The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis Read online

  He picked up the phone. “Sam,” he said, “I can’t find the number on that sprocket.… What? … Look under grommets? … Okay. Just a minute.

  He laid the phone down and started thumbing through the catalogue again. I looked at my watch—eight minutes to eleven. “Could you call him back?” I asked.

  “Just a minute,” he said. He ran his greasy finger down the page. “Ah,” he said. He picked up the phone. “I got it, Sam. Number three-oh-oh-six-eight-nine.… No, six-eight-nine.… Yeah.… How come they list sprockets under grommets? … Yeah, it beats hell out of me too. What gets into them guys who write them catalogues? They got rocks in their heads or something?”

  “Mister,” I said feverishly, “it is no doubt interesting to speculate on the mentality of authors of parts catalogues, but couldn’t you do it some other time?”

  He waved an impatient hand at me. “Sam,” he continued, “I need some bushings. What you got? … No, I don’t want no more of them Acme bushings. The shims bust off as soon as you scup ’em.… All right, never mind the bushings. Send me three dozen head bolts, three-eighths inch.… Yeah, and a solenoid for a ’36 Olds. Just a minute, I’ll get the number.”

  Perspiration was appearing on my forehead with audible pops. “Mister, please,” I begged piteously.

  “Just a minute.” He riffled the catalogue, found the number, and picked up the phone. “Sam? It’s eight-four-oh-three-six-one-nine.… Yeah. You got any brazed couplings? … Send me three. Now how about a camshaft for a ’32 Ford? I’ll get the number.”

  I clutched both his elbows. “Mister,” I said desperately, “isn’t this the Forman Brothers Garage?”

  He nodded.

  “Where, for God’s sake, is your brother?”

  He pointed his thumb toward the front. I looked through the window and saw another small, grease-stained man out by the gasoline pumps filling the tank of a new Cadillac convertible. No help from that quarter.

  “Any more brothers?” I asked in a cracking treble.

  He shook his head and returned to the telephone. With mounting frenzy I looked at the hands racing around the dial of my watch, while on the phone the Forman brother ordered elbows, bearings, shackles, ducts, tamps, gaskets, sumps, nipples, I-bolts, T-bolts, and S-bolts. My watch stood at one minute past eleven when he finally tired of his conversation and hung up.

  I grabbed his sleeve and rushed him to my father’s Chevrolet. “Can you,” I asked, “fix up this fender so nobody will ever know it’s been damaged?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can you have it ready by this afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  I heaved a mighty sigh of relief. “I’ll see you about four o’clock,” I said and started for the door.

  “That’ll be thirty-five bucks,” he said. “In advance.”

  “In advance?” I said, blanching. “Surely we can work out some easy terms.”

  “In advance,” he repeated flatly.

  “But I haven’t got—” I paused, suddenly remembering the money my father had given me to buy oranges. He would be something less than delighted when I came back without the oranges, but I’d have to worry about that later. Right now the important thing was to get the fender fixed. I peeled off thirty-five dollars, flung it at the Forman brother, and raced for the door.

  As I emerged from the garage, a campus-bound streetcar was standing on the corner. “Hey!” I yelled. The streetcar lumbered into motion. “Hey!” I yelled again and rushed forward, breaking every existing sprint record. I was too late.

  “Tough luck, kid,” said the cop on the corner with a friendly grin.

  “Ah, shaddup,” I replied.

  He grasped his nightstick, and I walked hurriedly away. I leaned against the gasoline pump in front of Forman Brothers Garage and tried to keep from shrieking. Things were desperate. The time was six minutes after eleven. There wouldn’t be another streetcar for at least fifteen minutes, and by then it would be too late. The only solution was to thumb a ride to the campus, but in this case it was hardly feasible. Thumbing rides is against the law in St. Paul. Often the police will turn their backs and let you get away with it, but somehow I felt that the cop on this corner would not be so kindly disposed toward me. He was watching me now with hard suspicion. I knew he would be right at my heels if I tried to move to another corner. I was licked.

