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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

