halfway to gray, he projected an image of affable but undeniable authority. A neatly turned-out young woman in a pillbox hat and kid gloves, presumably his secretary, sat directly to his left, ready to take notes with a Montblanc fountain pen and Tiffany note cards. They looked very New York.

Preston, Tip, Sketch, Miss Preech, and I sat at the opposite end of the table, with pencils and legal pads. We looked very New Haven. At least Miss Preech was prettier.

The presentation easel was placed prominently next to the conference table, in full view to all. A cold lump of terror settled onto the floor of my stomach and made itself uncomfortable.

Nicky did the introductions, seated himself at Greene’s right, and Mimi took the floor. Strident in her best mauve imitation Jackie Kennedy ensemble, she declared, hands on hips: “Mr. Greene, before we get started, I have a very special surprise.” Tip and I exchanged puzzled looks. What was this? Sketch didn’t seem to know, either. “It’s my pleasure to introduce to you one of Buckle’s
biggest
fans. Buster Brown has Tige, and Buckle has…” She threw open the door.

Oh, no.

“Hamlet!”

There he was, aquiver and panting—his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a pink, wet sock.

“Come on, boy, say hello to our new friends!”

He sniffed the air a few times and looked squarely at Greene. And growled.

“My. He’s…a big boy.” Greene smiled, the way you might smile if you found yourself suddenly locked in a lion’s cage. “I, I think he smells my cats.”

Not good. Cats fired Hamlet into rabid malevolence. He crouched, snarling, ready to bolt.

“Is he okay?” Little Miss Pillbox clutched her purse tight to her chest.

Mimi squealed with girlish delight. “Oh, Hamlet’s just excited to meet you!” She pointed to the floor. “And to show you his latest look in footwear.”

Hamlet began to take a step and teetered un-steadily. Something was wrong with him. It was like he was hobbled.

Tip and I leaned over to get a better view. My
God
.

Mimi had clamped, tightly, four completely different styles of Buckle Shoes’ bulky Boulevard men’s line, size 13 EEE, to each of his feet. He might as well have been trying to walk wearing two pairs of bowling ball totebags.

Determined, Hamlet regained his footing, as it were, and with a mighty heave, leapt
up
onto our end of the conference table.