by Max Shulman
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and
astute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a
chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I only
eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has
such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the
university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow,
you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable.
Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be
swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy
just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of
mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on
his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately
diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get
a doctor.”
“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.
“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my
flight.
“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not
physical, but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”
“I should have known it,” he cried,
pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come back when the Charleston
came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get
a raccoon coat.”
“Can you mean,” I said incredulously,
“that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”
“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing
them. Where’ve you been?”
“In the library,” I said, naming a
place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the
room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”
“Petey, why? Look at it rationally.
Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much.
They’re unsightly. They—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted
impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give
anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument,
slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing
tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so
happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had
one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It
also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first
rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me
emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She
was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my
heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral
reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a
few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the
right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I
had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious,
intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications
perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of
pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had
the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean
full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise
that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were
exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the
house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a
dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she
veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she
would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to
make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with
Polly Espy?”
“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied,
“but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”
“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of
formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like
that?”
“No. We see each other quite a bit, but
we both have other dates. Why?”
“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for
whom she has a particular fondness?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I nodded with satisfaction. “In other
words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”
“I guess so. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently,
and took my suitcase out the closet.
“Where are you going?” asked Petey.
“Home for weekend.” I threw a few
things into the bag.
“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm
eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man,
could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”
“I may do better than that,” I said
with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.
============
“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back
Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy
object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently.
He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he
repeated fifteen or twenty times.
“Would you like it?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the
greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for
it?”
“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.
“Polly?” he said in a horrified
whisper. “You want Polly?”
“That’s right.”
He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he
said stoutly.
I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to
be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”
I sat down in a chair and pretended to
read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a
torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery
window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at
the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not
so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing,
resolution waning. Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared
with mad lust at the coat.
“It isn’t as though I was in love with
Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”
“That’s right,” I murmured.
“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”
“Not a thing,” said I.
“It’s just been a casual kick—just a
few laughs, that’s all.”
“Try on the coat,” said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over
his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound
of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.
I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I
asked, extending my hand.
He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said
and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the
following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out
just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I
took her first to dinner. “Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left
the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she
said as we left the theatre. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh
time,” she said as she bade me good night.
I went back to my room with a heavy
heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of
information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with
information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a
project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to
Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about
the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I
decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things,
systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law
student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my
fingertips. “Poll’,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date,
“tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”
“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I
will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting
place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly.
“What are we going to talk about?” she asked.
“Logic.”
She thought this over for a minute and
decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.
“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is
the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to
recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”
“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her
hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. “First
let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”
“By all means,” she urged, batting her
lashes eagerly.
“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument
based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good.
Therefore everybody should exercise.”
“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I
mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything.”
“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument
is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart
disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say
exercise is usually good, or exercise is goodfor most people. Otherwise you have
committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”
“No,” she confessed. “But this is
marvy. Do more! Do more!”
“It will be better if you stop tugging
at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up
a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French.
Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the
University of Minnesota can speak French.”
“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”
I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is
reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”
“Know any more fallacies?” she asked
breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even.”
I fought off a wave of despair. I was
getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not
persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take
Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”
“I know somebody just like that,” she
exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every
single time we take her on a picnic—”
“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a
fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post
Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”
“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”
I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”
“Then tell me some more fallacies.”
“All right. Let’s try Contradictory
Premises.”
“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her
eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s
an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a
stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”
“Of course,” she replied promptly.
“But if He can do anything, He can lift
the stone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well,
then I guess He can’t make the stone.”
“But He can do anything,” I reminded
her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head.
“I’m all confused,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Because when the
premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If
there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is
an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”
“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she
said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. “I think we’d
better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things
you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”
I deposited her at the girls’
dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening,
and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon
coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered
waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear
that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But then I reconsidered. I had wasted
one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the
extinct crater of her mind a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could
fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I
decided to give it one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening I
said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”
She quivered with delight.
“Listen closely,” I said. “A man
applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he
replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless
cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on
their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter
is coming.”
A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink
cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.
“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s
no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his
qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the
fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she
blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried
to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully
controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students
should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all,
surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to
guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they
are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their
textbooks during an examination?”
“There now,” she said enthusiastically,
“is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”
“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument
is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how
much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different,
and you can’t make an analogy between them.”
“I still think it’s a good idea,” said
Polly.
“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed
on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”
“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.
“Listen: If Madame Curie had not
happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende,
the world today would not know about radium.”
“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her
head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is
so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.”
“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a
moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that statement is a fallacy.
Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe
somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have
happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any
supportable conclusions from it.”
“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in
more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”
One more chance, I decided. But just
one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy
is called Poisoning the Well.”
“How cute!” she gurgled.
“Two men are having a debate. The first
one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a
word that he is going to say.’ ... Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s
wrong?”
I watched her closely as she knit her
creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence—the first I
had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s
not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a
liar before he even begins talking?”
“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One
hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He
has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start ... Polly, I’m proud of
you.”
“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with
pleasure.
“You see, my dear, these things aren’t
so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think—examine—evaluate. Come now,
let’s review everything we have learned.”
“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave
of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly
was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told
her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept
hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first,
everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the
light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped,
and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got
bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights with this took,
but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to
think. My job was done. She was worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife for
me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled
children.
It must not be thought that I was
without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the
perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with
my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our
relationship from academic to romantic.
“Polly,” I said when next we sat
beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”
“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.
“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a
smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along
splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”
“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly
brightly.
“I beg your pardon,” said I.
“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated.
“How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”
I chuckled with amusement. The dear
child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a
tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a
whole cake to know that it’s good.”
“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly.
“I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”
I chuckled with somewhat less
amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided
to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct
declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the
proper word. Then I began:
“Polly, I love you. You are the whole
world to me, the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space.
Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not,
life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will
wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”
There, I thought, folding my arms, that
ought to do it.
“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion;
I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought
back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.
“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile,
“you certainly have learned your fallacies.”
“You’re darn right,” she said with a
vigorous nod.
“And who taught them to you, Polly?”
“You did.”
“That’s right. So you do owe me
something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have
learned about fallacies.”
“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said
instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow.
“Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean
this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school
don’t have anything to do with life.”
“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging
her finger at me playfully.
That did it. I leaped to my feet,
bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”
“I will not,” she replied.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because this afternoon I promised
Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy
of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The
rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him,
Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”
“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and
stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”
With an immense effort of will, I
modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this
thing logically. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a
brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future.
Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next
meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go
steady with Petey Bellows?”
“I certainly can,” declared Polly.
“He’s got a raccoon coat.”