  A few feet away from me, the second Forman brother was still filling the tank of the Cadillac convertible. A girl sat behind the wheel, drumming her fingers impatiently on the side of the door. Even in my current stricken state I could see that she was a beauty. Under other circumstances I would have hazarded a whistle. Now, of course, I was in no mood. I just leaned against the pump and bit my lip.

  “Hey,” said the Forman brother to the girl in the car, “do you know that the valve is bent on your left rear tire? Better let me change it.”

  “I don’t have time,” she replied. “I have to be in Minneapolis at noon.”

  My ears sprang up. Life and color returned to me.

  “I wouldn’t drive on that tire,” said the Forman brother. “It could blow any time.”

  “I’ll have to take a chance,” she said. “Hurry, please.”

  I rushed over to her side. “Excuse me, miss,” I said, tugging my forelock. “Did I hear you say you had to be in Minneapolis at noon?”

  “Well?” she said with no perceptible warmth.

  “This is quite a coincidence,” I said, giving an enchanting little silver laugh. “I have to be in Minneapolis at noon too—over on the campus. Would you like me to drive over with you?”

  “What on earth for?” she asked, looking at me askance.

  “Your tire,” I said. “In case it blows, I could change it for you.”

  “Good idea,” said the Forman brother. “Them bent valves can go on you any time.”

  She examined me closely. Her eyes traveled downward from my crew haircut over my honest face, my cheap suit, my neatly polished shoes. “Get in,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am!” I cried exultantly and scrambled in beside her. She paid the Forman brother, and we started off.

  Now with my great burden removed, I was able to give her a workmanlike appraisal. What I saw pleased me profoundly. I am not so much an Egyptologist that I find beauty only in ruins; this young woman, the very opposite of a ruin, delighted me even more than Cleopatra’s Needle.

  In age I judged her to be either an early blooming seventeen or a well-preserved eighteen. I being nineteen, either was satisfactory. Her hair was the color that chestnuts long to be. Her eyes were blue, her skin was white, her teeth were whiter. As to her figure, it is difficult to be accurate when a girl is sitting down, but pending a vertical view, I marked it excellent.

  “My name is Dobie Gillis,” I said with a warm smile.

  “How nice for you,” she replied.

  I waited for her to offer her name; it was not forthcoming. She seemed, in fact, disinclined to talk at all. Shy, I thought, and tried to put her at ease.

  “Do you go to the University of Minnesota?” I asked.

  “Bryn Mawr,” she said.

  “Splendid,” I said, friendly-like. “And you’re home now for Easter vacation?”

  “Yes.”

  “My Easter vacation starts as soon as I finish final exams,” I said. “I’m taking my last one today—Egyptology. Are you interested in Egyptology?”

  “God, no,” she said with feeling.

  “You would be,” I told her, “if you knew about it. Egypt is the cradle of civilization. All of our arts and sciences began in Egypt—architecture, sculpture, painting—”

  “Oh, shut up,” she said.

  “Very well,” I replied coldly and turned away from her. She might be beautiful on the outside, but clearly she lacked the inner fineness that I require of my women.… And yet, stealing a glance at her from the corner of my eye, I felt sure that she was not herself this day. Some nervousness, some distress, was upon her. There w
as a tenseness in the set of her features, in the way her hands gripped the wheel, that bespoke some horrendous ordeal. I longed to lay a gentle hand on her flank and say, “My dear, would you care to tell me what’s troubling you?” but prudence forbade.

  We reached Snelling Avenue, an outlying shopping section in St. Paul, and the university was only twenty minutes away. I glanced at my watch—eleven-thirty. I would get to my exam in plenty of time. Then suddenly she pointed the car into a parking space and stopped. She got out. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said.

  “Miss,” I said uneasily, “please don’t be long. If I don’t get to my exam by noon, I’ll be locked out.”

  “Don’t worry,” she snapped. “I’ll get you there. I have to be in Minneapolis at noon too, and my appointment is all the way downtown.”

  She walked off, and I saw that my estimate of her figure had been low. She was richly endowed, this girl. For five pleasant minutes I sat and thought of her contours. As the five minutes lengthened into ten, other thoughts, less warming, came into my mind. It was twenty minutes to twelve. If she returned immediately, I could just barely get to the campus on time. But there was no sign of her.

