2B
Magazine Editor:
Ian DIllingham
Deputy Editor:
Natalie Gadbois
Design Editor:
Jake Wellins
Photo Editor:
Luna Anna Archey
Creative Director:
Cheryll Victuelles
Editor in Chief:
Jennifer Calfas
Managing Editor:
Lev Facher
Copy Editors:
Hannah Bates
Laura Schinagle
Emma Sutherland
THE statement
“Coming back is like going from no stress, to
endless stress. It’s nice going home as long as
my parents don’t ask me too many questions.
How are you doing with classes? Have you
found an internship? Have you found a job?”
– Engineering senior TRACY LO and LSA junior GRACE
DENNEY
Wednesday, December 2, 2015 // The Statement
Another Thing: I loved Katharine Hepburn
H
ere’s what kind of happened.
It was a Wednesday night. I was
doing what I always do on Wednesday
nights: sitting on my couch, sucking the skin on
the back of my hand, thinking about the bank-
ing crisis, when...
“How do you do, Mister Beh-nard?”
I gasped!
Who had materialized in my room, but none
other than Hollywood starlet and four-time
Oscar winner Katharine Hepburn! She was
perched in my desk chair, legs crossed, head
thrown back, a martini dangling from her fin-
gernails real seductive like a snake teething a
yo-yo.
“What are you doing here, Katharine Hep-
burn?” I un-sucked my hand. “Shouldn’t you be
in the Golden Age of Hollywood?”
“Oh, Mister Beh-nard,” Katharine Hep-
burn said. “Who could ever be as astute as you?
You’re hallucinating ... simple as that, Profes-
sor.”
“Yeah ... ”
“Besides, a girl can enjoy the view, can’t she?”
“Hee-hee-hee ... ”
For the next week, my hallucination of Kath-
arine Hepburn and I did everything together.
She showed me “Citizen Kane” and “The Phila-
delphia Story.” I showed her “Space Jam.”
In the evenings, we ate at Chophouse (on
her) and South Quad (on me). Except, the thing
is, no matter where we went, no matter how
many times I told our waiter I’d be dining with
a redheaded, sharp-tongued, film-icon-legend
lady, they never brought Katharine Hepburn
any food! So I gave her some of my chicken ten-
ders.
At night, we waltzed on rooftops. I’d say
she looked “really hot” and she’d tell me I was
“incorrigible,” then I’d say that word was “really
hot” and she’d say, “Thanks, doll,” and I’d say,
“Wel-come!” and she’d smirk and double back-
flip off the roof, onto a horse, and I’d take the
stairs.
And yet despite it all, if you can believe
it, Katharine Hepburn was super insecure,
always calling herself a “damn fool,” a “silly lit-
tle thing,” insisting she was unlovable, unfeel-
ing, made of “bronze.”
And I was all like, “What? You? Bronze?
Aren’t pennies made from bronze? Wait, nah,
that’s copper. Never mind.”
And then Katharine Hepburn would be all
like, “I don’t expect you to understand.”
And then I’d be all like, “Maybe, I don’t.
Maybe I don’t understand. But, wow, look at
you. I mean, Jesus. I’m so lucky. Your eyes are
so real, I never saw eyes so real. I’d touch ’em if it
wouldn’t be so uncomfortable for you.”
And then she’d start crying, and I’d ask,
“What is it?” and she’d say, “Shut up, keep talk-
ing,” so I would:
“I’m no good with words. I’m no good ever,
really. But you, you don’t make me feel like a bad
person ... I love you. I knew it the minute I met
you. I’m sorry it took so long for me to catch up.
I just got stuck.”
That last part was from “Silver Linings
Playbook,” but Katharine Hepburn never saw
it ’cause she died in 2003 and everything, so
she thought I was real romantic and would kiss
me hard and drop her champagne on the car-
pet, and I’d go to clean it up but she’d be all like,
“Leave it, dah-ling. We’re wonderful. Hold me
... mmm.” And I would, tight and all that. And
we’d sleep together, but never have sex because
the sex was only implied.
And then, one day, well ... how are the mighty
fallen.
One day, after buying Katharine Hepburn a
frock (whatever that is) and after eating snow
by the Michigan Union, I walked home, put my
key in the door and heard something — “Oh,
Cary, put me in your pocket.” I burst in and
what I saw ... what I saw was ...
In my bed, under my new comforter, was
Katharine Hepburn kissing my hallucination
of Hollywood star and honorary Oscar winner
Cary Grant!
“Cary Grant!”
I said, dropping
my package and
such.
“What
are you doing?!
Shouldn’t you be
in the Golden Age
of Hollywood?”
Cary
Grant
tightened
his
tie, clasped my
shoulder,
and
said,
“Easy-
old-fellow-just-
passing-through-
on-my-way-
to-New-York.
Don’t-be-
alarmed. Katha-
rine-and-I-were-just-trading-secrets ... with ...
our ... tongues.”
I socked him in the nose. But then Cary
Grant said he deserved it, which made me feel
bad for socking him because I didn’t want him
to think he deserved it. I wanted him to hit me
back. But he didn’t. Katharine Hepburn socked
me in the nose.
“Terribly-sorry, Al-ex,” Cary Grant said.
“The-thing-is-I-drank-to-ex-cess. Or-no, life
... drank ... me.” He was gone before I could ask
him what the shit that meant.
And then it was just me and Katharine Hep-
burn.
Me: “Did you have to make out with some-
body my mom thinks is hot?”
She: “I’m sorry, but I have no sympathy for
you. Not everyone is lucky enough to under-
stand how delicious it is to suffer. I’ve made you
lucky. Do you understand?”
Me: “I understand, but that doesn’t help or
matter. That never matters, Katharine.”
She: “Yeah ... ”
Me: “God, you were Katharine Hepburn and
now you’re just Katharine and I wish you were
still Katharine Hepburn. Or, at least ‘Madam
Heppo.’ ”
I wiped my nose and adjusted myself. She
sucked on one of those long cigarette hold-
ers, but there wasn’t a cigarette inside ’cause
my building doesn’t allow smoking so she just
sucked on the plastic. God, it was hot.
“I love what I thought we were,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. “I regret very little.
And I’ve enjoyed myself immensely.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m ... I’m glad, really.” I
smiled real small, and she was gone.
I miss Katharine. I even miss Cary Grant.
My hallucinations, what I thought they were
for so long, what they still might be. And I keep
asking myself and only myself — because other
people might understand but understanding
isn’t enough — I keep asking: How do I get my
hallucinations back? And how do I forget that’s
what they are?
And I always tell myself the same thing:
Enough with the movies, schmuck. Eat snow.
So I do, I do. I get my coat, I grab my keys,
and I make a big show of it.
B Y A L E X B E R N A R D
THOUGHT BUBBLE
COVER BY CHERYLL VICTUELLES