  Another minute passed. My throat grew dry. Another minute. My eyeballs burned. Another minute. Globules of perspiration exploded through every pore. Another minute. Patches of my skin began to twitch, like a horse dislodging flies. Another minute. Passers-by were now pausing to stare at me.

  Then she came running up to the car, a shoebox under her arm. She leaped in, started the motor, and shot into traffic.

  “Shoes!” I screamed. “Of all the times to stop and buy shoes! Couldn’t you get them later?”

  “They’re special shoes, and I needed them now. And quit your yapping. I’ll get you there on time.” She jammed down on the accelerator pedal.

  “Shoes,” I muttered as we sped wildly down the street. “I may flunk Egyptology on account of a pair of shoes! Never to see the temple at Karnak, the portico of Denderah, the sarcophagi at Assuan, the propylon at Thebes, the grottoes of Silsileh—and all because of a pair of shoes.”

  “Quit your griping. You’ll make it.”

  We were zooming past Cleveland Avenue, and I brightened a little. The Minneapolis line was only a few minutes away, and the university was not more than three minutes beyond that. The time stood at eight minutes to twelve. She was right; the way she was driving, I would make it.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” I said sheepishly. “I’m a little upset, that’s all.”

  “Forget it,” she answered, not unkindly. “Just keep your eye peeled for cops.”

  As if on cue, the air was suddenly split with the screech of a siren. I looked through the rear window and saw behind us a white car of the St. Paul police force.

  “How far back is he?” she asked.

  “Three blocks,” I quavered. “Maybe four.”

  She set her jaw and stamped the accelerator to the floor. “He’s a St. Paul cop. If I get across the Minneapolis line, he can’t touch me.”

  I could not bear to watch. I wrapped my arms around my head, drew up my knees, and assumed the fetal position. If ever a man wanted to return to the womb, it was me then.

  I don’t know how much time elapsed. The next thing I remember is the girl nudging me with her elbow. I opened one eye tentatively. “We made it,” she announced, grinning proudly.

  I opened the other eye. We were indeed in Minneapolis. The campus was almost in sight. My pent-up breath came rushing out with a great whoosh. I was going to get to my exam on time. After all the sorrow and travail, the despair and despond, I was going to make it. At last my fearful trip was done.

  Then the tire blew.

  She pulled over to the curb. She looked at me expectantly. I averted my eyes. “Miss,” I said in a slow, careful voice, “you must believe me. I despise myself for what I am about to say to you. I loathe myself. I will never forgive myself. This will be on my conscience until the day I die. But I can’t help it. I am not going to change your tire.”

  Her eyes widened in horror. “What?” she gasped.

  I nodded sadly. “That’s right, miss. I am not going to change your tire. It is now four minutes to twelve. The campus is just over that rise up ahead. I can run there in four minutes. And that is exactly what I am going to do.”

  “You cad!” she shrieked. “After you promised—after all I did for you—you unspeakable cad!”

  “You cannot,” I said quietly, “hold a lower opinion of me than I myself hold.… And now, goodbye.”

  At this she burst into a perfect torrent of tears. Now, I am not a man who is reduced to jelly by the sight of a crying woman—that is, if the crying woman is ugly. I can walk through a whole pavilion of ugly crying women without experiencing any feeling except, perhaps, dampness. But the sight of a lovely woman crying is quite another thing. This makes me limp. This destroys my will, my resolution, my very tissue. Even at the movies this is true. When I see Joan Fontaine or Lana Turner in tears, ushers have to be summoned to assist me from my seat. Many theaters in St. Paul do not admit me to sad pictures.

  “How can you do this to me?” she wailed, sobbing copiously the while. “You know I’m late now for my appointment. How can you leave me stranded here with a flat tire? After you promised—” The rest was lost in a Niagara of tears.

  I tried to harden my heart. I tried to think of the Sphinx at Gizeh, the blue stone of Tafrer, the green stone of Roshata. But it was no use. “All right, miss,” I said with a great sigh. “Stop crying. I’ll change your tire.”

  I am told that at the Indianapolis Speedway they have developed a tire-changing technique that is unsurpassed for its rapidity. I feel sure, however, that on this occasion I cut the Indianapolis time by at least half. In a trice I had the spare tire out. In a twinkling I had the car jacked up, the flat off, the spare on, the car jacked down, and the flat put away in the trunk. Then with a curt nod to the spectators who were applauding wildly on the sidewalk, I got back in the car. “Hurry!” I cried frantically.

  “Hold on,” she warned, and zoomed like a projectile away from the curb. With trepidation I looked at my watch—four minutes after twelve. Too late, too late! But still I clung to a wan hope. Perhaps my watch was fast, perhaps the exam would not begin precisely on time, perhaps they would forget to lock the doors. Meager prospects, all of these, but I had to believe in something or else go mad.

  We reached the campus. “Turn right,” I ordered. “Then turn left at the first street. Go down to Burton Hall. It’s the gray building with the columns.”

  She careened around one corner and then the other. She pulled up in front of Burton Hall with a horrific screeching of brakes. I vaulted from the car. She sped away. I ran to the door. I seized the knob and wrenched. It did not give. The door was locked.

  I wept then. I pressed my fevered face into the fluted surface of a Doric column and let the tears come. I could not do otherwise.

  At length the seizure passed. A calm fell over me, a calm induced by the conviction that no more bad luck could touch me. I had suffered all the slings and arrows that outrageous fortune had in its arsenal. Nothing more could possibly happen to me.

  Cloaked in this hard-won serenity, I turned my thoughts to the solution of my problem. I had to persuade Mr. Harrison, my Egyptology professor, to let me take a make-up exam. This, I recognized, would not be easy. Mr. Harrison was a typical professor—jaundiced, hungry, and actively antagonistic toward undergraduates. If I came to him and recited the events of the morning, he would not believe me. Nobody would, I had to admit in all fairness.

  If, however, I came to Mr. Harrison with the girl and she supported my story, then he would have to believe me. On the strength of her testimony he would have to let me take a make-up exam. There was only one thing wrong: I did not know the girl’s name. I knew nothing about her. In all the excitement I had not even thought to look at her license number. How, then, was I going to get her to testify for me?
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  This, indeed, was a dilemma. I sat and pondered. Then something came to me. Maybe they would know who she was at Forman Brothers Garage. She might be a regular customer there.

  Across the knoll from Burton Hall was a restaurant. I walked over there quickly, looked up the Forman Brothers number in the St. Paul directory, and got into the phone booth. I called the number. “Hello,” I said, “is this the Forman brother who sold some gas to a pretty girl in a Cadillac convertible with a bent valve in the left rear tire about an hour ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good! Tell me, do you know the girl’s name?”

  “Never saw her before in my life.”

  “Oh.… You didn’t by any chance happen to notice her license number, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.… Well, thanks a lot.”

  I got out of the booth and sat down at a table. “Coffee,” I told the waitress. I was not despondent. I still felt confident that something good was going to happen to me. It had to; I had certainly used up my full quota of bad luck.

  I sipped my coffee thoughtfully. It was clear now that I would not be able to use the girl as my excuse. My only salvation was to get a medical excuse. But how? I felt fine. In spite of all the traumatic experiences I had undergone, my health was never better.

  I toyed with the idea of feigning insanity, but soon gave it up. I knew I’d overdo it. Once you start leaping about and rolling your eyes, it is difficult to know when to stop.

  No, it had to be something physical. As I looked into my coffee cup, I was seized with an inspiration. Coffee speeded up heart action, did it not? I would drink huge quantities of coffee and then go over to the students’ infirmary. When they heard my heart pounding like a runaway horse, they would surely certify me as unwell, and I would have a medical excuse for Professor Harrison.

  Better still, I would drink all the coffee and then run to the infirmary. I would run as fast as I could. When I arrived flushed, panting, feverish, my pulses racing, my heart galloping, there could not be the slightest doubt that they would give me an excuse. In fact, they might even write me up for the medical journals.